Page 95 of Under Your Scars

“Oh,” I say awkwardly, bending down to pick up the glass from the floor. Luckily it broke into three big pieces instead of shattering. I fill two glasses up to the brim with cold water, and then pass one over to Edwin. “Do you want me to find Christian?”

Edwin probably shouldn’t be wandering the mansion on his own. Christian would be elated to know he’s lucid. Christian once told me that it’s rare these days, so he cherishes it when he can.

“No,” Edwin says firmly, taking a shaky sip of water. “He’s not here anyways. He went out into the city hours ago, probably looking for someone to shoot.”

I start violently coughing, which hurts considering I have three broken ribs and a headache from hell. I give Edwin a strained glare, my eye twitching.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he huffs. “You’re surprised I know about him? The Silencer, I mean. Do they still call him that on the news? I haven’t watched the news in a long time.”

I rub my face. “I think I took too many painkillers.”

“Before you came along, he had no one else but me. He never talked to me. Not until my memory started going. He’s told me everything he’s ever done in excruciating detail, and I always listen.” He sighs. “I pretend to forget. You see, Elena, Alzheimer’s was the best thing that ever happened to me, because once my head started to go, Christian finally opened up to me. He vents to me. If confiding in me brings him a small comfort, then it’s worth all the burdens I have to bear.”

“He’s a murderer, Edwin.” I shake my head. “Why haven’t you told anyone? Don’t you care about all the lives he’s taken?”

“Yes, I care. I pray for their souls every night,” Edwin says, his eyes softening into a pleading look. “But who would believe a kooky old man with memory problems? Do I pretend I’m not lucid sometimes when I am for his sake? Yes. I’d never tell him that, and I’d never tell another soul what he’s done, because all I’d be doing is betraying his trust, and he’s all I have.” Tears prick in his eyes. And mine. “He’s my only family. He may not be my blood, but he is my son and I love him. Do you understand, Elena? Love makes people blind. It makes us blind, and selfish, and stupid.”

“Why are you telling me this? Are you even hearing yourself? Is this some kind of test of my loyalty to Christian? I let myself get raped, repeatedly, to keep his secret.” I laugh sarcastically. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”

“Why did you keep his secret?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” he says, and his wise gaze hits me like a ton of bricks, and all I do in response is shake my head in denial. I push off the counter to leave, but Edwin stops me by saying my name. “I know you owe me nothing. I know I’m nothing to you. But I’m an old man, and I’ll die soon. I’d ask you one kindness.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell him that I know.”

“Then why’d you tell me?”

It’s quiet for a long minute. “Because I needed someone to confide in, too. You’ll never know how grateful I am that you came into his life.”

My shock must be written all over my face. Of all the things I expected him to say to me, that was not it.

“The night he met you, I woke up and I could feel something was wrong. I went into his room and found his suicide note.” A single tear falls down his face. “I thought I was too late. But then he walked through the door, panting and soaked through with rain. He fell to his knees and told me that he found his guardian angel. You are the reason I still have my son. I can never repay that debt. Not in this lifetime or any others. If you ever want someone to listen and forget, never hesitate to come to me, Elena. It’s the least I can do for you.”

Abandoning the water glass, I say, “Goodnight, Edwin.”

With that, I leave the kitchen and head back towards my room. I pause at the door. My head and eyes stay locked on Christian’s room, and before I have a chance to think twice, or even comprehend what I’m doing, my feet are carrying me to his bedroom. I don’t knock before opening the door.

It's empty and cold. The fireplace is dormant. The blackout drapes make it almost pitch black. The only light comes from the gentle golden glow of a small lamp on one of the nightstands.

I make my way over to the small bench at the end of his bed. I lie down on my side with my knees bent so I can fit my entire body onto the narrow cushion.

I fight sleep for a while, afraid of falling into another nightmare, but eventually, I let myself rest, the scent of Christian wrapping around me like a comforting embrace. The one I remember.

The one I used to crave.

When I wake up again, as I shift, I realize I’m no longer lying down on the hard bench, but on a soft mattress, bundled up in a burgundy comforter with my face buried in fluffy pillows. I inhale deeply.Christian. He must have found me on the bench last night and moved me to the bed. The crinkled sheets across the other side of the mattress tell me he slept here too, though not close enough to touch me accidentally in the night.

I must have been so tired that I didn’t even realize he’d picked me up to move me, and I’m grateful. I’m not sure I could have handled it. There used to be something so sacred and tender about the way he touched me. Now the mere thought has my skin crawling.

The fireplace is lit now, the soft crackling filling the silence, making the room smell of woodsmoke. The clock on the bedside table tells me it’s nearly noon. I slept for almost twelve hours. I throw my legs over the side of the bed and emerge from the warmth of the blankets. I leave Christian’s room to go to my own. When I get there, just as he promised before everything went to shit, all my things are neatly put away.Right. I had forgotten that I agreed to move in. He had to get all my stuff out of my apartment before my landlord threw it into the street.

A family photo I kept on my bedside table at my apartment now sits on a desk near the window. An array of notebooks and textbooks from my law school days are stacked on a bookshelf. My purple blanket is folded neatly on the foot of the bed. I suspect all my clothes are hanging in the closet already, and as I enter the bathroom, all my toiletries are there. My toothbrush and half-used tube of toothpaste are perched by the sink. I brush my teeth for much longer than necessary, getting lost staring at the girl looking back at me in the mirror.

I’m thin in the face. Ghoulish. Dark circles have become permanent fixtures under my eyes, blending into splotches of purple and yellow bruises across my cheek. One of my eyes is still bloodshot from where the blood vessels busted, and I poke the corner. The tender skin there is swollen. I rinse out my mouth and unbutton my sleep shirt. Dark purple bruises cover my torso where my ribs cracked in the car accident.