The Contradiction of Solitude(48)

Loving and hating.

Soft and hard.

Relaxed and rigid.

I dug my fingers into the window sash, nails breaking against wood. Blood wet on my skin.

Remember.

As if I could forget…

Memories were fiends. They kept me trapped. They would set me free. But I didn’t trust the raging beast inside with the truth.

It devoured honesty. It lived on guile. It thrived on wicked deception.

My head ached as my mind reeled. Too much. Not enough. I wasn’t here.

I was there.

Always there…

The house sat off in the distance. A tomb…waiting. The grass, heavy with frost, scrapped my ankles. Wrapping harsh, unyielding hands around vulnerable flesh.

“Stay here, Layna.” His voice rang with clear intent only minutes earlier just before he left me alone. In the car. To wait. His stern words brooked no argument.

I never defied him. So why was I now throwing self-preservation to the wind?

The house beckoned.

The blackness.

The emptiness.

I couldn’t remember.

My head was heavy. And then I saw it. Headlights in the distance, and I knew it was him. Elian. My heartbeat became a waltz in my chest. Pitter. Patter. Rat-a-tat-tat.

I dug bloodied fingers into my palm. My nails tattered and ruined. Elian was almost here.

I was falling…

The car parked and I could see him outside the window in the cold, dark night. I knew Dancing Green Eyes, my Elian, was searching. Always searching.

For me.

But I wasn’t here. I was gone. Somewhere else.

Waiting..…

I approached the house and the first thing I noticed was the noise.

Scratching and clawing. Breathy, aching silence punctuated by frantic movements.

I grabbed the doorknob and froze, scared to go inside. Because when I did, everything would change. There would be no going back.

Scratch. Scratch. Groan.

The sounds were icepicks to my eardrums.

The blackness.

The emptiness.

I couldn’t remember.

I couldn’t forget.

I watched Elian get out of his car and for the briefest of moments I smiled. True and genuine. My heart wanted to dance right out of my chest and into his arms.

Remember.

I can’t forget.

My bloodied fingers, curled into fists, and smashed through the window. Glass splintering. Raining on my feet. Pain. Agony. Relief.

And all I saw was the blood.

Always the blood.

Elian looked up at the noise. The shattering glass echoing in the air.

I was a little girl lost. And he was desperately searching for me. He didn’t realize that he should be terrified of finding what he was looking for.

Or did he?

I was beginning to think that Elian saw more than I wanted him to.

That he knew more.

My door opened and slammed shut. “Layna!”

Then he was there, beside me, taking my injured hand in his.

“What did you do?” he demanded. So stern. So worried.

Sticky, warm, drying on my skin. I pulled my hand away and held it against my chest. The blood smearing on my shirt, dripping on the floor.

“Let me look. You may need to go the hospital,” Elian exclaimed, taking my hand again. I let him this time.

He pulled me into the kitchen and turned on the lights. I squinted and blinked, wishing I could shield my eyes. The faucet ran with cold water and he washed the blood away.

“There aren’t any cuts on your wrists or arms. You’re lucky, Layna. You could have done some serious damage!”

I watched as he patted me dry and examined my wounds. “Some of these are pretty deep. You might need stitches.”

“No.”

“Layna—”

“No,” I said more firmly.

My hand stilled on the doorknob. I could hear him inside. His voice low. Rumbling through the walls.

He was inside. I wanted to know what he was doing. Who he was talking to.

Scratching. Terrified.

I shouldn’t go in.

I had to.

“Layna, please, let me take you to the hospital.” He wrapped my hand in a towel. The white already turning red.

“No.”

Elian sighed. He looked so tired. Like he hadn’t slept in months. He reeked of cigarettes and exhaustion.

Had I done that to him?

I smiled as he wrapped the towel tighter.

“Do you have bandages at least?”

“In the bathroom. Bottom shelf of the vanity.”

He was gone. Off to get the things he needed to take care of me.

He came back with a box of Band-Aids and antiseptic cream. His shirt stained with the blood of my deception.

I smiled wider.

I watched him as he tended to my cuts. When he was finished, he tossed the towel into the sink and washed his hands. Ridding himself of all traces of me on his skin.

“Why did you do that?” he asked.

“Why did I break the window?” I needed clarification. There were so many different answers to that particular question.

“Yeah.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

His jaw tensed as he looked at me. “You hurt yourself.”

I nodded.

“I don’t understand you.” He was so bewildered.