When they came close, I reached my hands out and took the bags.
“Food, cleaning supplies. I also put together some dresses for you, other clean clothes. And your sketchpad and pencils, so you can still draw. I know how much you love to draw.” Mae offered a supportive smile. Pressing a kiss to my cheek, she warned, “Be careful.”
My heart swelled. “Thank you, sister.”
I gave Mae a small smile, then turned to face the door. I closed my eyes. Opening them, I quietly turned the doorknob and stepped inside. Placing the bags on the floor, my eyes fell upon Flame still lying on the bed.
I walked forward, my steps as quiet as the night until I came to a stop by his side. The sight of him, bloodied and damaged, asking me to end his life of misery still cut me deeply. But sleeping, Flame was… he was… perfect.
He was always a tortured soul. He was always pacing, muttering, or cutting. And seeing him like this, so quiet and still. It broke my heart.
Lifting my hand, I hovered it over Flame’s face. And without making contact, I ran it over his forehead, down his slightly crooked nose, over his full lips and through his beard. A smile tugged on my lips as I continued running my hand just above his arm until I came to his hand. His hand was upturned, showing me his palm.
Picturing the sketch from my drawing pad, I floated my hand directly over his. His hand was so much bigger than mine. So much rougher, covered in tattoos of flames, piercings boasting silver metal studs, and scars. My hand was small and pale in color, yet I had never in my life seen anything that looked as perfect to me as this sight.
A moan slipped from Flame’s mouth and I stepped back, feeling the immediate loss of the image of our enjoined hands, of being so close to the man I had chosen—no, needed to save.
Flame tried to turn over, but the ties on his hands and feet prevented him. Even in slumber, a frustrated frown marred his forehead.
I warred with what to do. He wanted to be free, had begged me to set him free. I knew in my heart that he would not, could not, hurt me.
Resolved, I moved to his bed, and careful not to touch his skin, set to the task of unthreading the ties. When the last ripped piece of linen dropped to the floor, Flame’s body immediately folded in on itself, curling into a small ball in the middle of his bed.
When I stepped back, I could not help but think that, lying like this, he appeared to be a small child. So broken and afraid.
I stood there for several minutes, wondering what could have happened in his life to make him this way. Then my eyes drifted around the rest of the small cabin, and I set to cleaning. I needed to help him in some small way. And I could clean. I could not do much, but I could do that.
Everything was in disarray. The biggest culprit—bloodied rags, dried and littering the floor.
I made quick work of picking up all the litter, then came to a standstill when I reached the only clear area in the room, the only place not cluttered with things. Glancing down, there was a trapdoor built into the floor. I bent down to inspect the scratches and dried blood staining the wood. I could smell the bucket before I got to it, and unable to stand the smell, decided it would be the first thing I cleaned.
A few hours later, the cabin was clean and tidy, and I was preparing the ingredients for soup. Just as I had begun to chop the vegetables, an agonized cry cut through the cabin.
Dropping the chopping knife, I fled from the kitchen and ran into the open bedroom. Flame was writhing on the bed, his fingernails raking at his arms. His back was arched, his body facing the side, his hips rocking back and forth as though someone was behind him… as though…
My stomach dropped, caving into an empty pit at what the position of his body portrayed—Flame pinned down, someone behind him, someone...