Page 13 of A Silence So Divine

DO YOU LIKE EGGS?

Averting her gaze once more, she traces the edges of the notebook with the tip of her finger and offers one concise nod.

I ask Cecil if he’ll eat with us, but he informs me that he’s already running late. My brother leaves almost every day and I’ve never known the destination. I used to worry, waiting anxiously for him to return, but I’ve gotten used to it over the years. The concern never left, I just learned to carry it. At the very least, I’m confident in my brother’s abilities to take care of himself.

With a reminder to keep Eden in my sights, he leaves us alone. The fact that he’s willing to leave me with a stranger in the middle of nowhere is moderately comforting. She must not be the threat he originally thought.

Big surprise.

While I cook our meal, Eden watches with interest. The look of despair has lifted to one of curiosity as her eyes trail me around the kitchen. By the time I slip her omelet onto a plate, she’s sitting up on her elbows to get a better look.

While outdated, the kitchen appears completely untouched. I’ve never seen an oven so clean in my life. Either they had a professional cleaning service, or it was used… never.

Sat at the island, I pour each of us a glass of orange juice. She waits for me to grab my fork before she even looks at the dish in front of her. With an encouraging smile, I motion for her to dig in. She raises her hand to her face.

“Thank you.”

With a smile on my lips, I respond with a “you’re welcome”and take a bite of my eggs. Tentatively, she does the same.

Five

Eden

The eggs are as good as the roasted chicken. My movements are slow and well-mannered, though I’d prefer to devour it like I did my dinner. Papa would tell me it’s not ladylike.

It’s easier to breathe now that father’s gone. The house itself seems at ease; the quiet more peaceful, less suffocating. It had been ages since I’d been able to go anywhere but the attic. The older I got, the more paranoid Papa grew of what I was capable of. He kept me hidden from the rest of the world and in his own way, he was protecting me. But I think he was also trying to protect the worldfromme.

I’ve never felt as evil as he believes. If the Darkness really ran through my veins, wouldn’t I feel it? A humming of wickedness that ran through my body and mind?

I sip from the glass in my hand. Sweet nectar coats my tongue and I only get to enjoy a moment of it before it’s slicing its way down my throat. I sputter, throwing my palm over my mouth so I don’t spew onto the table. Acid scorches me from the inside and I stifle a groan, running to the sink to expel what’s left in mymouth. Cupping my palms under the faucet, I slurp at the cool water to wash away the agony.

I’ve become accustomed to the pain, but every once in a while I’m reminded of the damage that’s been done. A last ditch effort by my father and a “doctor” to be rid of the Darkness once and for all. It didn’t work, of course. The will of a curse doesn’t bend to that of an experimental surgery. It’s soul deep, and there’s no burning it out. That was the conclusion the doctor came to, anyway. After that, I was permanently confined to my attic. At the time it was a relief, a safe space after the agony I had endured.

Like all good things in my life, it didn’t last. It inevitably became its own kind of torture chamber.

I’ve never known pain like I did in my 18th year. But if what Papa says is true, if I really am evil, I suppose it’s well deserved.

A palm presses between my shoulder blades and I whirl around, catching the boy’s worried expression. His silhouette is blurry through my tears.

There’s no way I’m going to tell him about my throat, because then I’ll have to tell him why. The two men already don’t trust me. If they found out, who knows what they might do? Papa says there are some things worse than death.

I don’t touch the drink again and I leave the last half of my omelet uneaten. Creed doesn’t seem to mind, polishing off my plate as well.

Once the dishes are scrubbed clean and put away, we’re back to watching one another. Neither of us know what to do with the other, that much is clear. An idea springs to mind and I write out a note, sliding the notebook over to him.

What’s your name? With hands

His cheek dimples in amusement.

I’m almost embarrassed to ask, worried it may be too personal. It’s foreign, daunting, to try and get to know someone.But the prospect of having another person to talk to has a giddiness building in my chest.

A life of isolation doesn’t make you lonely. It makes you hollow—a chasm of emptiness where love and companionship should reside.

Creed brings his fingers to his shoulders and pulls them outwards, closing into fists. I cock my head to the side, contemplating how the movements translate.

IT MEANS BRAVE. CECIL CHOSE IT FOR ME WHEN I WAS LITTLE

A swell of emotion rises in my throat and I force it down with a swallow. I can’t help but consider how my life might have been if I had a sibling. Or a family at all. I envy him very much for that.