Page 6 of Eternal Craving

Sleep was my only refuge. My mind turned to thoughts of the senorita as I tried to recall her face, haunted by her. “Sunaria” was the name she’d told me.

Sunaria.In my mind, I called out to her, my phantom savior.

I yearned for home, for my mother’s love, her forgiveness. I surrendered to despair and embraced the void. With such pain,there’s no hope, and with that no chance of disappointment. When engulfed in darkness, there’s no fear of losing one’s way.

One is already lost.

The news that my actions had brought about the bullfight that had killed my brother caused me terrible anguish. My thoughts spiraled over and over again, never finding their way out of the rut of self-condemnation. I had no choice but to relinquish all memories of him in order to suppress the twisted agony that wrenched at my small, weak frame.

Start anew.

To survive this, I had to win Roelle’s approval. Though his visits had become less frequent, when he did invade my dark prison, I presented the air of a boy humbled, yet strong, respectful, and resilient.

During his latest visit, his brow furrowed as he considered me with an oddly conflicted gaze.

I chose my words carefully. “Sir, I can fix that.”

About to head out the door, he glared back.

“Your jacket pocket,” I said, pointing. “My grandfather’s a tailor. He taught me?—”

He left, slamming the door shut.

Within two hours, I’d been provided with a needle and fine thread, and given the opportunity to mend Roelle’s jacket. Kneeling in the corner next to my all too precious, melting candle, I sewed the finest stitches.

When Roelle returned, he brought bread and cheese, and I gulped the cup of milk he offered. He examined his neatly sewn jacket with a thoughtful expression.

Time waned, dissolving like a distant memory.

After several weeks, Roelle freed me from the cellar.

But he warned me that if I attempted to run away, he’d personally deliver me to jail. To prove his point, the day beforemy release, he made a noose out of coarse rope and hung it around my neck.

Understanding came quickly.

With decisive steps, afraid to speak, I followed Roelle up and out of the dark, the daylight blinding me temporarily.

Within the interior of the mansion, ostentatious decor hindered homeyness. The house seemed more like a statement of power than a family residence, with enough opulence to make any visitor feel unwelcome.

I couldn’t fathom why a part of me missed my small, dark cell.

Roelle appointed me as his personal manservant, his way to keep me close. He provided a chilly, bare room close to his, though I rarely slept there due to Roelle’s insistence that I sleep in the corner of his bedroom, perhaps to allay his loneliness.

As master of the Bastillion empire, Roelle ruled the household with fierce intimidation, and no one challenged him. His abuse of the small boy who cleaned his matador apparel and carried out other menial tasks, went unnoticed. If anything, the staff admired his courage in taking on the unruly son of the Velde family.

I clung to Roelle and gradually found an eerie comfort in his presence, striving to perform my errands well.

That cell still threatened to eat me up again.

Within his office, I set to work sorting out his desk, without disrupting his already disorganized filing. My thoughts drifted back to that beautiful senorita in the mausoleum, and then they dared to wander back farther.

I’d shamed my family.

My father, the ultimate hero, had fought in England’s Battle of Blore Heath. I’d overheard him telling Ricardo that many Lancastrians had perished during the battle they had eventually lost. The defeated leaders had fled the country and my father,too, had found wisdom in placing distance between himself and the land he’d never called home. Those scars went deeper than his war-torn limbs. A few days before my sixth birthday, he’d died.

As the eldest, Ricardo had been tasked with supporting our family.

Ricardo stood in the kitchen doorway, his expression strange as he glanced down at the object he held in his right hand. Alicia, our seven-year-old sister, a year older than me, clapped her hands with excitement as Ricardo spread his red Muleta cape onto the table. My sister went quiet, and I knew that this moment was for me - this precious gift that represented a matador’s bravery, bestowed by the bullfighter himself, and I felt unworthy to touch it. Sensing my reticence, Ricardo winked at me. Our mother regarded the material with a glint of pride, though the quiver of her lips exposed her fear, and she yelled that it would leave a stain.