Page 51 of Stolen Seconds

Her blue eyes shone with trepidation as she searched my own, seeking answers to unsaid questions.

“No.”

That one word took root in my chest, the beginning and end of me.

I lifted the covers and laid beside her, our handsinches apart and resting in the middle as we faced each other.

Time halted as I traced the outlines of her features as intently as she was tracing mine, her blue eyes warming my skin with every touch.

Neither one of us said a word, comfortable in the stillness.

Eventually, her eyes became heavy, but before she dozed off to sleep, her hand inched closer to mine.

Hands reaching but never touching.

The tense push and pull between us that had always been there.

Only now, it was different.

The night melted into the first rays of morning when I snuck out of her room.

I hadn’t slept at all, exhaustion heavy on my muscles, but how could I when it was insignificant compared to spending hours memorizing Irina?

I could’ve stared at her for another few hours and it wouldn’t have been enough.

When I got the call that my father was awake a week later, I came to see him.

The door clicked shut when Dr. Aldo stepped out of my father’s room.

“He’s stable,” he said, holding his notepad to his chest. “You can see him if you’d like.”

I nodded my head and put my hand out in front of me.

He eyed me nervously before dropping the two vialsin my palm hesitantly. “Do you know how a syringe works?”

I smirked at his dubious expression. “I’ll manage. Stay out here and I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

He nodded before walking away with a hunched back. Old man refused to retire.

I entered the room and leaned against the wall with my ankles crossed, letting the glass tubes clash in my hand back and forth.

My father’s eyes flicked toward me; his body completely immobile.

“Looks like I won’t be needing this one.” I raised the first bottle so he could see and walked toward his bed to set it down on the table nearby.

If what the doctor said was true, he still had sensation in his body.

To test this theory, I grabbed his index finger and pushed it back until I felt the bone crunch beneath my skin.

His face became red and sweaty, a tear streaking down his face as he stared at me in horror.

I couldn’t help but laugh aloud, my blood heating from excitement. “This is going to be an afternoon well spent.”

There was no ounce of sympathy or pity present as I broke each of my father’s fingers until he’d passed out. I couldn’t imagine being motionless and voiceless while experiencing excruciating pain, but I also wasn’t a horrid man like him.

I stepped back from my work in satisfaction as I admired his hands, his fingers crooked and bent in odd directions. In a disturbing way, it was sort of artistic.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I dropped the syringe on the bed before reaching for it.

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