Page 49 of Captive Souls

Leaning against the door to the bathroom, I squeezed my eyes shut at the onslaught of the memory, once so sweet, warm and pure, now painful and bitter upon reflection.

I missed her terribly. Like a dull ache. Aside from Daisy, she was the only true kind of unconditional love I’d experienced. Her love was not dependent on outward factors: access to mood-altering substances, how I’d acted that day, whether or not a sports team had won or lost. No, it was as constant as the sun, the moon, the stars. A guiding light.

Without it, parts of me felt cold, dead.

I unfurled my fists, opening my palm to contemplate the crushed-up butt I was still holding.

I lifted it closer to my face, inhaling the acrid smell of chemicals and tobacco. My nose should’ve turned up at the scent. It reminded me of dive bars and rock bottoms.

But it didn’t.

That scent was mixed with the dirt on my hands, the fragrance of wildflowers and sunshine and … Knox.

I must’ve been imagining that last part. The sheer force of the scent from the cigarette would drown out any other fragrance.

Yet I smelled him. Earthy. Salty. Wrong.

My feet directed me to the toilet. Flushing it down was my original plan. But as I hovered over the bowl, butt in hand, I hesitated.

This thing was nothing but trash.

But it was an indicator of Knox having a flaw. Being human.

Instead of flushing it, my hand clasped around it, keeping it for reasons unknown.

Eleven

Piper

He got me everything on the list.

Not much of it was obscure, but I figured he’d simply refuse to get the candy. There was no way I could see a man like him touching bags of candy. In fact, I couldn’t see a man like him being a child eating candy.

I’d put an obscene amount of thought into Knox—what his life looked like as a child, what his life looked like before all of this.

About whether he had someone who loved him, cared about him, someone he softened for.

Before the list, I didn’t think he was capable of softening. That whatever happened to him had calcified any neurons capable of producing feelings. Empathy. Kindness.

Except…

The flowers.

The flowers that weren’t on the list. Irises. The space needed something to brighten it up, life, but I’d decided against putting any kind of flowers on the list, thinking Knox would refuse to get them.

Which was actually the saner of the two options.

What was I thinking, decorating my cage?

Trying to turn it into something lovely?

And irises. I doubted he learned deeper meanings behind flowers and their roots in Greek mythology, but the iris denoted hope. And new beginnings.

I fought against my body’s desperation to find meaning where maybe there wasn’t any.

“They’re perfect,” I told him, holding the flowers, my soft voice conveying how taken aback I was.

He ignored me, his gestures stiff and expression cold. Why buy the flowers, then, if he was going to act as if he hated me? Maybe it was because he wasn’t capable of using any other mode of communication?

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