Page 8 of Lotus

I prop my feet up on the coffee table, crisscrossing them at the ankles, then toss the notebook beside me on the cushion. My gaze skips over to the canvas portrait leaning against my far wall.

Familiar eyes stare back at me.

Eyes that are eerily accurate, and yet, at the same time, could not possibly portray the true depth and mystery of the real thing.

My painting of Oliver Lynch is still dappled in faded coffee residue, and I would give anything to fix him.

T H R E E

“CANIGET YOU ANYTHING?”

I stare straight ahead, unblinking, hardly registering the words coming out of this man’s mouth. This man who claims to be my brother. My stepbrother, specifically, tied to me by matrimony, now forced to take me in and help pick up the pieces of my shattered reality.

Legs sprawled out in front of me, back to the wall, I sit beneath the window of what I’ve been told is my old childhood bedroom. I don’t recall it. I don’t recognize the stickers on the ceiling or the chipped, blue paint. It smells musty and strange.

My vision settles on the cracked closet door across from me, and I consider crawling inside and holing up within the small, dark space. The thought brings me comfort as I close my eyes and retreat into the confinements of a familiar prison.

“I have some TV dinners and pop. Are you hungry?”

Gabe’s voice penetrates my solitude and I force my eyes back open. He lingers in the doorway, fidgeting in my peripheral view.

I’m unsure what a television dinner consists of, and I’m honestly not hungry. I don’t respond.

Gabe continues to scuff the toe of his shoe along the shag carpeting, his shoulder propped up against the doorframe. He lets out a sigh as he scratches the nape of his neck. “Well, if you get hungry, the kitchen is down the hall to the right. This is your house, too, so feel free to explore and make yourself at home. I’ll help with anything you need.”

I flick my attention to Gabe. He visited me multiple times over the last few weeks as I was poked and prodded, coddled by a myriad of unknown faces, and questioned until it felt like my brain was going to dribble out of my ears. It was determined that I wasn’t a danger to myself or to society, so I was released back into the world—a world I thought had been destroyed and contaminated. I was sent on my way with little knowledge of how modern civilization worked, merely given a tiny paper card, detailing the information of a psychologist I have no intention of consulting anytime soon. It’s difficult enough trying not to panic while my stepbrother converses with me from a few feet away.

I realize then that I am completely dependent on this man in front of me, this stranger, who is spearing me with his worry and pity… just like I was dependent on Bradford.

Still, I can’t seem to muster any words, so I simply nod my head and resume staring at the wall.

I’m relieved when Gabe backs out of the room, leaving me alone. I’m used to being alone. I’m comfortable with it.

My thoughts travel to Bradford again, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s still alive. There was so much blood. I tried to explain my living arrangements to the police officers who drilled me with their interrogations, but my home beneath the earth was not easy to detail.

Cement flooring with a dark green rug. A maroon sleeping bag. A small television to play video tapes. Stacks of books and comics, a cupboard with snacks and nonperishable goods, and my art supplies that Bradford provided me with. It was a small haven—a modest living space that offered me everything I needed.

Everything IthoughtI needed.

The authorities looked at me as if I were crazy when I attempted to give them answers. I told them about the stalks of corn, the raccoon with wise eyes, and the little wooden home that housed my cell. But my responses were clipped, my descriptions vague. How does one accurately portray something when they have nothing to compare it to?

When one of the detectives, a man with an off-putting mustache, regarded me, his gaze was patronizing. He addressed me as if I were a frail, immature child. He spoke slow and used elementary words. He even made drawings on white paper, trying to get through to me—trying to make me understand.

But I did understand. I comprehended his words and queries and desperate need for answers.

What I didn’t understand… waswhy.

Why the lies?

Why so many years of isolation and a false sense of fear?

Whyme?

I suppose I’ll never know. Bradford is likely dead from blood loss by now, and he was my only hope for closure.

My knees draw up to my chest and my socks skim across the carpet. It is soft and comforting beneath my feet—a sensation I’ve never felt before. Or one I don’t remember, anyway.

And then I’m thinking about her, the woman in the window, her hair light and sunny like the carpeting and undoubtedly just as soft. She told me her name was Syd, and she reeked of familiarity… but how could it be? How could she bemySyd?

---