Page 52 of Cruel Cravings

I’ve used two cans of chicken noodle and one can of pot roast and vegetables. I eat first, quiet and alone at the family table, listening to the birds chirp outside.

Brontë’s head hangs forward when I enter the main room. The chains have rubbed his wrists raw and the blood from his gashes, even the fresh scratch marks from last night, has dried. He lifts his head at the sound of my padding feet. His dark green eyes meet mine, and I see it—exhaustion, hunger, pain.

But also a flicker of determination. Even now, he won’t beg. He won’t plead.

“I brought you something.”

He doesn’t respond, but I’ve stopped expecting it from him.

I claim the chair across from him and reach for his leather minotaur mask. “In order to feed you, I need to take this off.”

He tenses at first but then holds still as I slide the mask off and reveal his exhausted, mangled face. Scooping up a spoonful of chicken noodle, I feed him his first bite.

“You must be confused,” I mutter. “One second I’m feeding you, then I’m pointing a gun at your head and fucking you. Now I’m back to feeding you.”

My dark humor falls flat.

He opens his mouth to accept another spoonful of soup but otherwise offers no reaction.

I scoop up more and feed him that too.

“I’m not even sure I can explain it. Sometimes it’s like… sometimes it’s like I can’t control what goes on in my head. I just… do things. It’s like I blackout, and then, once it’s out of my system, I realize I’ve messed up.” A small, bittersweet note of laughter leaves me. “My mother used to tell me I was impossible. I was nothing but trouble, always looking for attention. So I’d do these things that would force her to see me.

“Play with a ball in the house and break a lamp. Scribble on the mirror with lipstick. Steal her favorite pieces of jewelry. Pickfights with my sister when she was trying to practice. I didn’t get why I was doing these things. But I just wanted her time. I guess it’s manifested in other ways now that I’m grown.”

The chicken noodle disappears, the bowl soon empty. I switch it out for the pot roast and vegetables, serving him that too.

“Are you thirsty?” I ask in between spoonfuls. “I brought you a glass of water.”

Brontë doesn’t say he is, but I assume he must be. We’re on day three, and he hasn’t had any water. A man of his size must be on the verge of dehydration.

“What was your childhood like?” I ask. “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

It’s funny, because his silence has started to mean different things. Depending on his body language or the energy he gives off, I receive a different impression, and it’s almost like a conversation of its own.

At my question about his childhood, he doesn’t shy away from my gaze. He peers at me openly, his misshapen features relaxed. Not clenched or etched with defiance.

“I have a whole backstory for you,” I laugh, then spoon more pot roast to his mouth. “You grew up in the woods raised by wolves or some other predatory animal. You found your way to Brighter Days and wound up by the hospital for the food scraps. Nurse Big Bird used to feed stray dogs all the time. Not saying you’re a stray dog… but, you know.”

His gaze doesn’t waver, though I detect a hint of humor.

“I’ve wondered about your scars. I think it’d be impossible to count them all. Does the mask make you feel better? You prefer to stay hidden?”

We’re on the last few spoonfuls of pot roast and veggies. I collect the green beans, carrots, and chunks of meat and liftthe spoon to his scarred lips. They part for me, the closeness between us almost intimate.

I’m feeding him like a lover would.

My heart flutters inside my chest. It’s like skipping a beat, leaving me acutely aware how confusing this all is.

“Maybe I need to wear a mask too,” I whisper. “No one’s ever seen me anyway. My mother had no interest in me. My sister doesn’t want to be around me. I was thrown away at that hospital. The only time I’ve ever gotten attention is when I’m… like last night.”

“No.”

My brows jump, stunned by his single word response. “No what?”

“No mask.”

Silence hangs between us, heavy and full of things unsaid.

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