Page 109 of Body and Soul

Oh God. The thought made bile rise in the back of my throat.

And then an even more sickening realization crashed over me like a wave of icy dread. If the cult was in the practice of feeding human meat to their members, had they done the same to Shepherd all those years ago? When he was just a child himself, trapped in their clutches?

The breath froze in my lungs as puzzle pieces I hadn't even known were there suddenly started clicking into place. Shepherd's past, the trauma he never spoke of... Was this it? Was this the core wound that fractured his psyche in the first place?

A choked sound escaped my throat as the horrific implications crashed over me, my stomach churning with revulsion.

But before I could give voice to the terrible realization, Bryce gripped my shoulders, his eyes intent on mine. “Eli, stop. Don't go down that path. Not now.”

I blinked at him, uncomprehending, my mind still reeling. “But Shepherd—”

Bryce shook his head firmly. “Shepherd's past is his own. Just as yours is your own. And right now, in this moment,youare what matters. Your healing, your recovery. The rest can wait.”

He smoothed his hands down my arms to take my hands in his. “You've been through a tremendous trauma. An unimaginable ordeal. Speculating about Shepherd's history or what you may have unknowingly consumed will only cause you more distress. And that's the last thing you need right now.”

I swallowed thickly and managed a jerky nod. He was right. My mind was a raw, ravaged wasteland, and prodding at the open wounds would only make them fester.

Bryce's eyes softened. “Come on," he said, sliding off the stool and tugging me gently to my feet. “I have an idea.”

I let Bryce lead me into the living room, my movements still sluggish and uncoordinated. He guided me to the plush leather couch, urging me to sit with a gentle hand on my shoulder. I sank into cushions, my body heavy with exhaustion.

Bryce grabbed the remote from the coffee table and settled himself beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. He draped a soft throw blanket over my lap, the plush microfiber comforting against my skin.

“How about we watch something brainless and distracting?” Bryce suggested, flicking on the large flatscreen TV mounted on the wall. “Something to get your mind off... everything else.”

I nodded gratefully, sinking deeper into the couch. “That sounds perfect.”

Bryce navigated through the streaming options, finally settling on some mindless action comedy I'd never heard of. The opening credits began to roll as he set the remote aside, the volume low.

As the bright colors of the opening credits filled the screen, I felt the tension in my chest slowly begin to unravel. The weight of my thoughts didn’t disappear, not entirely. But with Bryce beside me, I could breathe again. For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t alone in the storm.

Bryce’s shoulder pressed lightly against mine, grounding me in the present. “It’s going to be okay,” he said softly. His voice was a steady anchor, something real to hold on to in the chaos.

“I know,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure if I believed it yet. Still, the flicker of hope was there, small but growing, like the soft warmth of the blanket that Bryce had tucked around me.

As the action comedy played on, Bryce leaned back into the cushions, and for the first time since I woke up, I allowed myself to relax, to lean into the comfort he offered. The world outside this moment could wait—Shepherd’s wounds, the cult, all the unanswered questions.

For now, this was enough.

The days after myrescue blurred together, a hazy stretch of time where sleep came in fits and reality felt like it was balancing on the edge of a knife. Shepherd took the week off to stay with me, his presence a steady anchor in the chaos of my mind, but even with him nearby, something inside me felt cracked, jagged. He didn’t push me to talk about it, didn’t ask for details I wasn’t ready to give, and in that quiet understanding, I found some semblance of comfort. But it didn’t last. The guilt—sharp and suffocating—had already started sinking its claws into me, festering, and no matter how hard I tried to bury it, I couldn’t escape the growing weight of what I’d done. What I’d broken. What I couldn’t fix.

For the first day or two, Bryce stayed fronting, his warm presence and easy smile a welcome distraction from the shadows lingering in my mind. He kept close, never more than an arm's reach away, and filled the heavy silences with idle chatter about everything and nothing at all. Sometimes, he'd turn on the TV and find some mindless sitcom, the canned laughter echoingthrough the room as he'd curl up next to me, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on my skin. In those moments, with his solid warmth pressed against my side, I could almost pretend that everything was okay, that the world hadn't tilted off its axis and left me scrambling to find my footing.

But as the days stretched on, the cracks in my facade grew wider, deeper, until I could no longer ignore the yawning chasm inside me. Bryce's light-hearted approach, once a comfort, now felt like sandpaper against my raw nerves, grating and insufferable. I found myself withdrawing, pulling away from his gentle touches and soft words, the guilt and shame like a living thing writhing in my gut. I knew he meant well, knew he was trying to help in his own way, but I couldn't bear the weight of his kindness, not when I felt so undeserving of it.

On the fourth day, Keres emerged, his presence a stark contrast to Bryce's gentle warmth. He didn't speak, didn't try to fill the silence with empty platitudes or forced cheer. Instead, he simply sat with me, his dark eyes watchful, his posture relaxed but alert. There was a predatory grace to his movements, a coiled strength that spoke of barely restrained violence, and yet, in his company, I felt a strange sense of safety, of protection.

He didn't touch me, didn't invade my space, or try to coax me out of my self-imposed isolation. He was just there, a silent guardian, a watchful presence that demanded nothing from me. In the quiet stillness of his company, I found a small measure of peace, a respite from the constant turmoil of my thoughts.

But even Keres' steady presence couldn't chase away the restlessness that had taken root inside me. My body was healing, the bruises fading and the cuts scabbing over, but my mind remained fractured, splintered by the horrors I had endured. I felt disconnected from myself, from the world around me, as if I were watching everything through a thick pane of glass, distorted and out of reach.

As the days turned into a week, Shepherd's absence became a palpable thing, a hollow space that echoed with the weight of my own thoughts. He'd returned to work, the demands of his teaching and his practice pulling him away from the quiet sanctuary of our home. I understood, of course. The world didn't stop turning because mine had shattered, and there was a part of me that was grateful for the distraction, for the chance to breathe without the constant reminder of his worried gaze.

But still, the emptiness persisted, a yawning chasm that threatened to swallow me whole. Shepherd encouraged me to try to find some semblance of normalcy, to pick up the pieces of my life and try to fit them back together. So I went back to the tattoo studio, the familiar hum of the machines and the sharp scent of ink a welcome respite.

I lost myself in the work, the steady drag of the needle against skin, the careful lines and shading that slowly took shape beneath my hands. But even as I poured myself into each piece, each intricate design, I could feel the hollowness inside me, the sense of disconnection that lingered like a bitter taste on my tongue.

The days fell into a routine, the hours blurring together in a haze of monotony. Shepherd's schedule was a whirlwind of activity, his Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays packed with classes and lectures, his Tuesdays and Thursdays spent as half days at his psych practice.

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