Page 84 of Saving Sparrow
“It’s okay,” Miguel whispered to him. “It’s normal.”
Elliott raised his hands, eyes widening as he opened his palms and watched the cum spilling from his trembling fingers.
Miguel
Now
Had he heard me in the attic? Did he know about the spare key? Did my body language give me away?
“What are you doing out of your room?” Contrary to his expression, he sounded more suspicious than angry. I wondered if that took effort. The idea he’d even try to sound less hostile bolstered me a little, so I forced myself to step through the archway.
“That’s far enough.” His words landed like a whip. I wasn’t too close at all, no closer than when we’d been sitting across from each other at the dinner table, but he seemed almost panicked.
He no longer wore his uniform, his… armor. The fitted T-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms highlighted how muscular he was. More than I’d initially thought, but still lean in comparison to me and Quentin. Well, me before I showed up here.
The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than earlier. Thin wisps of hair hung loose from his braid, making me wonder if he’d been tossing and turning in bed. The pillow lines along his cheek suggested he’d gotten some sleep, but the way his eyelids drooped said it had been restless.
Sparrow was vulnerable when tired, and the way his jaw hardened as I assessed him told me that scared him just as much as he scared me.
Picking up the strong scent of cleaning products, I thought back to the way he furiously straightened up the mess I’d made of the bedroom, then looked around the spotless living room.
“Cleaning makes you feel in control,” I said when I shouldn’t have. “I-I’m sorry.”
Expecting a physical attack—or a verbal one at the very least—I was surprised when he simply sighed before turning away from me.
He faced the mantel, staring at the discolored wall above it. The discoloration was in the shape of a cross. I assumed the brass crucifix from the portrait once hung there, although that photo hadn’t been taken in this house. Elliott moved here with his parents before he turned twelve. He lived here until they died. From the looks of things,imprisonedwas a better word.
“I couldn’t sleep.” I chose not to tack on ‘either.’ “I was on my way to the kitchen to grab something to—”
“Do you believe in God?” Sparrow asked, interrupting my lie.
“Oh. Uhh, no.” Elliott had asked me the same question once.
“Why not?”
I shrugged even though he couldn’t see me. “There’s too much pain in the world, and the ones doing the preaching are usually the ones inflicting it.”
Sparrow hummed.
“Doyoubelieve in God?”
Elliott’s parents were religious. How much of their religion had transferred over to Sparrow, if any? Even with all Elliott had gone through, much of which I was still ignorant of, he’d still prayed and read his Bible when we first met him. It was like he’d found comfort in the familiarity of what he knew, even if it had only ever caused him pain. Was it the same for Sparrow?
“I don’t recall learning that much about God. My father was too busy trying to convince Elliott he was the devil.” He hadn’t said no, but I was too busy being confused by his answer to realize it. It implied that he saw himself as separate from Elliott, not part of the larger whole. Did his response also imply that he was aware of when their father and Elliott interacted, like he had access to Elliott’s memories? Or did it mean his father believed he was dealing with Elliott when he’d actually been interacting with Sparrow?
“Tell me how it works… please,” I whispered. It took something greater than me to ask him outright, but I didn’t have time to waste. I’d already been locked up here for weeks and felt no closer to getting my husband back. If anything, every answer gained led to more questions.
“I don’t think Elliott knew about you.” My theory was that he believed his memory lapses were due to the trauma his brain was protecting him from, and he feared knowing what those traumas were—already having suffered and remembered more than enough. I thought he kept the parts he did remember from us—the worst of them, at least—because he was scared Quentin and I wouldn’t love him if we found out. I believed he carried a lot of shame, too. Shame about what was done to him, about letting it happen, about not being like everyone else. Elliott just wanted to be normal. He wanted to be loved and protected. He didn’t want to think or talk about…before.
But if the memories he did have were bad, then what happened during the moments that were lost to him? The moments Sparrow had to live through.
I took in Sparrow’s rigid posture, how steadfast he always seemed, even while exhaustion weighed him down. Did he ever get a break? Did he ever just relax?
What happened to you?
Sparrow faced me, head held high. I recognized the stony gaze he aimed at me, and it made me both sad and angry. He wasn’t going to tell me how it worked. He was going to get what he wanted from me while cherry-picking what he shared in return. This vital piece of information wouldn’t be one of them.
“Dammit, Sparrow.” I had to try to stop being afraid of him, even if I had to pretend not to be. “You’re not the only one who loves him. You’re not the only one who failed him and now wants to make it right!”
