Page 27 of The Healing Dragon
“What are you doing here?” Ernesto asks. There’s a smirk on his face, like he caught me with my hands on the cookie jar.
The bathroom is only one foot away from me. I hold back from explaining that I was cleaning it because that would be odd. I don’t explain myself to this dog. Starting today would only raise suspicion.
“Is it any of your concern?” I ask.
I don’t wait for him to answer as I open the door. I realize I left my cleaning supplies in the office, but I make use of the few wipes under the sink. In addition, I pick up the toilet brush and toss it into the toilet.
“You have some high and mighty air for someone scrubbing toilets.”
I can’t deny he has me there. Thankfully, he hasn’t noticed the lack of cleaning supplies.
“Shouldn’t you be doing something for my father?” I ask. “Like bark.”
Ernesto lets out a booming laugh that fills the room. I move out of the bathroom and pass him. He keeps taking steps closer, and it is only a matter of time before he blocks my way out. His laughter keeps me from hearing the horde of footsteps until my father and his man are at the doorway.
I must’ve been looking for far longer than I thought.
“What is happening here?” my father asks entering the room.
The rest of his men, who are a total of five, stand by the door, carefully watching the scene unravel. I might be mistaken, but I believe I see a flicker of something in mid-air. It could very well be Jesse. It makes sense that he would resort to following my father around if searching the house was unfruitful.
“Your dog won’t leave me alone,” I say to my father as I gather my cleaning supplies.
Crying to my father with complaints has never been my way. I haven’t made an attempt since childhood, when I was punished for it. But I need a reason to leave before he notices I shouldn’t be here.
Ernesto joins us by the door. He crosses his arms and sends a cocky grin my way. “I was simply supervising the quality of the work, King Oscuro.”
The mistake is done, and as soon as the words leave his lips, he knows it too. His eyes widen and his mouth gapes. The poor dog just called my father by his enemy’s name.
My father is not a forgiving or understanding person. He will not simply acknowledge that there has always been one King Oscuro longer than any of us have been alive, regardless of first name. The title has stayed in that one family since the beginning of the Red Book. It’s normal for a person to make amistake and have that well-known name attached to the title roll off the tongue.
Hoping my father would be thoughtful is naïve. My father doesn’t want to be king for the people but for his selfish needs. There is something broken in him. I first thought his faults came from not having a father himself.
How can a boy not raised by a man learn to become one?
There is something further wrong and hollow inside my father. His darkness is not just the absence of love and care. I have come to learn his darkness is sinister. He is not unique. He isn’t the first and he will not be the last. Hunger for power takes many shapes and faces but persists through the years.
My father’s eyes do not leave Ernesto as I scurry away. The soldiers outside the door move apart to let me pass, then walk inside the room, shutting the door. I make my way to the stairs, then up to my room. I don’t stop moving until I reach my bed and kneel at the foot of it.
The door opens after me and clicks shut.
“It’s not your fault.”
I look at Jesse, who stands before me with furrowed brows.
“What?” I ask and my voice comes out like a gasp.
“Regardless of how much of an ass that man is, you feel guilty that he is about to be punished.” He kneels next to me. “Breathe, Janelle.”
His words break through my haze, and I realize I’m hyperventilating. I need to get a grip. What is wrong with me? I don’t care about Ernesto or his fate at my father’s hand. It’s his choice to be here.
I look down at my hands and see they are shaking. I fist them tightly and take a deep breath.One, two, three, four, five.I breathe out, then repeat. The five count is something I haven’t had to do in a while. As a child, it’s what I used to do to keep myself sane. Whatever my father threw at me betweentraining sessions and social expectations, the counting always centered me and helped me gather my bearings. After all, screaming until my lungs were empty was never an option, despite being far more relieving.
“You still do the five count,” Jesse says while staring at me.
We are eye to eye on the floor.
“I counted out loud?”
