Page 66 of Unveil
I whip the blanket off and ease down from the cot. Despite everything, including my own good sense, I can’t watch him suffer like this.
My muscles groan, but I bite my lip to stay silent, crawling toward him on my knees. His every twitch nearly makes me turn right back around, but his eyes stay squeezed shut, his mouth muttering faster now, and I keep going.
He jerks again, twisting the fabric like he’s pulling something. The movement dislodges the crossbow behind him, sending it skittering toward me.
I freeze. The dart is locked and ready. There are even extras laying around, having spilled from the quiver attached to the main frame. I could plunge them all into his chest, depress the triggers this time, and run.
“No, please…” he whimpers.
My breath catches. I quietly push the weapon aside and crawl the rest of the way to him.
“No!”
“Orion?” I whisper.
No response, but now I can see the sheen of sweat on his brow. Heat radiates off him, hotter than the stove’s fire. Whatever’s gripping him must be excruciating, twisting his body in painful contortions.
“… fire. Get… out… save… Hatch… her… please!”
The ache in my chest almost knocks the air from me. I sink beside him and do the only thing I can think of.
“Shh, shh, Orion, it’s okay. You’re okay…”
Leaning up against the door, I ease him down so I can hold him. Even in sleep, he tenses, then relaxes the instant his head rests in my lap.
I should be asleep myself. Not sleeping can be hell for me, but maybe it’s okay since I’ve slept a total of a billion hours in the past forty-eight. And I don’t know why, but… I can’t leave him, not when some memory has him in its chokehold.
His face stays pinched, jaw clenched. My hands hover over his head, unsure what to do with them now that I’m here. Hewhimpers again. Moisture that had collected at the corner of his eye trails down his cheek, and I catch the tear with my fingertips.
I don’t hesitate anymore, threading my hand through his hair and brushing it back from his forehead in soft strokes. Lightning flashes through the windows, flickering over the agony carved into his face.
“You’re okay,” I murmur again, barely audible over the thunder as I massage his head.
I saw Dad do this once for Momma when her illness ravaged her mind after a particularly bad depressive episode. I’m sure he did it other times, but I’d snuck into their room one night and found them this way.
The manic episode before that was a hesitant sort of fun. We exploded with laughs but still held our breath, all of us waiting for the shoe to drop. Momma had all the energy in the world to keep up with me and Nox—taking us for daily beignets, dancing with a brass band in Jackson Square, visiting the Audubon Zoo over and over again. It was great. Kind of. Because by then, Nox and I already knew it wouldn’t last.
We were right.
One day she just… wouldn’t get out of bed. The meds she hated taking for her mania, ones that seemed to torture her more than the mania ever did, had finally started working.
The tear stains on her pillow and the mascara streaks down her cheeks broke something in me, sparking dread and empathy I didn’t understand yet. The highs lasted longer, but they felt brief when the lows went on for an eternity. She tried her damnedest not to let us see her like that, but my parents never hid her bipolar disorder, teaching us that it is a part of her. Still, it was hard at ten years old to see her go from on top of the world to the very depths of it. It still is. Especially now that I know what it’s like.
That night I snuck in, Dad held her in their bed, whispering in French and singing lullabies Dad’s mom, my grand-mère, used to sing. I never paid attention to the words. Now I wish I knew them.
I hum the tune instead, hoping it’s enough.
The tightness in my chest releases the moment Orion’s tension melts under my hand. He exhales a shaky breath against my thigh, then shifts. I still, but his eyes stay closed as one arm threads behind my back, circling my waist. His hand catches the wrist I’ve braced on the ground, and his other arm comes around my front to tug me impossibly closer, molding me against him like a pillow.
I frown at his hand wrapped around my wrist, finally close enough to analyze the rough, glossy webbing that spans both his palms. His grip is strong as I slightly turn my hand to better see the damage, knowing already that they’re not callouses.
His skin is discolored in uneven patches, pale ridges and darker valleys melted together in a way that can only be from heat and flame. A pit forms in my stomach at the confirmation.
I’ve seen wounds like this my whole life. They’re both gorgeous and terrifying to behold every time I look at my father’s face and know what he had to endure. The pain he suffered.
Orion’s palms are covered in burn scars.
A million questions flood my mind, but if he’s anything like my dad, answers will come on his time.
