Page 29 of Festive Fugitive
“Just once,” he says as if that makes it any better. Eli takes a deep breath, but the hurt is so obvious on his face I’m losing my mind. I need to dosomething.
When the screen fills with the grainy image of Spencer’s self-important pout, raw hate flashes through me like lightning. It’s about to switch off my heart, and the only way to not let that happen is to put a stop to this bastard’s lies.
Breathless and drunk on my own rage, I take two steps and slam my fist into the TV, making its back hit the wall. For a second, I’m shocked that I did it, but then I punch the screen again and again and again, until I can no longer see Spencer. There’s steaming green jealousy in my actions as well, but the wrath I have for that fucker outweighs it. When I imagine this bastard hitting Eli I want to travel to where he lives just so I can put my hands around his neck and strangle him to death.
Spencer’s managed to upset my Eli from hundreds of miles away, even though he’s a worm unworthy of stepping on.
I’m heaving when a hand on my arm pulls me out of my stupor.
“Cesar? You’re bleeding, come to the kitchen,” Eli whispers, and when I see him standing, guilt slashes through me immediately.
“I told you, you shouldn’t walk so fast,” I mumble and lean down to pluck the TV cable out of the outlet, so it stops hissing at me.
“It’s fine, my ankle really is a lot better. Did I… make you angry?” he asks, looking more resigned than scared, as he leads me to the sink, but what do I know? I’m not that good at reading people’s emotions.
I used to be better at controlling my own too. Was it because I was afraid of punishment? Now that Sullivan’sleash is off, I can express myself more freely, but is it such a good thing?
Am I unhinged?
Could I… hurt Eli?
It’s just a thought, yet it feels like a punch to the gut, and I fall to my knees, struggling to catch my breath.
I want what’s best for him. He does not deserve to be around someone he fears.
How is it that I try so hard yet always fail at doing things right?
“No… no, of course not. I’m sorry. I really am, Eli,” I whisper and press my lips to his warm fingers.
He scoots right next to me and strokes my head. “It’s okay. Sometimes I get really angry too. I’m glad I don’t have to see his face anymore. Maybe if it was my TV, I would have done the same.”
I don’t remember feeling like this before. My chest feels like it’s about to burst. It’s a bad feeling, full of anger at everyone who’s ever put their hands on Eli, but also at myself, because now he won’t trust me either. “I just… you were so upset, because of all his lies, and when you said he punched you, I imagined it. I couldn’t stand that he’s not here, so I can twist his fucking head off,” I growl and push my head at Eli’s chest. “He doesn’t fucking deserve to live! How dare he? How dare this bastard raise his filthy hand at you?”
These emotions in me are so new, so raw, I’m afraid they will scare Eli off. Sullivan always punished displays of feelings until I no longer knew if I had them. I was built to attack and maim. Even when I protected Sullivan, it was out of duty, not because I thought he deserved it. I don’t know how to handle the tenderness inside me. Am I too broken to accept Eli’s affection? Do I deserve it?
Eli’s soft kisses soothe my pain like a cool compress to my swollen heart. “Maybe I should have taken him out as well? He hit me after telling me my plans to kill Sullivan were stupid fantasies, that I couldn’t deal with violence. When I argued I could, he punched me. Out of nowhere. As if to show me. I didn’t fight him, because I knew it was over that moment. I packed the few things I had and left.”
Spencer needs to die. I don’t know how and when, but I will make it happen. I feel dirty after just listening to that story, and poor Eli lived it.
“No one will ever hurt you again. I promise.”
I know I’m mumbling, and he probably thinks I’m not making any sense, but every word leaving my mouth is a hundred percent sincere.
“Not with you protecting me, that’s for sure.” He smiles and gives me one more kiss before forcing me up. “Come on, let’s get those hands under water. I can’t stand watching you bleed.”
The best I ever got from Sullivan was a sneer and“go clean yourself up”.
It’s been such a long time since I last felt another person genuinely cared for me that I don’t fight him any longer and follow.
With blood thumping in my ears it’s almost as if I’m submerged in water, because every sound is muted, even Eli’s sweet, gentle voice. Still, I try not to make a fuss and let him wash my bleeding hand in the sink. I’ve already made our afternoon into enough of a mess.
Now that Sullivan’s torture room is on my mind, I can think of only that as I watch my bloodied fingers over the metal sink, watered down red rivulets disappearing down the drain. Several times, people I had to deal with would crack after a smashed finger or two. I’d then supervisethe hand getting cleaned and patched up in some strange dance of bad cop/good cop all in one body.
Eli stroking my back brings me back to reality. “I’ll go get the first aid kit. Stay here.”
I nod, my throat tight as if I’m unable to speak. I shouldn’t have reacted so violently, because of course it might scare him, but without the threat of Sullivan’s wrath, I’m dysregulated, like a piano that’s still playing but which badly needs tuning by someone so much gentler than Sullivan.
“You’re good. You don’t deserve needing to deal with any of this,” I mumble as Eli returns with the red box.
