Page 42 of Don't Say A Word

They were the same words he had uttered to me and they aren’t lost on him. He shifts a little in the bed, moving his large frame around my body, somehow engulfing me further. He clears his throat as though dislodging something painful and draws in a ragged breath.

“I don’t remember much from my childhood. I don’t remember my life, day to day, my mother, my father. There are parts that come in flashes, bits, but none of them make sense. They’re more of a dream than a memory. No recollections of events or the moments leading up to them, they are just there. But the memories of living on the street are more vivid. The hunger. The desperation. I don’t know why I was there. I don’t know if I ran away or if I was abandoned. But that’s when I met him, the father of the man who has requested you. He found me hiding in a stable, buried beneath the hay, delirious with fever.”

The rumble of his voice is comforting, the vibration of his voice against my cheek, the movement of his chin against my head.

“He…” He swallows. “He rescued me. He took me in, gave me a job and protected the one thing that means the most to me. He looks after the people who are loyal to him. He’s been more of a parent to me than my own.”

I take advantage of the crack in his wall, pressing him for more details of his life, wanting to know what makes the man holding me who he is. “You don’t remember anything of your mother?”

My mother and I have always been close, a special bond that I know nothing can replace. It breaks my heart to know he never got to experience it.

Pressing the tips of my fingers to his chest, I wait in silence, not wanting my voice to break the moment. His skin is warm and firm. His fragrance intoxicating. His words, his warmth, and his scent take me away, alleviating the pain and crushing the walls that surround us, transporting me to his past.

I willingly dive into the escape.

“I’m not sure, I barely remember anything about her…” He pauses. His body tenses as though talking about her causes him physical pain and I wonder what must have happened to him to make his tone so cold, so empty.

“I have these memories of a smile, of whispered words spoken against my scalp, but I’m not sure if I’m remembering her, the sound of her voice, the way she looked or if it’s just another woman that was part of my childhood. It’s like my memories have been blocked, barring any recollection of her from my mind.”

“So nothing?” I just want him to keep talking.

He swallows and the sound is loud. “I have these flashes. They’re kind of like photos in my head, ones where the world is frozen but I can move around them like some sort of suspended dream. The most vivid one is of opening a door to a room that she was in. I don’t know where I was before, in a house, our house, someone else’s, but the curtains weren’t pulled properly and there was this light that shone across where she lay on a bed, illumining her face like a halo. I don’t know if it was the sun, or a streetlight or something else entirely. The door creaked as I pressed it open and walked across the floor. I had to be careful not to step on any of the stuff that was scattered across the carpet. I can’t recall what it was. Clothing or bottles or pizza boxes. Just rubbish. But there was this stain in the shape of a heart. Sort of. It was cracked open like someone had grabbed the two sides and just yanked.”

His voice takes on a trance-like tone, one laced with nostalgia and pain. I’m transported to that room with him. Closing my eyes, I imagine the light coming in through the window, the scattered mess and the stain on the floor.

“I remember sort of poking her, testing to see if she was awake. Her body jiggled but she didn’t open her eyes. It’s strange, but I remember all this, the scene of whatever it is, but I don’t remember what she looks like. I don’t remember if she had blonde hair or brown, if her eyes were blue or green or gray. I must have pulled the curtains because the halo of light was cut off, and it took a while for my eyes to adjust. Mascara was smeared under her eyes. Lipstick had fallen lopsidedly off her mouth. There was an imprinted red mark on her cheek. And there was blood but for some reason, it didn’t shock me. I just remember thinking she was beautiful. Everything is so vivid in this memory, but ask me what our daily lives were like, where we lived, what people we were around, and I couldn’t tell you. I just remember this desperate need to protect…” He falls silent, the only sound I can hear is the thud of his heart and the flow of his breath.

“So do you think it was after that you were out on the streets?”

Ryker lets out a steady stream of air. “I don’t know. I don’t know what made me leave, if I chose to leave, if she forced me, or if I had no other choice. I remember hiding in the hay and making a bed for…” His voice trails off again.

He’s hiding something. A part of his life he doesn’t want me to know.

“But I remember everything after. I remember Senior taking me back to his place. I remember stuffing myself with food, of sleeping in a bed that felt like it had come down from heaven.”

“Senior?” I question, locking onto the name.

“That’s what I call him.”

He doesn’t offer any more of an explanation and I don’t push. Somehow, I know it would be pointless. Taking a deep breath, he increases the grip on the back of my head, drawing strength from me instead of the other way around. His next words come out quickly, as though they are painful as they pass through his throat and he needs them gone before they burn.

“I owe him. He saved me. That’s why I do the things I do. That’s why I’m here with you.”

I lie still, hoping he keeps talking. His heart beats faster now, but it is still steady and unbroken. I can feel the muscles of his jaw working back and forth, as though he’s contemplating what to say next.

“They are my family, in a way. As fucked up as it sounds, they’re the only family I’ve ever known, or at least that I can remember.” He inhales deeply and searches in the darkness for my hand, threading his fingers through mine, the other hand locked in my hair. “That’s why.”

I tilt my chin, so my lips brush over his chest as I speak. It seems easier to talk without his eyes on me. “Marcel said that this is their family business. They trade in women.”

“It’s not everything they do. They are more than that.”

“So it’s your business too?”

He pulls back then, moving his head far enough away so he can look me in the eye. They are flecked with all the colors of an ocean storm. Gray. Blue. Green and silver.

“Yes,” he whispers. He’s waiting for my reaction. Waiting for the judgment in my eyes. “No,” he changes his mind. “Maybe. I’ve never done this before, never trained someone. This isn’t what I would choose.” His eyes dance between mine as if begging me to understand.

But I don’t. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

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