Page 69 of Crown of Steel

I’ve been counting them, those days, mentally ticking each and every one of them off as they go along.

After an early morning rise and quiet breakfast, I head to the massive library to put in my first hours. Then, by the time the building is hustling and bustling with students who wander between their dorms and the canteen, occupying the hallways and the patio for an officially prohibited morning cigarette, I focus on school work. After classes finish, I quickly go back to my dorm to get changed and empty my mini fridge, then head for the woods and work on my metal bars despite the fucking rain, although that raincoat Arthur gave me comes in quite useful.

I carefully make sure to avoid everyone else while I quietly make progress in all my projects, and so far I manage pretty well.

It makes me feel as satisfied as it makes me feel empty. I miss Arthur’s touch, and I fucking hate myself for it. Apart from his daily move on the chessboard, as the weeks roll by, he leaves me messages, every evening at nine.

Garde ta porte ouverte.

I don’t reply, nor do I leave my door open. Nor does he use the master key to sneak into my room.

No, apart from my weekly meetings with Mister Montague and my chess nights, I am alone. A hidden character in Monterrey Castle’s scene. Even the brotherhood hasn’t sent me any invitations anymore, for which I’m both disappointed and grateful. Because I know it won’t last.

Punishment.

The prison won’t let me talk to Dad much. Barely one out of three times when I call, they’ll put him on the phone. It’s for my own safety, they say, though they have agreed to give me updates on Dad. He hasn’t been doing well mentally, and outbursts of violence—though no one will provide me detailed information on those—are the reason we are not allowed to speak with each other at the moment.

He doesn’t understand anymore why he’s been put in that hellish place, fights it with claws and teeth. If that doesn’t break my heart. For him, and for myself. He’s angry with me, I know it.

I’ve let him down.

All those years of neglect.

Get in there.

Dad…

“Espèce de merde.”

Please don’t stop loving me.

Thoughts corrupt my mind as I make my way through the woods early in the evening, my backpack filled with food and books.

I miss Dad. Continue his punishments to keep his memory alive.

Do I make you proud?

When I finally make it toward the stables, it’s already dark outside, despite it being barely six in the late afternoon. Checking my surroundings to make sure I’m still on my own, Ilight a candle. It might be cold here, but it’s dry, and quiet. There are still no horses, but then again, not every student has a private horse. Typical for an elite school to have the facilities nevertheless.

Dropping my backpack onto the cold, stone floor, I continue where I left off yesterday, decorating the enclosure as much as I can with my leaves and twigs. It doesn’t look as protected as the one I had at home, but it’s better than nothing.

When I’m finally convinced, I carefully crawl inside and let cool metal freeze the clothed skin of my elbows and knees.

Yes. The feeling makes my eyes sting. This is home.

When I pick up my phone to dial the familiar number, part of me hopes they will refuse to let me speak to him. Part of me wants to hear his voice.

“Espèce de merde.”

Because I’m afraid. Of him. I guess I always have been, ever since my mother left me there. Alone.

Tightening my hand around the iron bar, I squeeze my other hand around the phone, my forefinger drawing a pattern on my temple.

Dad can’t come to the phone. I listen to the brief overview of his week from the guards while exhaling air on a slow whoosh. When I hang up, I just sit there, nothing more than a huddled shiver, as disappointment swallows me whole. I shouldn’t be here. Yet, I am. I shouldn’t stay here. Yet, I do.

It brings me down. Night after night I find myself in my iron den, juggling between early morning library sessions, school, and total avoidance of everyone. I pretend to myself it’s okay, that I’m okay. My grades are fantastic, my sessions with Monsieur Montague fruitful, the start of my presentation hopeful. My counselor insists we talk more about my past, but I don’t want to. Not with him. Not with anyone.

But no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to beat my craving for intimacy. And it certainly can’t beat the self-loathing I feelbecause I desire that intimacy. But it’s there, screaming the words in my head.

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