To Be Free (6 page)

I bite my lower lip, my hand
twitching with an urge I try to ignore while the man near me slowly
suffocates in his own self-depreciating hatred. Sighing internally,
I carefully stand and sit back down beside him, by his right hip,
and carefully touch his forearm thrown over his eyes as if he's a
live wire. He stops breathing altogether.

"I'm terrible at consoling
people," I tell him, and he cautiously starts breathing again,
tense. "Something happened to me when I was thirteen and it
stretched out until I was seventeen, something so horrible I have
nightmares about it and just thinking about it sends me into a cold
panic. I don't know how to put into words the things I try to say,
so I let my actions speak instead; but... I know. I know the pain
of hating yourself so much you stare at a knife and press it to
your skin, wonder if it'll be quick enough for it to be
painless."

Quinn removes his arm
carefully, watching me, and I want to look away but I somehow hold
his red-eyed gaze, hand resting carefully on his shoulder. Every
angle around us is brought into sharp relief, a blue light bathing
the ethereal scene as the wind howls outside, threatening to knock
the walls down around us.

"I used to
stay up nights on end, crying myself to sleep because it
hurt
to be alive, it
hurt to think and it hurt to breathe. I'd stop eating for days and
be admitted to the hospital when I got too weak, and I never wanted
to leave 'cause it meant going back into hell. I didn't talk and I
tried killing myself, I tried
so many
times
I've lost count." I pull back the
sleeve of my left arm, showing him the scars. His eyes fall from
mine to the markings I've carved into my skin, and they widen at
the sight before snapping back up to me. I fix my sleeve as I hold
the gaze again. "No one knew of the pain, I stopped thinking and
stopped feeling - I became a shell until I snapped. The day I
snapped is the day I left that hell, but I entered a new one when I
came here and was taken away from home about a year later, when
they realized my trauma not only completely changed who I was, but
reinforced my aversion to women."

Slowly he sits up, leaning
against his left hand as he continues to watch me. I smile as best
as I can through the shaky anxiety growing, the cold claws running
down my back at the memory.

Quinn seems
to see that, the growing panic, because he reaches for me, pulls me
against him and we fall back down onto the bed. I can only see his
neck, his chin pressed against the top of my head, and although the
urge to push him away surges so violently I see stars, I ignore it.
Instead I close my eyes and pretend I'm somewhere else, the smell
of rain, dust and something distinctly
Quinn
in my nose.

He starts humming a song, one I
don't know, and it pushes the anxiety away with every tremor. The
rain pounding on the roof adds to the lullaby and I feel myself
falling even more into a trance, and with the comforting weight of
an arm around my waist to hold me there I give in.

I couldn't have fought it even
if I'd've tried.

• A Two-Way
  Mirror Only Reflects the Image you Project
  

QUINN

The last thing I'd intended to
do was fall asleep with him like that, but after running for hours
on end and allowing your body to start relaxing, you kind of don't
get to decide. Sebastian - God that's such a mouthful; I'll have to
ask him about a nickname - looked ready to pass out, so it's not
like I could really help it. He looked petrified.

After detangling our limbs and
slipping out of the warm grip of the clingy fucker, I pull off my
cloak and place it over him like some sort of makeshift blanket,
though the chill of the morning sneaks up on me almost as soon as
its warm embrace is off my shoulders. The man unconsciously pulls
it up to his chin, curling up a little, and that makes the cold a
bit more bearable.

He always
looks so angry, yet like this... he looks so peaceful. So calm and
happy. I sit on the edge of the bed a moment, watching him as his
chest rises and falls gently and he snores
very
lightly.

The notion makes me smile, but
the smile fades when I notice the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Carefully I press the back of my hand to it, realizing how hot it
actually is, and swear softly.

The idiot caught a cold. No
wonder it felt as if I was clutching a furnace.

Sighing, I get up and carefully
peer out the door to ensure there's no one around, and when I'm
satisfied I quickly make my way to the back of the lodge for
another first aid kid, bringing it back and rummaging through the
bulky thing for some medicine he could take. After coming back
victorious I place it on the bedside table along with the white
box, looking to the man to gauge how asleep he is.

He's pretty out of it, so I get
up and slip into the bathroom to shower and take care of business,
so to speak. I crank up the heat of the water to as hot as I can
manage, stand underneath the merciless liquid with my forehead
pressed to the shower wall, and think.

I think about the words he told
me, and the pain that graced his features when he begun talking
about it - that was the look of a man who'd wished to die with all
his heart but was never granted such a wish. A man who'd given up
and was offered hope again, only to have it ripped from his grasp
and shattered in the process. A man who couldn't trust another soul
without losing his mind.

I also think about Kenny a bit,
something I'm ashamed to admit I haven't done in a long time. My
memory fails me the way a human's mind is flawed, and I can't quite
picture his face nor remember his voice, but I remember that night
with frightening clarity.

He looked so scared. As if he
thought I'd kill him myself, and he fully hoped I would - as this
dystopian society brought us up to believe we had to die if we were
even remotely gay or anything other than heterosexual Christians.
If we skipped Church on Sundays and if we swore using God's name we
were the scum of society, and those who oppressed others were
heroes. Those who killed our own in the name of God were those we
looked up to.

Kenny had looked so broken in
front of me, and what else could I have done? I reassured him in
the only way I knew how, told him that didn't make him any less of
a man in my eyes, and when he looked up and our eyes met, I
couldn't have fought the urge to kiss him even if it meant I
wouldn't be here today.

I wonder what would've happened
if he'd pushed me away instead of pulled me closer. How fate
would've played out.

It's really,
really hard growing up,
I muse, opening my
eyes and looking at the tile inches from my nose.
It's hard and no one understands.

I wash up and get out,
towelling myself dry as best as I can before slipping the boxers
and suit back on, zipping it up to my Adam's apple and making a
face as I adjust to the constricting material. Sure, it moves well;
but it takes a moment to get used to.

Plucking one of the
complementary toothbrushes from the sink I make good use of it,
spitting out the foam and leaving the steamy bathroom, glad the
plumbing still works even though it's closed for the season.

Nine looks as if he's in a
nightmare, his face contorted in pain and his breathing irregular.
I leave the towel at the foot of the bed and climb up until I'm
beside him, pushing sweat-soaked, dirty strands from his face. He
curls up a little in the famous fatal position, as if trying to
protect himself, and I decide then it's best to wake him up.

"Wake up," I call, shaking his
shoulder slightly. His hand lashes out and grabs my wrist so
tightly my fingers go numb within moments, and gritting my teeth I
take my other hand to push him onto his back, shaking him.
"Sebastian! Come on, wake up!"

He shouts a single phrase that
chills my blood:

"
Get away from
me!
"

I don't move for a second, lips
parted as I watch his face contort and his eyelids flutter with how
tightly they're closed. His own chapped lips are parted and he's
breathing hard, tears escaping his eyes and running down the sides
of his face.

Something happened to me when I
was thirteen and it stretched out until I was seventeen, something
so horrible I have nightmares about it and just thinking about it
sends me into a cold panic.

"
Please
,
stop." This he says in such a pained, pleading voice that it makes
my breath catch, that tone a sound capable of breaking any heart.
His hold is loose on my wrist now, and I decide that shaking him
won't work.

Besides, after hearing that
tone, in a voice I've only heard sigh in exasperation and scoff in
derision... God, it's not a sound that voice should ever make.

Instead I carefully pull his
head onto my lap, remembering something I used to do to Annie when
she'd have trouble sleeping. I mindlessly smooth his hair from his
face, the strands in dire need of a wash, and I start singing a
lullaby. Annie's favourite, from an old game we found in the attic
that somehow still worked.

Once we heard it she wanted me
to see if the song had any lyrics to it, and I'd found an old audio
file from the beginning of the twenty-first century with what she
wanted. She never wanted me to sing anything else for her - just
that song, and it's the same one I sang when her beloved cat 'went
to sleep' in her arms.

I sing softly, closing my eyes
and carding my hands idly through his hair, fine strands parting
through my fingers. They're soft, surprisingly so, despite the lack
of attention in the last few years. Maybe because of the rain.

When I reach the end of the
lullaby, I open my eyes and look down, to see his uncanny eyes
looking back at me and an eyebrow arched. There's no sarcasm in the
gesture, though; only honest curiosity.

"I didn't know you could sing,"
he muses quietly, the breath of a whisper; and like a breath, it's
as if that's all that's keeping him alive. Smiling down at him, my
fingers resume their trek.

"There's a lot you don't know
about me," I offer easily, and he nods a little, offering me that.
"My little sister would have me sing her to sleep when she had
nightmares; she'd lie in my bed with me and I'd sing to her. It's
her favourite lullaby."

"It's nice," he admits,
returning the smile sleepily. "Was I... having a nightmare?" I nod
at his question, and he sighs, breaking my gaze and looking towards
the blinds hinting at daylight. "I'm sorry, Quinn, but... thank
you. I don't quite remember what I was dreaming about, which is a
first and is honestly welcome."

Reaching for the damp towel at
the foot of the bed, I press it to his forehead. He visibly relaxes
as he sighs, closing his eyes.

"You have a fever," I note, and
he nods as if he expected as much. "I found some medication you can
take, and you should probably shower, too."

"In a minute," he replies
sleepily. "I haven't felt this as ease since... since I was
three."

My eyes widen remarkably, and
he's talking again before I can get over my shock.

"It's because of the women my
father dated after my mother died when I was three," he states
quietly, and I carefully run the damp towel along his face and the
visible part of his neck before it hides behind the collar of the
suit. He's smiling, looking as peaceful as when he was asleep -
then again, he's half delirious with a fever. "They didn't like me
and belittled me when he wasn't around. Some beat me and others
locked me in my room for hours, and some just ignored me. He found
one he settled with and married when I was eleven, and she was
okay. I was... not happy, but not uncomfortable with her,
either.

"Then I
met
her
when I
was thirteen, and things went to hell."

He stops there, going no
further, and I don't prompt any more information. I just wipe the
sweat from his face and let him relax; something I'm sure he hasn't
done in a long, long time.

"We should probably get
moving," he remarks after some time, the words slurred slightly. I
realize then that he was on the verge of falling asleep, and for
some reason the thought makes me smile. "We need to get further
from the facility before they sanction off the nearest hundred
miles."

"We can't go
anywhere while you're like this," I counter, and he looks up at me,
ready to protest; but I manage to meet his gaze and not flinch, for
once. "You have a fever and I'm sure you're well aware that it's
a
bad
idea to
leave a safe place until you at least break
that
."

"That could
take
weeks!
" he
protests, and I press the towel over his eyes, scowling.

"Not if you take the medication
I can scrounge up and you rest. This isn't the optimal location to
treat any sickness of any sort, but it'll have to do." The man
sighs in defeat, relaxing against me and frowning. I laugh at his
childish demeanour. "Get your ass in the shower and I'll get us
something to eat, alright?"

Nodding, he carefully pulls
himself up to his feet, swaying slightly before shaking his head to
clear it. Without a word the man slips into the bathroom and shuts
the door quietly, and for a moment I watch the wooden door without
really doing anything. Not thinking or anything; just looking.

With a sigh I stand as well,
leaving the room behind and exploring beyond the reaches we've been
through already. As this is a lodge (however small) there should be
a kitchen or a dining hall, and after skirting past a staircase
that leads up to a second floor of bedrooms I find what I'm looking
for: the entrance to a cafe-like dining hall that still somehow has
that distinct woodland feel to it. The circular tables and chairs
are made of wood and gas lamps hang from the ceiling the way
they've been doing in every room thus far - keeping with the theme,
no doubt - and three empty buffet tables sit close to a little bar
and the door leading to the kitchen.