As he plays, I notice that his eyes are closed and he’s not even looking at the sheet music in front of him. He must have this song memorized. I want to close my eyes and let the lilting song that reminds me of a lullaby, pull me into a deep trance, but I don’t. Because I can’t take my eyes off Elijah.
His eyes bunch tighter, his brow is creased, and his lips are pressed into a firm line. A violin rests in the crook of his neck, and he moves with the melody, sliding the bow across the stringed instrument so gracefully and so elegantly that witnessing him like this brings tears to my eyes.
I’m moved.
Awestruck.
I can’t find words.
I’ve never seen him like this.
He’s caught up in the notes.
Lost in the moment.
I notice that music is hypnotic to him and as he creates more, he inhales a breath like the notes are a delicious feast and he’s going to chew them slowly, savoring every last flavor burst before they slide down the back of his throat to the pit of his stomach. His jaw tenses when the song hits a crescendo and even though I tell myself not to, I move forward. I gently push the door to his study open, stepping into the dim light and moving closer to skilled violinist before me.
Closing my eyes, I throw my head back and wait for more music to fill my ears and wait for my subconscious mind to start dancing in a waltz-like fashion. Then suddenly, the music cuts out and my eyes snap open to see a frustrated and confused looking Elijah Watson. I stare at him. He stares at me. For a whole five minutes we exchange awkward glances. Then finally, I say gasping, “You’re beautiful,” then I feel the slightest bit flustered so I add, “I mean you play beautiful—err—I mean you play beautifully.”
His eyes narrow, scanning my face and he bites the left side of his bottom lip. “What are you doing in here? “There’s a curious yet wary tone to his voice. “I gave you the right wing of the upstairs for a reason.” I know this. He gave me the right wing because he didn’t want me snooping around the left one. But tonight I couldn’t help myself.
He takes a step closer to me, hovering above me, his golden eyes penetrating mine from above. Breath escapes me and I bend backwards as he reaches over my head, grabbing the violin case from the chair behind me. I admire the way the muscles in his abdomen clench and grow taut as he lifts the case cautiously over my head.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize, still partially breathless, “but I had to follow it. You know the music. Canon in D is such a lovely song.” The song cast a spell over me, luring me from my bed and the world of dreams.
“I’m surprised you know it,” he comments with a cocky smirk as he puts the violin into the case, lined with crushed blue velvet. “Most of the women I know are into more of the modern music.”
I want to tell him that I’m probably not like most of the women he knows, but I don’t. Instead I say, “I know all the classics. It is my favorite genre of music.” I think back to a few of the times where Daddy was at work and I had the classical station on. I think of how’d I close my eyes and pretend I was playing some sort of instrument; the piano, cello, it really didn’t matter, and perform my household duties, stopping in between to play my fake instrument. Aside from my memories with Damien those were some of the fondest memories of my childhood.
“It’s mine as well,” Elijah blurts as he fastens the metal snaps on the violin case.
I frown, staring at the closed up case, wishing he would take the wooden instrument out and play more, but I decide to examine the contents in his study instead. “So how long have you been playing?” I walk over to the shelf of books that spans across the wall and glide the tips of my fingers over the polished cherry wood.
“Since I was eight,” he answers. “I spent three years playing the piano before that and hated it. Just before I turned eight, I asked my mother if I could play the violin instead, being that she insisted that I play an instrument. Of course I’m sure she preferred that I continued with the piano,” he sighs, “but I’ve always been a fan of the instruments with strings. I play the guitar as well.”
I steal a glance at him from over my shoulder. His eyes follow me, touching my bare shoulders as I move down the shelf to the edge of the room. “Do you know any other songs?” I ask. “For the violin, I mean.”
“Several.”
“Can you play me another?”
“It’s after midnight. Aren’t you tired?”
“No.” I stop at the end of the massive cherry wood desk in the back of the study. The desk is wide and vaguely reminds me of a bed. Next to the desk is what I assume to me an antique globe. The colors on it are creams, browns, and almonds and they are all muted with age. “Can you play Claire de Lune?” I ask, placing my forefinger against the round orb. “It’s my all-time favorite.”
I can feel his presence behind me. I feel his warm breath trail down the back of my neck. Then he utters is a low voice, “Sadly no. It’s a brilliant and beautiful song, but it was composed for the piano. I’m sure I could play it if I attempted it, but I don’t think it would sound the same.” His fingers slide up my shoulders and I turn, facing him. His eyes sweep from my light purple satin nightgown back to my face. “Lavender is a good color on you.” His eyes are smoldering, filled with a blaze of lust. I shiver as I look into them. “It really brings out the violet flecks in your eyes.”
My back presses into the sturdy desk and he leans in closer. “Thank you,” I whisper modestly. I drop my gaze to his hips, noticing the indents of muscle and then I look away, trying to conceal the red flushing my cheeks. “So you're not angry with me then?”
“No,” he breathes. His breath fans across my face adding more warmth to my already overheated face and I when I open my mouth I taste his cool, minty mouth wash. “Why would I be angry?”
“Because I didn’t think you ever wanted me to come in here,” I say, but I won’t look into his eyes. I know if I do I won’t be able to look away.
“I didn’t.” He moves closer, his hands sliding up my back and over my shoulders, his long fingers skimming my collar bone. His lips are warm and moist against my ear, his breath hot. “But let’s just say that I've had a change of heart.”
“A change of heart.” I flash him an icy glare. “Funny. I wasn't aware you had one.” He did tell me once that he wasn’t capable of love and devotion. To me a person like that would be missing one important organ.
He narrows his eyes and smirks. “That's not funny.”
“It wasn't meant to be.” Now he looks hurt. But the hurt look fades instantly when his fingers roam and he starts fiddling with the thin straps on my nightgown.
He's got a carnal look in his eye. I know that look. I've witnessed it dozens of times and I know what happens after it. “God.” His voice is husky, needy. “Why do you do this to me?”
I play innocent. “Do what?”
“It's like every time you’re near I have to hold myself back.”
“From?” I probe.
“Nothing.” He drops his hands and averts his attention to one of the book shelves. “Never mind.” He backs up off me and extends his hand. “Come, Adelaide. I’ll walk you back to your room.”
I take his hand and he guides me out of his study. A sinking feeling circles my gut as he closes the door. A flutter in my heart accompanies the sinking feeling.
I know this feeling.
I know it all too well.
I’ve felt it before.
It feels like you’re falling from a cliff. The air is sucked from your lungs and your stomach bottoms out. Your heart won’t stop racing and your skin puckers at the thought of someone wrapping their arms around you.
Yes, I know this feeling.
I know that I’m falling for Elijah Watson.
And I pray that I don’t lose someone I’ve fallen for a second time.
Chapter Twenty Five
~Before~
Damien has started fading.
He’s like a picture on a television screen.
He keeps flickering in and out of focus and I wish I could turn his dial and change the channel.
He’s stopped pacing and screaming.
But I haven’t stopped crying.
I keep my sobs low. My back to him. And my nose in the corner between two white padded walls. Squeaking rings out in my cell as Damien takes a seat on my mattress. His breaths are strained and mixed with an occasional grunt so that tells me he’s still in a bad mood. “Are you going to come and sit next to me, Addy?” His voice is raspy and terrifying. I shake my head as more tears blur my vision and I stare at a wall so white white white. “Of course not,” he scoffs. “What am I not good enough for you now? Is that it?” He lets out a cackle laced with evil. “Because I thought my mother made it clear that you were the one who was trash?”
His words strangle me. They slice me open and more blood pours from my already bleeding heart. “Go away,” I whisper. That’s the only thing I can say. It’s all I can do. Because I have the upper hand here. I am living.
Even though the words hurt and stab through me, repeatedly, I know he’s not really saying them. I know it’s my mind reminding me of the things I thought right after he died.
I thought about Marlena and the way she told me I’d never be good enough for her son. I thought about how I know she’s always going to blame me for his death. I wish I could tell her that hating me and saying nasty things about me isn’t going to be any different from the things I tell myself every God damned day. And I wish I could tell her that hating me and saying nasty things isn’t going to bring him back.
I try to remember the last time I took one of my pills and how long the side effects last for. Hours? Days? I can’t really be sure. Sometimes I wonder if Damien has always had this side of him or if this is just another screwed up attribute added to my hallucination of him.
I’m glad he’s not alive so I won’t have to find out.
The coils on my mattress squeak again and I know Damien is standing behind me. His breathing is level now. I think he’s probably calmed down. “Just come say goodbye to me, Addy.” I know he realizes he’s fading now, too. “Just come say goodbye to me before I go.”
At first I hesitate. I’m thinking that perhaps he might be trying to trick me. When minutes pass and he continues begging, I hop to my feet and turn to face him, my eyes still closed.
There are words swelling in my ear, “It was always you. It would have always been you.” I swallow the lump in my throat as tears drip off my chin. There’s a kiss of frost against my cheek.
My eyes snap open.
A tear drizzles down Damien’s cheek. “I’m sorry. I love you,” he cries. I reach out to touch him. But then, it’s like a giant vacuum has sucked him from the room. My door opens and the suction rips him right through the door.
I’m beside myself.
My mind goes wild.
Crazy.
I’m running down the hall after the invisible boy I loved shrieking like a banshee.
Damien! Damien! I’m sorry I told you to go away. I didn’t mean it I swear. Come back! Please! Come back!
I know he’s not coming back.
I know I’ll never see him again.
And even though I thought I wanted him to go away, now I’m not so sure.
I come to an abrupt stop at the end of the hall. Marjorie stands before me, an evil scowl curled on her lips, a straightjacket clutched in her right hand. “Somebody is being disruptive,” she snarls in her low, man-like voice. I pivot and try to run, but Marjorie’s free hand clamps down around the collar of my hospital gown. On her knees, she presses my face into the cold, hard floor and begins to strap me in. I sob. I sob hard. Marjorie jerks me up by the arm and escorts me back to my room. She tosses me in my cell, locks the door, peeks through the little window on my metal door, and says, “Sweet dreams.”
Then she’s gone.
And in her wake is an echoing laugh of evil.
And all I can think about is how being alone is pressing on my chest. Squeezing the air from my lungs. My eyes instantly avert to the cot where Damien sits, but he’s not there. I hit my knees. I keep reminding myself that Damien going away is for the best. That even though it hurts I know it has to be this way. Otherwise, I’ll be stuck in Oakhill forever as a prisoner of my past.
I lie back on my cot as reality sets in and my eyes start to dry up.
Then I smell something.
I sit up and inhale deeply. It’s a charred musky scent.
Smoke.
I smell smoke.
Chapter Twenty Six
~After~
I wake up to the sound of screams. Still groggy, I stifle a look around my darkened room, wondering if I might have been the one screaming, but then it comes to me. It’s not me.
Elijah's tortured howls of pain throb in my brain.
No...
Don't...
I keep telling myself that I should ignore them. That I should wrap my pillow around my head and hope that action muffles the anguish in his deep voice, but I can't. I think of some of my nightmares. I think of the ones I had about Mommy after she left.
I'd cry in my tiny, child-like voice waiting for Daddy come in and comfort me.
But he didn't comfort me.
He'd open my bedroom door and shout, “Either you shut up, or I'll shut you up! “I remember the nights after that where I'd dream and wake up crying, only to smother my sobs with my pillow in fear of waking the hideous beast in the room next to mine and ask Mommy why? Why did you leave? Why didn't you take me too? I know you loved me so why did you leave me with him?
Another bludgeoning howl cuts into my quiet thoughts.
Slipping out of bed, I tiptoe to my bedroom door. I know Elijah wouldn't want this. He wouldn't want me to come to him, while he's dreaming of what I assume are ravenous and wicked ways of the past. But I know that when I was in his shoes, that's all I wanted. All I wanted was comfort. And warm arms. And loving words. All I wanted was to know someone was there.
To care.
To watch over me.
To keep me away from daddy and away from the forceful blow from his fist.
I know where Elijah’s bedroom is, but I’ve never been inside of it. Three doors down from his study, I can still hear the pain in his voice as it seeps through the walls. Pushing softly on the door, I step into the dark bedroom and close the door behind me. Elijah is twisted beneath his white cotton sheets, his jaw clenched, hands balled into fists. One of the lamps on the bedside table is on and my eyes center on the contours of his bare, muscled chest as the shadows dance along the ridges.
He screams again, thrashing.
I go to him.
Slide into bed next to him.
Pull him to my chest and wrap my arms around him.
Whisper, “Shhh,” into his ear.
He relaxes and his limbs slack beneath my arms. I can’t see him clearly, but my fingers skim over the hard lines of his face and my chin rests just above his golden waves. I rock him in my arms like he’s my child, relief overwhelming me as his howls twist from sobs to whimpers. Then I hear it. It cuts into the darkness like Jack the Ripper on Durwood Street.
I hear it just as it leaves his lips.
My name.
“Adelaide,” his voice shakes and I feel him tense beneath my fingertips.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I’m here.”
He tries to sit up, but I tighten my hold around him. He struggles, wiggling to try and get me to loosen my grip. “You need to go back to your room.” He raises his voice, but its level. “You shouldn’t have come in here.”
My fingers fan across his face and I know we’re looking into each other’s eyes. “You were screaming.” I touch his eyelashes. His lips. “Your cries were heart-wrenching. I had to do something.”
He manages to pull away from me and sits on the side of the bed, his elbows to his knees, and his head in his hands. “I never wanted anyone to see me like that.”
A sob gets stuck in my
throat and my emotions are all mixed up. I want to comfort him. I want to lie here with him and hold him all night long, but at the same time I can’t understand why in God’s name this man is so ashamed of his nightmares. “I don’t understand,” I say and place my hand against his shoulder. “Everyone has nightmares, Elijah. They’re nothing to be ashamed of.” For eight years I felt like I was living in one and I got through it.
He stands and paces next to the bed. “Not like mine, Adelaide. My nightmares aren’t normal.” He faces me, hands on his hips, waves of amber eyes washing over my face. “I break things. Scream. I’m violent. I could hurt someone. I could hurt you.”
I don’t care what he says. “I know you won’t hurt me, Elijah.” I pat the empty spot next to me. “Come lie down. We can talk about it.”
He shakes his head and continues pacing. He runs a hand through his hair. “Can you imagine what people would think of such a weak man?” he scoffs. “I sob in my sleep. How could I ever have a normal relationship? No one would understand. No woman would understand. They’d run Adelaide.” His eyes find mine again. “Why aren’t you running? Why aren’t you afraid?”
I slip out of bed and lace my fingers through his. “I’ll never run,” I say honestly. A soft smile curls on my lips and massage the crook between his thumb and forefinger with mine. “Even if I had somewhere else to go, I wouldn’t run.”
“Why? Most women would?” His voice cracks. “I’ve had these dreams since my father died. He wasn’t…He wasn’t…” He stutters. “He wasn’t exactly what you’d call a kind man.” Something tells me that even though he puts up a hard front on the outside, Elijah is just as broken as I was and still am in some ways on the inside. Something else tells me that we me just be what each other needs to keep each other from falling apart. “My mother died when I was twelve. My father lost it after that. He blamed me for her death. You see, I stepped out in front of a car and my mother pushed me out of the way. The car hit her and she died on impact. That’s part of the reason I became a doctor. I sat there in the middle of the street with her wrapped in my arms. I tried to save her, Adelaide. I tried to give her CPR. I tried to pump the life back into her.” His voice cracks and he plops down on the bed. His chest vibrates and I hold him, trying to stop the shaking. “I couldn’t save her, Adelaide. I couldn’t save her and I’ll never forget it. I relive that moment every night in my dreams and I relive the way my father treated me after.” He clears his throat and his gaze drops to his hands. “He used to lock me in a closet. A small, square storage cubby. He used to tell me it was because I was bad, but I knew better. I knew he locked me in there because I reminded him of her. And because I was a constant reminder of the day she died.”
WHITE WALLS FINAL Ebook Page 13