Shadowed

XIII. Feared and Loved

I'm sprawled on the dirty floor, my hair falling back over my eyes and my arms cradling my knees. We realized, pretty quickly, that there's absolutely nothing to do in this bare, squalid room. None of us are too willing to go out and face Donovan just yet. So I've done what I do best—sinking back into my own thoughts, letting the physical world fade and blur into something more fulfilling, less evil.

I inhale through my nose and grimace. Every time I think I'm used to this goddamn smell, it envelopes me again like a memory I'm better off forgetting.

I turn my eyes to Drew, leaned up against the back wall staring off into space. His face only grows more troubled as time goes on.

Maya stirs from her spot on the floor and studies her leg. The bandages that wrap around it are filthy and stained dark red.

Cautiously, she hooks her fingers under the cloth and pulls, clenching her jaw in an effort to conceal her pain. The bandage comes off promptly, and the metallic scent of blood fills the air.

"Dammit," she mutters, examining the wound with a half-disgusted awe. I steal a glance. 

Angella's knife sliced right through the fabric of her pants, and the red-stained, fraying hole frames the wound. It's a clean line, the edges pointed and oozing fine droplets of blood.

Drew cranes his neck over and winces. 

"Shit, Maya," he says, "it looks bad."

She turns toward him, gingerly shifting her weight onto her good leg, the pain clouding her features.

"Yeah, it hurts, too," she says through gritted teeth.

"Why'd you take the bandage off?" Drew asks, quickly moving up next to Maya so he can get a better look at her wound.

She hesitates, and her eyes, still piercing, drift away from Drew's and onto the floor.

"I don't know," she finally says, fingering the soiled wrap with a shaking hand. She's in more pain than she wants to let on. It's all there, written in the line of her clenched jaw, her sharp, strained breaths, the way she moves, as if she's made of fine glass and could break any second.

He sighs, taking the dirty bandage from her grip, and I get a closer look at his hands. Thin scars crisscross the palms and the backs, and his sleeve falls up, revealing a trail climbing his arm. Both thumbs are gone, an angry mark where they should be, and his remaining fingers—only five between both hands—tremble as they wrap around the cloth unsteadily. 

Old wounds, I decide, but no less painful.

He struggles to tear the bloodstained section from the fabric, and his eyes flick over to me, on the floor, the silent witness.

"Can you help me out?" he asks quietly, his cheeks flushing, and when his gaze meets mine, I notice his green eyes are streaked through with blue. They're as vibrant as deep pools, the ones you'd dare to jump into, holding your breath and plummeting towards the bottom, yearning for that moment your foot hit the ground and you could swim up and brag that you did it. 

But they were always deeper than you could fathom, and you'd end up pushing off of nothing, desperately kicking at the cruel water as the air in your lungs ran low and the surface looked as high above you as ever. 

You'd come up spluttering, gasping for breath, too shaken to lie that of course you made it all the way to the bottom, because there was a moment, down there in the vivid blue-green depths, when you thought you were going to die.

"Rowan?" he says, and I can hear his uncertainty when he says my name.

It barely registers, as I realize I've been staring into his eyes. Drowning in the pools.