One Silver Coin For a Pound of Demon

Chapter 31

Draft
_____

Lemuel folds his arms, his claws sink into skin. He turns sharply, striding towards you, and pauses briefly in front of you, as if he doesn't know what to do, or isn't sure if he wanted to do it. You look at him, he looks into your eyes, and he makes a decision.

Lemuel spreads his arms and hugs you.

What do you think he's going to say, shake you or tap you on the shoulder, give feedback on what you told him?  You cut yourself open for Lemuel with a little apprehension, waiting for him to judge. And he doesn't say a word about your story, his lips are white, and those strong hands grab you and press you to his chest, hugging you tightly. It's only then that you vaguely realize that it's not just anger that made him fidget. Beneath that anger lies a less visible fear.

Lemuel hugs you tightly, his chest is against yours, and you can feel his heart pounding. His heart beats against your ribs, his skin warms your skin, the simmering blood under warms your blood. He's gripping so hard, it's as if he'll fall if he lets go, or maybe it's you who's falling. Lemuel hugs you and hides you in his arms.

You don't remember being hugged by anyone.

You have hugged others, when necessary. You picked up the wounded and the children who couldn't walk, you graciously opened your arms to the believers, and uttered clichés unintentionally. A hug is both a comfort and forgiveness, and you need neither comfort nor forgiveness. Your conduct is impeccable, your morals are impeccable, everyone thinks so. Since you've learned how to walk, no one has held your hand, no one has extended a hand to you. Father Enoch, Son Enoch, who will embrace you? Who is qualified to hug you?

Lemuel hugs you like a scorching sun.

Light and heat explode in your mind, and with a buzzing sound, your thoughts become scattered into the chaos. You think of apples, of the breeze by the window, of the kiss on a forehead, the nun's lips dry and warm. A pair of hands, holding you gently, shaking. Songs in your ears, hymns, lullabies, go to sleep, go to sleep my darling... the fragments scattered in the corners of your memory sweep up with a boom, like an explosion, like a light from heaven. How warm, how warm, tears suddenly come and fall on Lemuel's shoulders.

"What?" Lemuel says in horror, "What?"

He's startled by your tears, wanting to let go and back up. You hold on tight. If he retreats, you move forward, your hand on his, your chin on his neck like a big dog seeking skinship. Lemuel finally gives up and tolerates you, but turns his head frequently and asks if you're fine. Are you fine? You do not know. Your nose is sore, your eye feel hot, and your throat sounds like it's been stuffed with cotton. You don't know what's wrong with you. You open your mouth and language melts the unorganized words in your head, when you finally spit them out, they also sound gooey.

"I..." You say abruptly, "My father is dead."

Brother Ian has already died. He's been dead for five years, nearly six, why are you crying now? Incomprehensible, hilarious, but Lemuel doesn't laugh. He doesn't say a word and pats you on the back, so that you know he understands you. You aren't injured, nothing bad has happened, but turbulent emotions roar past at this moment, and you burst into tears like you had suffered great grievances.

"You're so nice," You say.

You're choking, you're sobbing, your voice is like a crumpled, well-shredded paper, but you're still talking. Because Lemuel is so good. Lemuel sighs in your ear, "You're sick," He says, bowing his head and kissing your shoulder.

You stick together like weirdly conjoined twins. You stick together for more than half an hour, or maybe more than an hour, you're not clear. Your brain is blank, like it's been emptied, like a newborn's. It's getting darker and darker, you should turn on the lights, but you don't want to move. The darkness and warmth seem to lull you back into when you were in your mother's body, making you feel safe and at ease.