"𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑, 𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐑, 𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄.
𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍' 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐀 𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐑𝐄."
𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐉𝐀𝐇 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐆𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐘
is surrounded by liars and is totally oblivious
to the supernatural world closing in on him.
Me...
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ELI STARED AT THE CRIMSON CRESCENT MOON SCABS ON HIS PALMS. The wounds were slowly healing. They had only just stopped reopening whenever he picked up a lacrosse stick, yet the scabs protruded from his palm, covering the blood eager to seep out. He ran a finger over his left palm, the skin no longer smooth, but bumpy and tough. Although he didn't need a reminder, the scabs were a constant reminder of the text message that already reigned over his every thought.
Since the 'incident' earlier that week, Eli's phone was a piece of dead weight in his pocket, weighing down his heart and his mood. His typical smile and upbeat attitude were washed away, trapped and drowning beneath the thrashing current of a deadly ocean. As far as he was concerned, everything that made Eli Eli was dead.
Eli didn't like feeling this way. He didn't like feeling drained of energy and he didn't like not being unequivocally Elijah Montgomery. Right now as he lay on his bed staring at the popcorn ceiling above and thinking of why his sister abandoned him, Eli felt numb, detached, nothing. It was like it was once again the weeks after Abby left. In which tears and anger had washed away, leaving Eli in a state of numbness — a state of feeling empty. He questioned why his sister ran away, running every plausible reason ten times over.
None of them were good enough.
Nothing was good enough.
Why could Abby leave when no plausible reason was good enough?
He counted the scabs on his left palm. Three of them. Ironically, the worst scab came from his ring finger. There's a belief that a vein connects the ring finger to the heart — a direct connection to love and heartbreak.
"Hey, Eli," Aunt Sam greeted, popping her head through Eli's door. Binks, their overenergetic and snippy chihuahua paced at her feet. "Wanna help me bake some blueberry muffins?"
His gaze remained fixed on the popcorn ceiling, Aunt Sam's words barely registering as sounds in his ears.
"No."
The single and firm word came out as a whisper, nearly becoming lost in the deafening silence reigning over his room.
A soft, sad sigh fell from Aunt Sam's lips.
"Do you want to talk? About what happened?" She asked, worry heavy on her tongue. "If you tell me, maybe I can help."
It wouldn't. It would only reopen the unhealed wound on Aunt Sam's heart, pressing salt into her flesh. He couldn't do that. He wouldn't do it. Aunt Sam didn't deserve it.
"It's nothing."
. . .
ELI SLAMMED HIS LOCKER SHUT WITH HIS AP CALCULUS TEXTBOOK TUCKED BENEATH HIS ARM. The clanging of metal against metal faded into the sea of noise, muffled by students chatting amongst one another and heavy footsteps. Eli came face to face with a tall, dark-haired man. With his leather jacket and stone-cold expression, the early twenty-something guy was intimidating (and hot!). Albeit the thin layer of sweat on his skin and the sickly colour clinging to him lessened his threatening demeanour.
