Three Means 1

Chapter 5: The Letter and the Scar

    Dulce's morning unfolded in a tranquil hush as the twins departed without a stir, granting her a serene solitude for preparing breakfast. Regrettably, the fried eggs, in their culinary betrayal, manifested a liquidity contrary to her accustomed precision. Why had this deviation tainted her culinary mastery? Perfection had been her hallmark, especially in crafting flawless fried eggs.

    The perturbation, however, extended beyond the kitchen, winding its tendrils back to the previous night, intertwining with the distressing letter that lurked in the recesses of her mind. A nauseating churn gripped her stomach, intensified by the culinary anomaly. Racing towards the bathroom, she expelled her turmoil into the sink –There, within the cold confines, she succumbed to an involuntary purging, a visceral reaction to both an uncomfortable night and the unforgiving texture of those errant eggs. The sink- a vessel now tainted by the haunting memories of the toothbrush incident. The sink, like her emotions, held a visceral power to induce sickness.

    Once composed and assured that her stomach would no longer rebel, she slipped into a comfortably flowing dress, securing her hair in a carefree ponytail, donning sandals that whispered against the pavement. Clutching the letter, she resolved to depart soon, although reluctant to break ties with the benevolent parents who had placed trust in her.

    On her journey to the mailing center, endless thoughts attacked her.

    "Eliza will surely make matters clear," she mused, fingers tightly clasped around the envelope. "In the worst scenario, she'll accommodate me; it was her idea, after all." A self-convincing refrain echoed in her mind, questioning her apparent rudeness. Eliza's intentions, well-intentioned and unsuspecting of the unfolding drama, offered a glimmer of comfort. After all, the turmoil was of Dulce's own making, a cheater left grappling with her culpability.

A cheater.
A cheater.
Cheater.
Cheater.
Che-

    Her mental echo chamber stopped abruptly as a towering silhouette materialized before her. A man, tall and striking, with dark hair that framed expressive brown eyes – Pierre.

    Their eyes met.

    Pierre, oblivious to her intentions, greeted her with a smile that held warmth despite the horrid night he endured. Endured is the correct word, since he had visible bruises trailing up from his neck to his lips to the corner of his eye. She wondered if they went further down.

    "Dulce," he uttered, the syllables lingering in the air like a delicate dance of notes.

She hesitated and the weight of the unsaid hung between them, a palpable tension that manifested in the charged air of that Parisian moment.

"Pierre," she managed, a soft acknowledgment that betrayed the turmoil beneath her composed exterior. His eyes, expressive and searching, mirrored the emotions she concealed.

The mailing center appeared ahead and Dulce, grappling with the gravity of her decisions, felt a mixture of relief and fear. The letter clutched in her hand, composed to traverse the miles back to Edinburg, carried with it the weight of disclosure.

In a moment of vulnerability, Pierre's hand gently touched hers, but it brushed against the letter she so tightly held.

"What's this?" he questioned. The envelope, once a vessel for confessions, now lay open to inspection.

"Oh, it's just a letter for a friend back home," Dulce replied, hoping he would not inquire further. His eyes scanned it, and an irrational fear settled upon her, fearing he would discover her intent to leave. To her surprise, something entirely different came from his mouth.

    "Listen, Dulce, I apologize deeply for what I put you through last night. It is all my fault. I shouldn't have taken you out by force. I shouldn't have embarrassed you in front of all of those...." He went on, his pleading tone lost on her distracted mind. Her thoughts wandered to his lesions. Was he the only one beaten so badly? How was Arthur? How did they stop fighting? Did Angelo intervene? These questions floated through her mind.

    The cuts on his face, coupled with the dark bruises, rendered his words sadder than they likely were, prompting Dulce to brush her fingers over his wounds, causing him to step back and break the contact.

"Sorry," she said, to which he sighed. "I better get going now. I'll see you later. Angelo will be making dinner."

    Dulce felt a pang of shame. Whatever had transpired the night before had clearly made Pierre decide to keep his distance. She wondered if the letter to Eliza would even be necessary if things with all the men in her life were settled. However, her body was on autopilot, and she sent the letter anyways.

~

    Later that evening, after a fearless stroll around the protests, she returned home before nightfall. The twins had warned her that protests could turn violent at night, and she always kept this caution in mind.

    She could smell the food from the hallway outside but couldn't identify the exact ingredients.

    "I'm back," she whispered, hoping nobody would hear her, but, as always, someone did.

    "Welcome back."

    Dulce jumped at the reply and immediately looked to her right to find Angelo and Pierre together on the sofa.

    "Food is ready, in case you want to try," Angelo said, his hands busy running fingers through Pierre's hair as he lay on Angelo's lap.

    Dulce walked over to them and noticed Pierre's eyes were closed, his expression slightly frowning.

    "Is he okay?" Dulce whispered.

    "He'll be fine. He's just in a bit of pain right now, but he'll get through it," Angelo said confidently.

    "Come here and rub his hair with me. That'll probably make him feel better," Angelo suggested with a cheeky smile.

    Dulce obliged, kneeling in front of them and locking her fingers in Pierre's hair, rubbing the softness slowly. She noticed his bruises again and switched her hand from his hair to his injuries, rubbing them slightly as if it would make them disappear.

    "You know," Angelo started. Dulce looked up at him and waited.

    "Those bruises aren't the only thing hurting him. His heart is hurting," he continued. Dulce's heart clenched, knowing it was because of her.

    She didn't reply. She didn't know what to say to make it better.

    As she rubbed his injuries, pushing his hair out of his face, she noticed a mark on his temple. The mark looked like an old, mostly faded surgery scar.

   "It was not meant to be the three of us, you know? but he really likes you. That's why I asked you not to hurt him. Pierre's pain makes me feel pain too," Angelo said, his voice tinged with a deep connection.

    "We share such a profound bond, a connection that transcends the usual sibling relationship. From our earliest moments, we were bound together in a way you wouldn't understand. Not ever. We are... special twins."

    "Special?" Dulce asked, her curiosity piqued.

    Angelo took a deep breath, his gaze steady and reflective and as he lifted his hair to reveal a matching scar on his own temple, he confessed "we were conjoined at birth."