The Secrets We Keep

Episode 13: The Calm Before the Storm

The small, dimly lit room was filled with the soft flicker of candlelight, casting long shadows across the walls, and a gentle orange glow on Cyrus's face. The silence that engulfed us was intermittently pierced by his quiet hiss and groans as I dabbed the damp cloth against his marred skin. Each sound from him sent my heart plummeting into my stomach. The constant furrowing of my brows from stress and concentration was giving me a pounding headache.

I was sitting on the creaking, worn wooden floor of our living room, my hands trembling as I continued to clean and bandage his wounds. The motion was intended to be soothing, yet every grimace of pain from him only steeped me deeper in remorse.

"You are such an idiot," I whispered, my voice wavering as I spoke. I didn't mean those words, not really, but that was all I could manage to say through the ache in my chest.

A faint chuckle escaped him, jarred by a sudden jolt of pain. Cyrus's back was a mess of torn flesh and blood, the whip marks crossing in angry, raw lines. The wounds were so deep I could see the white of bone in some places along his spine and ribs– the sight of it causing my stomach to turn. His upper arms weren't spared either, the skin there hanging in ragged strips where the whip had caught him.

No amount of medicinal ointment could erase the scars he would carry from this.

Cyrus was gently resting his head on my upper thigh, his body sprawled out on the floor in front of me as I treated him. His blonde curls were brushing against my skin and I could feel the flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked, his breath warm against my leg. His voice came out hoarse as he spoke.

"Nemmi... thank you."

I froze, the bloody cloth hovering over his wounds as I processed his words. My mind was a mess of confusion and the guilt I felt for not intervening.

"For what, Cy?," I sighed, my voice almost breaking from the threat of tears. "You shouldn't be thanking me at all– I did absolutely nothing to help you."

He shuffled his movement, resting his head back to look up at me with his piercing blue eyes. The sadness in them was so unbearable that I had to turn my head and break eye contact.

"Only because I didn't want you to," he croaked. "I know you would've stepped in to help, but I needed them to see it." He moved his head into my field of view, forcing me to look in his eyes once more. "I know it hurt you and Dad to watch."

His words hung in the air, heavy with the truth I didn't want to face. He had endured the pain, the suffering– not because he had no other choice, but because he wanted to make a statement. The tears that had threatened me finally stung my eyes and my vision blurred, but I tried to push them down. My throat clenched with the pain, and I swallowed to try and soothe it.

"You could have died, Cy," I whimpered, my bottom lip quivering. I averted my gaze again, knowing my wavering voice betrayed my desire to keep him from seeing me cry.

His fingers brushed against mine tentatively. I instinctively withdrew, wrapping my arms around myself as a barrier.

"Give me your hand, Nemmi," he entreated softly.

"I can't," I murmured, my voice barely audible.

"And, why not?" His voice was gentle but insistent.

I met his gaze again, knowing my emotions were going to betray me. "B-because, if I hold your hand, it'll make me cry," I confessed.

Cy's gaze softened, understanding flickering in his eyes. He calmly reached up, yet this time more firmly, and pulled my left arm out of its shelter. He slowly grazed his hand down my forearm, finally interlocking his fingers into my own. The touch was light, but it was just enough to force out my frustrated sob.