Beautiful Things That We Create (And How We Destroy Them)

5. The Boy that wept

CHAPTER FIVE

Colby stood in my kitchen, his head titled down with the down lights causing shadows across the bruises. His bottom lip jutted out, involuntarily I believe, and he took in a deep breath. His body shook. I had to hold my hands in fists tight by my side to allow myself not to reach up to hold his face, to make him show me the marks that marred the usual perfection of his face.

“You don’t need to say anything, Colby”

He closed his eyes, another breath passing through the pout, but this time he raised his hand and ran it through the mop of natural hair that along with the shadows, cast across his face, stopping me from seeing him.

“Colby?” This time my hand raised up, but he moved a step back, hitting the island in the middle of the room, his hands fisting around the edge, turning his knuckles white. How tight was he clutching it?

“I need a shower, I-I, just” He didn’t finish and I didn’t push.

Instead I guided him through the kitchen and into the hallway. Beside the small table with a flower patterned bowl on it, there was nothing else personal in the hall.

I was half expecting Colby to make a joke about the lack of homey-ness, partially due to the lack of photos, but he didn’t. It made me worry.

Colby’s heavy steps followed me into the small bathroom, and by small I really do mean only really big enough for one person to just barely move around.

Colby didn’t complain, he simply stood towards the door, watching me with glistening eyes.

My hand found the knob inside the half-bath-half-shower, and a spray of cold water pattered on my hand, “Will you be alright?”

He nodded; I saw his reflection in the mirror cabinet beside the shower. I pointed towards the lower cabinet and explained the whereabouts of the towels, and hairdryer for afterwards, and he smiled slowly as I left, closing the door behind me and leaning against it.

I didn’t expect Colby to tell me anything, but I knew that having everything bottled up inside of him wasn’t good either.

I let my head lean on the door; brushing away the fly-away’s from my updo.

My arms hugged around my body as I moved to see Stacey, whether I was cold or worried, I couldn’t define the cause. So, I shrugged it off, walking to the lounge and kneeling in front of the sleeping girl.

Stacey was pretty, even for a 6 year old. Her, still, baby face was neutral and innocent; something I knew was exactly the same even in consciousness. Her hair curled over her eyes, and I raised my hand to brush it back.

When skin contact was made, she made a content sound, squirming into the lounge as a reflex.

Her small fist sat at the crook of her neck, and her knees were rolled up to her stomach. She was the very reincarnation of innocence.

She shivered subconsciously, her face turning into the lounge. I pulled the small blanket that usually sat on top of the lounge onto her, tucking her in a feeling the sudden need to kiss her forehead.

I did.

As I rose onto my feet again, I made my way into the kitchen, taking the kettle off and pouring two mugs. Chamomile tea bags found their home within them, as did a tablespoon of honey.

The water was warm, warm enough to drink without burning one’s tongue, and with both mugs in hand, I walked down the hall towards the bathroom.

The water was still running behind closed doors. I always noticed the sound water made when there was someone underneath it, the splash against something physical sounded denser than air.