Violet - Book Two

five

Enoch's Point of View

I can't take my eyes off her as she walks away. Even from behind she looks perfect. The way the pink fabric of her pyjamas falls against her body, the natural curl her copper locks fall. She turns around to face me once she reaches her bedroom door. Her big, chocolate eyes seem to sparkle in the small amount of light that the hallway provides and her little pink mouth with a perfect Cupid's bow treats me to a smile before she disappears into her room. It suddenly dawned on me how much I'd missed her.

I turn the handle on my own door and shove it open with my shoulder. Without taking a detailed look at my surroundings, I slump inside and fall lethargically onto my bed, which had been made neatly and the corners of the sheets tucked in tight. As soon as I make contact with the mattress, a cloud of dust flies up from the untouched duvet and creates a hazy smog surrounding the bed. Choking on the particles which cage me, I wave my hand around to try and create a path of clean air for me to escape through.

Once I have outrun the dust cloud, I shut the door and take a look at my bedroom. Despite the dust, it smells clean, and my shelves have been cleared of organ-filled jars. In all honesty, I cannot blame whoever did it. They would have began to smell awful after a while. The desk in the centre has been organised, with pens and pencils standing in a cup and sheets of paper stacked and set into the top left corner. The curtains are open, letting through the most light the place had ever been doused in.

The backpack has been propped up next to the door, and I settle myself beside it in favour of unpacking and throwing it away as soon as I can - ideally along with any memory in which it was on my back. The top is secured with brass buckles, and beneath that a drawstring seals the contents. Using both my hands, I pull the cinched opening apart and dive into the dark contents. I close my fist around something and pull it out. It turns out to be a relatively uninteresting wash bag, which I toss aside. My fingers crawl back inside and fumble around until I find and produce the ribbed stack which has built up over the months.

The tower of envelopes are kept together with a shoelace, and the small, rounded handwriting has bled across the white envelopes from when the bag got soaked in rain or in saltwater. Receiving a letter from Violet was always something I looked forward to, and I would normally read it and send off the reply the same day if it was possible. Her letters were always in matching ivory note paper and envelopes, presumably from a writing set, and her sentences were always written beautifully in neat rows and signed off with her name and a symbolic 'x' or two.

I slide an envelope out from the pile, close to the middle, and gently pry open the seal which I had folded in on itself to keep it safe. Violet had managed to keep all her words on one side of the page, and I begin to re-read it to myself.

Dear Enoch,
I hope Belgium is being kind to you - those lavender sprigs smell gorgeous, I am keeping them on my dresser so I can smell them all the time. The colour reminds me of those flowers we saw on the train home from Oxford, do you remember? I believe we decided they were not violets, so perhaps it was a lavender field after all. It was lovely that they were still in bloom in October. It is difficult to believe that that was only one year ago. On the subject of October, I cannot quite comprehend that I am approaching my eighteenth birthday. Oh Enoch, I'm sorry you can't be here! I wish all of this malarkey was over with so you could come home. Everyone is missing you so, Claire asks after you quite often. She turned six years old in June, can you believe it? Six! They are all growing up so quickly, I wish you were here to see it. On another note, Miss Peregrine gave me a couple of photographs from the night before your birthday, and I always forget to enclose a copy! So, keep this with you, and remember that you're always in my thoughts.
From Violet x

Her sweet words remind me of the photograph. I put down the paper and reach a hand into the breast pocket of my jacket, pulling out the photograph she writes of. It depicts her and myself, sitting on the bench the evening before my birthday. She looks stunning in a dress littered with flowers and a bow in her hair. She's smiling, as am I, but I had not yet told her that I would be enlisting the following morning. I wish I had: I felt awful afterwards.

I return the letter to the stack and place it on my desk, and carefully put the photograph on the nightstand. I bend down to the floor and take the discarded wash bag before exiting my room; crossing the corridor to the bathroom and locking the door behind me.

The godforsaken jacket is dropped onto the tiles and I strip, overly eager for a wash. With some force, I twist the bath taps on; the water splutters for a second or two before turning into a smooth, transparent pillar. Moving over to the sink, I lean over it and support my weight while resting my hands on either side. Rearing my head, I take a look at myself in the mirror. My face definitely needs a shave, but avoiding the slash beneath my eye, not to mention the rest. It stings when I run my fingertip across it; my eyes turn watery as a result.

I take a hesitant step away from the mirror and turn towards the bathtub. The water is steaming. I adjust the faucets and plunge my foot into the water. It burns a tad, but I continue to ease myself in through the pain which spreads across my skin as I become increasingly more submerged. I allow my head to sink beneath the surface so I cannot hear a thing. Just the hot water moving around the tub.