Devils and Angels

xxvi. what goes on behind closed doors

p e r i p e t e i a

the point of no return

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MY KNUCKLES HESITATED, JUST CENTIMETRES from kissing the wood of Caspian's front door.

My feet had willfully steered me in this direction, fingers clutched around the folder that marked my resolve. I had a reason―a determination―and nothing was going to turn me away from what I aimed to do.

But even so, I was loitering outside his door for longer than considered normal. I pulled at my sleeves a few times; wishing for the hundredth time that I had bothered to change before going directly to Caspian's house. Surrendering myself to the cold in just the thin fabric of my blazer offered little protection, and even inside, frigid breezes crept in with every moment, curling around my ankles in tongues of ice.

If nothing else, just the thought of being let into the warmth of his house was enough to make me swallow my hesitance.

It's now or never, I thought, finally mustering the balls to knock on the door.

From the other side, I heard the distinct sound of curses, followed by the deafening crash of objects collapsing to the ground. The door burst open in front of me, and Caspian poked his head through―eyes wide, cheeks flushed, and fingers shaking where they tightened around the edge of the door.

He began to speak, in a low string of curses, gaining in volume when he realised I wasn't paying attention―but there was no chance of me listening, when his face posed the biggest distraction of all.

Once-white skin was purpled with bruises, melting into the blood that lingered around his lips; swiped onto his cheek by a hasty hand. The scar marring his neck was a fresh wound, a gastly, gaping hole that trickled into his neck; swallowed by shadows as he receded into his door.

Every part of him was bloodshot and damaged; ragged and rampant, like he'd been through hell and back―and looking at him, I couldn't doubt it.

"Caspian?" I found my voice in the depths of my throat, choking on my words as they entered the open air. "I―,"

"What are you doing here?" He interrupted. His voice was unnaturally cold and edged with ice―angry and defeatist, all at once. "We're not friends. We might as well not even know each other."

His words stung, vapid and searing, but I forced the harrowing pain of his words not to show, slowly bringing the folder from where it had slipped behind my back. "I...brought your homework from the past few days. Can I come in?"

"No," He said shortly, snatching the folder from my hand. The shock that I was feeling must have shown on my face, because he sighed resignedly, knuckling his forehead. "I'm sorry, I'm just having a tough time. My sister's...sick."

"Oh," I responded, tipping back my head to alleviate the despondency that weighed on my heart. "Is she okay?"

"Uh, yeah." Caspian's free hand―the one not holding the folder―found his neck, and he swore viciously when his fingers came back stained with blood.

"And you?" I stepped closer, tilting my head up so our gazes were locked. "Are you okay?"

"Just stressed," He replied. "And your inquisition isn't helping."

"Right." I swallowed. His lies were obvious, and his scars were the first alludement to that―I couldn't look at him without my eyes falling onto the tumult of black and red on his smooth skin, and wondering about the pain that was inflicted behind closed doors to cause it.