Author Games: Red Room

Task Six: Liz Regis

My eyes were blurry at first when they brought them in. There were two shadows, and a part of me recoiled, my bloodied and bruised limbs scraping against the floor as I sought to protect my lungs and my heart and every part of me they couldn't touch. (But my lungs were coated with ash and my heart was tattered and torn. They weren't supposed to touch me there, but even my insides felt broken beyond repair.)

"Leave," I said, voice raspy. It wasn't like I was expecting them to actually obey the pitiful command, but a part of me was hoping they'd be impressed. A part of me was hoping I could fool them, and the cameras, and everyone who had told me to stay away.

The doors closed, but the figures didn't leave. Instead, the smaller one rushed towards me and buried their face in my neck and began to sob.

I hated that I could recognize those sobs. I hated that it took me more than a few seconds to recognize them. I hated that they'd brought him here.

"Henry." My voice wasn't raspy anymore. It was ragged. I tried to scoot myself into a sitting position, but I think a rib was fractured because even that much movement stole my breath. "Henry, what are you doing? Why are you here?"

The boy's face didn't leave the crevice between my neck and shoulder, and something wet pressed against my scarlet-painted skin. Tears, I think. Or snot. I think I'd have preferred the snot.

"Lizzie." A hiccup escaped his throat.

"Henry, you aren't supposed to be here. Go away now, yeah? Go out that door and leave this room. Leave this room right now."

"Lizzie." He hiccuped again and finally drew away, and when I saw his tear-streaked cheeks and the wobble of his lower lip, I really couldn't tell him to leave. Not even if it meant he'd die right here with me.

"Come here," I whispered, and he fell right into my open arms. I winced and squinted my eyes shut when he landed on the probably-fractured rib, but I held him tight as if I could protect him from the evil waiting somewhere above. That's what older sisters are supposed to do, see. They're supposed to protect their younger siblings. Mine and Henry's older brother, David--he used to protect me. He used to egg me on when I'd tussle with the neighbor boys, but step in if he saw them getting too rough. He never protected Henry, though--that had always been my job.

"Lizzie, they got me..."

"When?" I demanded. I wanted to hold him at arm's length and interrogate him. I wanted to pull him closer and never ask anything of him again.

"Walking home from school. I didn't see their faces, but it was just like the kidnapping stories you told me, Lizzie."

"Mom and Dad let you walk home from school alone?"

Maybe it was stupid, considering the circumstances, but that's what I focused on. That's what seemed important. Because big sisters can only do so much in terms of protection. They're only supposed to do so much.

"I'm thirteen, I'm not a baby--"

"It's dangerous, Henry. They're watching. They're always watching." I held him tightly and petted his hair and wished I could tell him to go away. They're always watching, it's true. Even then, as I held him one last time.

"I know that now." He felt so frail against me, his bony chest and his too-thin arms pressed awkwardly against all the places I hurt the most. "I know, but Lizzie it wasn't just me, they got--"

"It's okay, Henry." I was never the most soothing kind of person. I wasn't sure how much of me was left to be human, to be sympathetic, to be concerned and kind and compassionate. I wasn't sure how much of me was left, period. But damn it, I tried. "Henry, you're going to be okay. I'll get you out, yeah? You don't have to worry."