Beginning - Book Three

two

The door knob is cold to the touch. So stiff with age, it's difficult to twist. When it does click open, it takes my entire body weight to force the wood to turn on its hinges. Perhaps this door is particularly old, I think to myself. The joints must be in desperate need of a good oiling.

However, I am proven wrong when, upon squeezing through the small gap which I managed to make, I have to shuffle around a bizarre barricade of upturned chairs and cushions in order to even pass through the doorway. The room is almost identical to my own - oversized curtains and all. A plush bed sits central to the back wall - it's covers tangled into a bundle, forming a mound around something in the middle of the mattress. A suitcase, much larger and thicker than my own lies untouched beside the crumbling bulwark. Unfortunately, I spot the trunk far too late and find myself unable to halt the collision between the leather and my foot, tripping over the bag with very little grace. My unharmed leg is catapulted upwards as I tumble to the ground, and the toe of my shoe catches onto something, dislodging it with a tremendous screech of friction. I freeze as a chair hits the floor with a great thud, my insides tightening as it barely misses my cowering form on the floorboards. Amongst the commotion, there is movement from within the bundle.

A head emerges first, curls in disarray. Even in the shroud of darkness, I see his mouth open in horror, hear the shriek which comes from within it. His body detangles itself from the sheets - he still wears yesterday's shirt, many of the buttons undone and the once-pristine material creased. His screams become increasingly piercing whilst he scrambles away - the duvet falls from the mattress as he kicks his legs. His cries are blood-churning, and it takes everything within me not to burst into tears.

"Enoch!" I call out to him, desperation flooding my voice. I pull myself up from the floor with such momentum, I have to stop myself from falling back down again. "Enoch, it's me!"

His hands grab at the pillows aimlessly, his head is scanning around his darkened surroundings franctically - he cannot recognise me in the darkness. With all my might, I force open his curtains, drowning the room in daylight.

"Enoch."

A very audible intake of breath can be heard from the boy on the bed. The shouts descend into tiny, heart-wrenching sobs as he cowers against the headboard. His trousers are nowhere to be seen, leaving him in his briefs. His body shudders without the protection of the sheets. Gingerly, I take a few steps towards him, trying as best I can not to startle him again. His eyes follow me as I move around the bed.

"It's me, Enoch. It's Violet." I take a seat on the mattress a fair distance away, worried he might lash out. Guilt overcomes me for even allowing the thought to cross my mind.

Through sniffles and sobs, he looks at me, lip quivering. For just a moment, his angular, masculine features soften back into his teenage face - the face with which he headed off to war, the face I saw when he kissed me that first time. Then it crumples, distorts as he begins to wail again. Without any thought, I shift across the mattress and gather his trembling form into my arms.

"I'm here." I whisper, and I feel him relax a little beneath me. His shaking arms find their way around my middle and cling to me tightly, like a frightened child.

"Violet." He whimpers - my name is barely decipherable. His head lowers into my lap and tears begin to leave marks on my dress, but I couldn't care less. I trace my fingers through his disheveled hair and, slowly, the shaking becomes less apparent.

"What was that all about, eh?" I ask softly, still touching his curls. My own voice wavers with effort as I try to hold back my own tears.

He doesn't answer me, he simply grips my leg with both hands like he'll never let go again, as if he is trying to stay afloat. Part of me wants to stay here with him, comfort him, keep him safe. The other, perhaps more sensible side of me tells me to go and find Miss Peregrine and inform her of what's just unravelled. Enoch's grasp tightens as if he heard my silent deliberation. Despite that, I decide that I need to see Miss Peregrine for his own good. Biting hard on my bottom lip, I slide from the bed and kneel down beside it on the floor. He begins to whimper now that he doesn't have me to hold on to.

"I'm going to get Miss Peregrine." I tell him, resting my palm on his cheek. The skin is wet with tears. "I'll be back soon."

He reaches for my hand, and I sandwich his between my palms. A lump appears in my throat - he can't see me get all upset, that will only make things worse. Eager to make a swift exit, I press my lips to his forehead briefly and detangle him from my hold before I head towards the door, trying to refrain from listening to the moans of sadness as I leave the room.

As soon as I close the door, tears spill onto my cheeks, and I clamp my hand over my mouth in an attempt to hide any ugly sounds which might emerge. I slump against the wall as I allow all sorts of emotions to rain down on me, sliding to the floor as my knees fail me. I can't bear seeing him like this, not knowing what's wrong. It's horrendous. However, I quickly stifle my sobs when the very woman I had set out to search for turns the corner. She carries a mug of something which billows steam across her pointed features. Neither of us say anything when she spots me, but she throws me a look of understanding, before disappearing into Enoch's room.