His Little Heir

A Mopey Poet

     Leon stared down at his hands.

     He took his right and made a fist, mirroring the action with its opposite. He sighed, taking special note of how the skin around his knuckles took its proper place when he opened his hands again.

     They didn't look like they could hurt her.

     The ugliest thing about his hands up until an hour ago was the spot of eczema Leon had been nursing, coaxing it like a child that refused to go back to bed. Except, you don't coax children with eczema cream. You coax them with sweets.

     Sweets.

      His mind wandered back to her instantly. Daya's mid sentence whimper pounded against is skull, hammering its way to Leon's chest. His heart.. ached. It beat faster, begging him to reach out to her; to hold her against him as she cried; to take in her scent as he whispered his apologies. Why couldn't he let go?

     Daya's face in that moment would never leave him: twenty years from now, he knew he would wake with it engraved into his being. The way her anger dipped into fear, the fear that Leon hadn't seen in so, so long, rattled his core. His bones struggled to withstand the weight of her heightened, glazed eyes as she discovered that he had her tight and would not let go.

      How was she? Did Daya's wrist crumble like an old bridge's last resolve, cracking and creaking as it fell in upon itself? And her face, the same face Leon had longed to nuzzle into his chest had suffered scratches at his hands.

      His ugly, ugly hands.

      "A-Ahmad? Have you, ah", Leon frowned and ran his tainted fingers through his hair, "Heard anything?"

     He emerged from the corner of the room, his nose wrinkled as if he had caught whiff of soured milk, "No, nothing except that I have to deal with your mopey self until I get the okay."

     "O-Oh"

     Leon gazed out the balcony window. The first fifteen minutes in his room had felt like an eternity; Daya's distorted cries made their way to him like homing missles in ear shattering speed. He buried his face into his knees, wincing as a tear hit his leg. What had he done?

     Tonight was supposed to be filled with her bubbly laugh and rose perfume. It was supposed to be a chance for Leon to see the world through her honeyed glasses, to talk with and tease her, and allaround just to see Daya being Daya.

      But Daya wouldn't be Daya for a long time. Leon's Daya was gone, taken over by a petrified ghost; the same ghost that had possessed her again and again with every swing he took at the ice between them. The sleepy girl wearing his hoodie was now nothing but a distant memory, swaddling her way into his heart.

     All because he didn't let go.

     But why?

      "How badly do you think she's hurt?" The question oozed from Leon's lips.

      "I'm not supposed to tell you that."

     "Ahmad, please! If I hurt her I-I need to know; please, I couldn't live with myself if-"

      He spat at his superior with an arched brow, "Then don't."

     "Tell me what you know!"

     Leon rose to his feet, not at all surprised by the thunder in his voice. The desire to protect Daya ignited the moment Fashad's target had been painted across her back. Feeding off the tinder of his affections, it grew bolder, stronger, even..