Revival Of Stars

11 | 8 Days Before

CHAPTER 11
•••

EARLIER

DAY 1.

It was dark in the Bishop Mansion. The moonlight cascaded through the windows, casting elongated shadows as Lance dragged himself through the hallway, heading towards his brother's room.

With tired, red eyes, he opened the door slowly before entering the bedroom. His lazy feet pattered against the carpet as he approached the bump-out window seat.

Upon hearing the familiar sound of shuffling and the door creaking, Oran's eyes fluttered open. Propping up on his elbow, he eyed his best friend who was lumbering his way across the room—before laying down on the window seat, eyes tired and scared.

"Another dream?" Oran questioned, his voice deep and groggy.

"Mmm," Lance responded before closing his eyes. The image—the dastardly, cruel image—painted repeatedly in his mind. Four hands all reaching toward him, beckoning him to crawl into their arms, poison drenched on their fingers.

Oran watched as Lance's breathing grew heavier, his eyes squeezing shut in great anguish. The sweat made his ruffled hair wet, a deeper shade of brown. It wasn't new—seeing him like this. But what was different this time was Lance's hand curled tightly around his wrist, shielding it, as if trying to obscure anyone from seeing it.

Almost a muscle memory now, Oran reached over to a remote on his bed-side table and pushed one of the buttons. From all the way across the room, sitting on his ebony drawers, a radio turned on, and a flow of tunes sang out, calming and filled with serenity.

Lance's breathing slowed and became even, and he sunk into the pillows on the window-seat.

The tranquil song lulled him to sleep, and this time, he dreamt of something else.

•••

DAY 2.

Dray Bishop had been gone the whole day, isolating himself in his office; his head was stuffed in his paperwork. And Navine was out in the yard, trimming the rose bushes until they were presentable.

In his bedroom, Oran sat on a chair and read a novel. He was engrossed in the words as they pulled him deeper into the making of Wispern—how each Mountain in the country meant something.

As for Lance—he had locked himself in the bathroom. With faucets turned on, water gushing out, he placed his burning wrist in the sink. Pain etched on his features: dark eyebrows pulled down, lips in a snarl, and jaw clenching.

He was trying to get rid of the burn.

•••

DAY 3.

It was hot.

Every fan in the house was turned on, and cool air even wafted from the vents, but the Bishop family still felt suffocated.

Upon their father's idea, they all rested in the backyard. Navine was sprawled against a recliner with an umbrella over her, shielding herself from the blazing heat. And in the pool, Dray rested on the side, watching as his sons raced each other in laps.