Treasured

13)

Mr. Price pulled me into a more comfortable place against the cushions so we could talk. Well, he would.

"How are you feeling, Wren?" Mr. Edward worried, a small frown creasing his forehead. "Would you like some supper or anything to drink?"

Some water would be most helpful.

Mr. Price rose, pouring me a cup from a pitcher on his bed table. I gratefully let the liquid soothe my burning throat before latching onto Mr. Edward's tall figure once more.

"Have you had a fit like that before, Wren?"

Yes, I've had them since I fell.

"I've heard your aunt's version of things Wren, but I would like to hear it from your perspective too. Can you tell me about that night? What did you feel? What was happening?"

I could feel myself quivering, hands tangling together in the bed sheets, and my eyes nervously flicking from place to place. My tongue darted out to lick at my suddenly dry lips, and my heart began to pound almost painfully in my chest.

It was my cousin's birthday, and there was a ball held in her honor. I was feeling rather sore and out of sorts, so I excused myself from the festivities early. Nobody really noticed or cared since I had no friends there, and I was useless as a dancer.

I felt alone, but that was nothing new. I wasn't particularly depressed or morose. In fact, I was enjoying the fresh air from the balcony. It was pretty, the way the moon lighted upon the rose garden, and I remember feeling very calm.

Then, a small, indistinct sound caught my ear. I turned, only to meet a dark, shadowy man in the doorway. Every inch of him was clad in black, including his face. I remember feeling a faint pang of panic and terror, and then I was falling.

"Your aunt tells me you used to have fanciful dreams. She said you used to be quite violent, hitting and screaming when you were a child. Then, there was a time where you slit your wrists with a letter opener, and another time when you threatened your cousin. Is that true?"

Of course the events were true. But that made it worse because there was no context, so his stand point was skewed. I hit and screamed just after my parents died, because a part of me was still in that roaring fire. I slit my wrists after the worst night of my life, and I threatened my cousin after he tortured a poor, defenseless puppy.

I felt my reasons were understandable, even if my actions weren't always right. But how would anyone know that if they only went off my aunt's assumptions?

It is true, but there were reasons for that, even if my logic was faulty. My parents died when I was a child, and memories of the fire followed me wherever I went. Many of my tantrums were based off of fear and grief, not anger. As for threatening my cousin, he was simply being cruel, and I couldn't bear it any longer.

"I see. I understand that trauma effects people differently. Did the fire cause you to stop speaking?" Mr. Edward inquired, looking curious, but not in a bad way.

I don't want to talk about that.

My hands began to tremble as I set the pen down. I tried to calm myself, to think of other things, but the horror flooded my memory like an unstoppable tsunami.

"Shhhh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Mr. Price soothed me, rubbing my upper arms. "Just focus on things in this room. What do you smell?"

Lemon and fresh cut grass filtered into my nose. It was familiar, comforting.

"What do you see?"

Rich brown hair, piercing green eyes, and protective arms. That's what I saw when I looked at him.