Stained Glass Souls (Wattys 2014, Collector's Dream Award Winner)

Price: Built for Broken

(Price: unedited)

The first time he opened the door, it had been Sylas. He towered over Price, eyes worn and face craggy with remnants of five o’clock shadow. His plaid shirt was rumpled, keys clenched so tightly in his hands that they were leaving harsh red imprints in his skin.

“Where is she?” His glare pinned Price to the porch steps. “What did you do to her?”

Guilt clawed him. Which time? Which hit? He thought of her bruises, jaw and cheek and temple. He wanted to brush them away, colors sliding down her cheeks and absorbing into him. The pain was his fault. It was all his fault. “How would I know?” He said tightly.

Sylas stepped closer, narrowing his focus to a fine, olive laser point. “Because,” He hissed, teeth clenched, “you hit her. This is your fault.”

Price wanted to slam the door in his face. “Don’t accuse me of something you don’t understand.”

“Oh, I think I understand. I get it.” Sylas slid his keys in his pocket. His smile was cold, cutting creases through his sharp face. “You have this anger thing. Abandonment issues. Well, guess what?” He leaned in. “My dad left my mom, too, and I don’t go around hitting people.”

“She tripped.”

“Right. And fell on her eye socket?’ Sylas shook his head. “She told me.”

Jealousy raced hotly through Price. “What, now you’re the best friend?”

“Yeah, actually.” Sylas stepped around Price, and inside. There was a rustle as he slid his battered moccasin slippers off his feet. He seemed quiet, troubled. More than Charliegh’s disappearance seemed to be bothering him. Maybe it had been the bruises, or the blood.

The last time he hit her, Price had watched Charliegh dig out her cellphone, shaking. He had stopped pushing carts long enough to see her walk down the street to the Chit Chat café and climb into the same battered truck that had brought her home. That same truck that now sat in his driveway, rust stains climbing up the sides, looking perfectly at home amid the other clutter. This was him, then. Sylas was definitely the “knight in shining armor” that girls like Charliegh dreamed about. Wistful thinking, because that same boy looked ready to throttle him. If his love was anything like his tolerance for Price, it didn’t run very deep.

Price closed the door with a bang. “What do you want?” Accusations? Answers?

Sylas wandered into the kitchen. Price followed, realizing yet again how dirty and rundown it looked. The counters were bare, dotted with yellow stains. An old, teetering set of table and chairs was pushed into one corner. Evidence of poverty was everywhere, from the leaking faucet to the cracked, splintering wooden floors.

“You have water?”

“What do you want?” Price repeated.

“Water.” Sylas opened the cabinet above the stove and took down a chipped brown mug. He filled it with water from the sink.

“Funny.” Price tried to relax his hands, avert suspicious. “Stop avoiding my question.”

Sylas to his time drinking and swallowing, before setting the glass back on the counter. He leaned his hip against the stove, crossed his arms over his chest, and studied Price. “Last week, when you punched her in the eye, she called me.”

“Yeah.” Price tried to keep his expression nonchalant. He felt tension, constricting his muscles. When he stuffed his hands in his pockets, he discovered that he had been clenching his hands so tightly that the skin had cracked open. “I saw your car.”