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

Charliegh: Unwanted Discoveries

(Charliegh: unedited)

His eyes were heartbreaking. Innocent, beautiful, and too familiar, too melancholy, to be focused upon her tired, aching body.

The irises were a clear, guileless shade of golden brown – nothing like the chips of obsidian, marred by rage and darkness, which she had become accustomed to. Green filled the corners, unfurling towards the pupils in snaps of emerald string, licking against the whites of his eyes.

They belonged to Sylas. A mournful Sylas, voice cracking when he tried to speak, tears slipping absently over his cheeks. She wanted to pretend that she was oblivious to his tears, his sadness, but such a thing was inescapable. It was for her – and the knowledge almost hurt more than the pain nestled in her stomach.

Nolan had fled long ago, leaving the pieces of her upon the doorstep of her apartment. The aftermath of his reckless decision had not. Every time she moved, it ached. It was almost as if a living, breathing thing had been captured in her throat, sliding down her esophagus to take up residence behind the walls of her lower body. The bruises were worse – fresh and black, splattering her thighs, stomach, and lower back like drops of tainted paint.

Nolan. Price. Nolan. Sylas. Her head was spinning. It hurt to look around, to see his arms around her, his fingers pressed into the curvature of her ribcage. With each strained breath it seemed as if the lines of reality were finally beginning to blur. Her nightmares of beatings and wild, savage boys bled into her subconscious, rendering it horrifying to close her eyes. She kept discovering new, terrible things in the darkness – every variation of the people who had hurt her, cloaked hands reaching forward to grab hold of her sanity and rip it to shreds.

Perhaps worse than bruises or bad dreams was the fact that Sylas knew.

He knew everything.

“Charliegh?” His voice was a rough whisper, stirring the hair around her temples. His chest vibrated underneath her head, and one strong hand paused its slow descent midway through her tangled hair.

She couldn’t bring herself to speak. The tears were trapped inside her mouth, waiting to be released. They burned, salty and acidic through her tongue, but she didn’t want to release them. If she cried, she was afraid Sylas wouldn’t be able to stop.

Upon returning from the cabin, she had found it impossible to cry. She willed the tears away, because they were an open, bleeding acknowledgement that her wounds were tangible, imprinted upon her skin. Yet now, with Sylas sitting beside her, resting her misfortune upon his shoulders, all she desired to do was weep.

“C.” His hand, still full of hair, cupped her chin. Strands caught in her mouth and between the gaps in her teeth. It smelled like Nolan – reeking of stale beer, rotting floorboards, and wet earth. It was harder to suppress the tears as she inhaled the boy she hated.

Or did she love him? Had the night in the cabin been a mistake, a lapse in judgment? As reassuring as it was to think that Nolan was different – not Price – she couldn’t brush the bruises, or the humiliation, aside.

“Are you okay?” His eyes, deep and peaceful as the winter ocean, fastened upon her. It was hard to avoid the concern lurking there, spliced by the flickering of his long brown lashes. “I feel like I’m making this worse.”

“No. I’m fine.” Fine enough to manage. Fine enough to still be breathing. She inhaled, trying to brush her misery aside. It was such a hard thing to banish, pressing down upon her lungs like a heavy fur jacket, enveloping her in disorienting warmth. “Thank you for taking me.”

“Thank you for dragging you, you mean?” Face still solemn, his thumb began to make slow circles on her cheekbone, soft and soothing.

“I came willingly.”