The Grave Shadows

41. Stitches

Sometimes, during Street Fighter showdown, John, in the full explosion of joy, yelled and cursed and apologized afterward. His vaunting energy distracted Cyan, so his M. Bison killed her Guile. He would taunt and ridicule her, and she would pretend to be annoyed. If John knew that, like Guile, Cyan could heal and flourished with many lives, would he chuckle? Would he leave her? Would he be afraid? Would he ever smile again? She wanted to confess many times, dying and surviving to tell him each night. She wished to tell John that she couldn't die, and it hurt. It hurt.

Cyan felt the big hands on her throat, her face, her hands—especially her hands. Hector was wringing out her blood though he had left with Luke and Simon. All the fears she had ever anticipated were in those reddish blue eyes of his. The fire torches of Colt came at her—a freak, a creature, a monster, an unholy thing. A witch. All the deaths she had shredded in his custody remained inside, unlike the other times.

Cyan wailed silently, clinging onto something that wouldn't hurt her. Everything else would definitely burn and sear into her skin like the acidic words Hector blamed on her. Only William Watts was safe. She sobbed in his chest as Everett cleaned up one gruesome mess. Though terrified, Cyan agreed to tell the police on the phone that she had car trouble on the way to university and was rescued by the Watts boys. The torture didn't happen. She didn't bleed. Hector didn't kill her. Where was the evidence anyway? The scars were visible under her skin only for her to see. The pain was gone. The lies were everywhere.

Cyan held Will like a buoy. Everett, in the driver's seat, stretched his hand in her direction. She cringed and disappeared inside the firm embrace. If Everett touched her, the pain he would inflict could be the end.

In the shower, Cyan washed off her blood and put on a fresh dress, the blue chiffon replacing the unforgettable evidence. When Cyan drifted into the living room, Will was there. But she didn't want him anymore. He felt as harmful as the other Watts boys. Everett packed her stained clothing in a garbage bag and closed it tight. The blouse was Everett's favorite and the jeans Cyan's. John sewed the unicorn patches on the supposed fashionable rips. Now that lovely pair of the outfit was gone like all the trust in Colt.

Everett heated some soup for Cyan, but she didn't touch it. The Watts boys are toxic; everyone had warned her. Everything they touched was poisonous, everywhere they went was dangerous, and everything they liked broke. She should have listened. She should have stayed away. She should have known that Everett would be the one that caused the most damage. She should have never kissed him.

A moment later, John and Angelica walked through the door, twisting in joy as if the world was fair. Cyan flew into John's arms and let out the fast-flowing tears. Guile was dead, with full gauge and less hope. Cyan shivered at the thought of losing John while she trapped in the hell customized by the Watts Prince.

"I'm sorry I should have called." John kissed Cyan's forehead. "Look at you cry now. I'm sorry. I'm alright, Cyan."

But Cyan wasn't upset about John being late. She was angry with Everett, Luke, Simon, and Will. They were cowards, allowing their oldest brother to attack her and making her let it go.

Cyan wanted to tell. She wanted John to know. She even wanted Angelica to know. She wanted everyone to know that—yes, Cyan was a freak, but it hurt.

But she couldn't say it. It would change everything. John would lose the clock store, and they would have nowhere to live. The Watts family was untouchable. They didn't need magic to heal because nobody could lay a finger on them in the first place. Cyan was helpless as John frantically explained to her that his truck had broken down.

Cyan yearned for John to see. She wanted someone to ease the burden—someone else. Someone who weren't the Watts boys.

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