“Almost every day. I draw it when I think about her. I draw it when I’m hurting.”
“I think the puppet was your way of coping. It was your minds way of taking a tragic death and turning it into something harmless. A puppet attached to strings.” He clears his throat, strengthening his hold on me. “Skylenna, for you to blame yourself for her death is a dishonor to her memory. Scarlett would hurt knowing that you were suffering believing this every day. It wasn’t your fault. She was on the brink of death for years.Youkept her alive with your love. But unfortunately, she remained broken for too long. There was nothing you could have ever done.” Dessin says every word as a matter of fact. No question. No doubt.
“You talk about her like you knew her.” I pull away from him slowly.
“I know what I’ve observed through you.”
A brief wave of déjà vu overcomes me. I stare into his eyes curiously, like a crystal ball revealing an unraveling ribbon of secrets.
“Thank you.” I wipe my eyes. “That truth was burning me alive. As if I never made it out of that fire.”
He nods. “I wouldn’t have let you burn alone.”
And that notion sends me into his arms again, letting him hold me tight as I cuddle my face to his neck, breathing in his sweet scent, praying he’ll never let me go again.
He presses his mouth and nose into my wet hair, inhaling strongly, and curls his fingers around my waist like I’m about to be dragged away from him.
“Look up,” he whispers peacefully.
My eyes flicker to the night sky, sparkling with millions of diamonds suspended in the darkness. And my world doesn’t seem as significant anymore, not where we stand, below the glowing white lights. The dazzling map of stars.
“They’re brighter here,” he tells me, still holding me tight. “What does it feel like standing under them?”
“Like home.” I smile.
53. Sophia and Arthur
He takes a breath, gatheringhis words. “I haven’t told you how I came into existence—in this body, out of apprehension that the previous host would be triggered into taking back control. You see, this memory is one that fueled many of the decisions I’ve made in his life and one that always sent him into a deep depression. I don’t think it will trigger him now. I believe he needed to hear your story first.”
Why mine? What could my story possibly mean to him? He guides me to sit next to him in front of the ambiance of the fire.
“When the previous host was quite young, his family was targeted for a great act of violence. He had a mother. I believe you asked me her name once. Sophia was exponentially intelligent and fiercely compassionate, much like you. She always put her children first. Even when she was trapped with an abusive husband, she protected her children from ever knowing… But even she couldn’t stop what was to come.”
Dessin allows me to intertwine my hand into his. “He also had a little brother. His name wasArthur.” Saying that name that drips with innocence, Dessin winces, tilting his chin upward as he watches the rippling water. This name carries weight. It’s been cloaked and cradled by the previous host, but even saying it out loud causes him pain. “Arthur wanted to be like his big brother, following him around when he’d play outside. He was his shadow… And only wanted to be included.”
In my mind’s eye, I watch a little boy with glasses and dimples follow Dessin through the trees, wielding a branch as if it were made of razor-edged steel. I see the admiration in his brown doe eyes as he watches his big brother climb a tree, wanting to be just like him when he grew up.
“Arthur—he was just like their mother. He didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He was kind in the way that when his big brother did something wrong, he would take the blame for him, take the punishment. And afterward, he would get to play with his big brother in the woods, where they’d pretend to fight monsters, build forts, and climb trees. And that was life. It washeavenfor them.”
His voice trails as he flips through the best memories this body has. It’s the calm before the storm, and my heart prepares to break again, as I’ve only just begun to fall in love with the sweet idea of this little brother, Arthur.
“The previous host was six years old when they came into his home. He was six years old when six men took everything from him. He came in from playing outside where his mother, Sophia, was tied down on the kitchen table, her clothes had been torn off, and there was blood, not enough that would mean she was close to death, but enough that it had sunk deep in his stomach and lingered there to this day.”
He releases a quick breath. Dessin himself is detached from this story in a way that a friend would share another friend’s tragedy. He wasn’t there and didn’t see it, but he saw how it affected his friend. That’s what bleeds through his expression.
“Two men bound the boy’s hands behind his back and tied him to a wooden chair. For approximately three and a half hours—he watched those six men barbarically defile Sophia. They raped her, taking turns as she was helpless to fight them off. And he was forced to watch them, forced to accept those actions into his mind where they would burn into his brain like poison. He screamed and thrashed and tried to break free of his restraints. He begged for them to stop. But the violence only got worse.” He looks down at me from the bottom left corner of his eye, catching my eyes pooling with tears.”
I sniffle, blinking the tears away furiously. “I can handle it,” I say with new strength. I won’t let him bear this alone. And so he continues.
“They sodomized her with common kitchen utensils. They pried her mouth open so that they could push themselves down her throat until she would choke on her own vomit. The young boy sat in his own excretions as the scream of his mother burned his ears. She didn’t care about what they did to her. No, when she screamed, she begged for them to remove him from the room so he wouldn’t have to watch. The men were creative, though. They included him in decisions like which entrance of his mother’s body they should force themselves into next. But she fought so hard, in fact, that when there was no energy left, saliva hung in strings from her mouth as she dissociated herself from the moment. The boy tried to do the same, but all he could see was the blood and fluids spilling from her open areas. And when he’d try to close his eyes or look away, they’d do something to make her scream in pain, forcing him to focus back on the scene in shock.
“When the last man finally finished, they zipped up their pants, and when he heard his mother sigh in relief, he felt he could breathe again. It was over. He could help her get to a doctor, and they would have survived. But the six men came with a purpose. This was not a random crime. Two of them left the kitchen and came back with his little brother, Arthur. Arthur had been hiding in a closet, and—he was clutching his favorite stuffed rabbit. The rabbit that their selfish father had given to him on his third birthday. Arthur held on to that rabbit like it might save their lives, like holding it tightly would summon their father to protect them. But it did no such thing.”
“Oh God.” The words flee my lips in a broken sob. I make no effort anymore to hold the tears with the strong dam of my will to stay strong for Dessin. They stream heavily down my face.
“The men held Arthur next to Sophia in a chair parallel to the boy. This brought Sophia out of the relief-stricken coma she was resting in. He knew it had somehow gotten worse when she began to beg again, this time with a fury that enraged her. The men put a sickle, sharp enough to cut through a watermelon like butter, in the previous host’s hands and gave him a choice, with calm, daunting voices. He could choose to put his mother out of her misery, or he could end his baby brother’s life. If he didn’t choose, they would both suffer. If he chose one to die, the other would live. It wassimple.” He nods his head matter-of-factly, like the enemy that forced his hand had a thoroughly thought-out plan.
My skin morphs from wet to damp to dry, and yet I still shiver, as if tiny maggots are wiggling through my veins. The horrors Dessin must have seen. A choice that no little boy should ever be forced to make. He was introduced to pure evil.
