“This is the boys’ toilet,” he replies with a deep rumble.
His voice is like a balm, not harsh or condemning, and it’s a relief compared to the ear-splitting screams I’ve heard since coming to Dankworth.
“Oh,” I stutter out, still refusing to look him in the eyes again, too afraid he will see the demons hiding there.
Do not show your weakness.
But how can I not when he risks glimpsing the demons inside if he looks into my eyes?
That is something far worse than eye contact.
“Are you okay?”
I nod my head in response, the only answer I can give him because my throat feels like it will burn up from its dryness, and I am forced to swallow saliva multiple times before choking on a breath. The panic attack is over, but that doesn’t mean it’s completely gone, it can come back when I least expect it, and by that time, I have to be back in my room where I’m relatively safe.
“You sure?” he asks in a low tone, to my surprise.
This façade of his is so unlike the one from the cafeteria, the one who scoffed at my questions and deemed them too amusing.
His hand touches my bare arm, sending electrifying shivers up to my heart and making it stutter for a moment. It is the touch of another human who makes me want to pull away my hand, too afraid of someone else touching me in a friendly manner, and I have to work hard to avoid falling for my impulses. I don’t want him to let go of my hand, it’s a warmth in my nightmarish state, but terror still courses through my veins.
Self-control, Naya. You have to control your emotions.
It’s the only way I have survived this far. When everything was torn away from me, I clung to the control I had over the small things, like a drowning person grasping at a lifeline. Control made me feel like I hadn’t lost everything.
His hand is the center of my attention, and I cannot look away, though he remains oblivious to the fact that I am watching him, and my eyes are still partially obscured by the long strands of hair hanging in front of my face. His skin tone is darker than mine, although it still looks pale from the sunlight’s absence. I suppose it’s a consequence of being here for months. He doesn’t remove his hand, he just rests it upon my lower arm in a comforting manner, and it’s the first time I have craved something other than being alone.
His skin feels like velvet against mine. It’s as if his demons are traveling over to my arms through him, and mine to his, until we share the same faith and broken parts of ourselves. For a brief moment, I can block out the reality of my situation and instead focus on the man in front of me who breathes life into my heart. It gives me a sliver of hope, but I know I have to extinguish that.
In my world, hope exists only in memories, remnants of a time when it was still here.
I’m playing a dangerous game, one I certainly will not survive.
My tense state allows me to hear noises outside the door, even with blood coursing through my ears. Conversational voices can be heard, followed by someone attempting to open the door to the shared toilet room with multiple booths. Loud groans emanate from them as they find the area locked, footsteps fade away as they search for another toilet in another wing, and my body relaxes against the wall.
The peaceful sound of our synchronized breaths is reassuring, and I finally feel a sense of security without nosy nurses pestering me. The very real nightmare makes me shudder, and the crease on my arm begins to ache at the mere thought of it. There is something that still bothers me: the way the nurse held the needle against my arm without paying attention to my protests, how they didn’t care about my struggles to escape their control.
My vision becomes sharper as I return to the present and feel the floor’s texture underneath me. On the man’s wrist, I make out the edges of something inked in his skin, and the hint of something grand beneath the sleeves of his hoodie, making me long to see the entire artwork. To revel in its secrets.
I’ve only briefly glanced at the ink before, not really thinking about the patterns.
His wrist is adorned with a beautiful pattern of flames surrounding an eagle. Something about the tattoo calls to my blackened heart, as if the organ connects to it in ways my brain cannot. In a trance-like state, my heart pounds in my chest as the pattern draws me in. I’ve always been fascinated by the art that one human can create, and how something so small can become something so significant. One day, I will have my own tattoo.
I continue to take in his hands without blinking once, and I find myself tracing the ink with my bare hands, tracing every line etched onto his skin. There is something rough under the flames, like a scarring in his skin that makes it uneven, faintly but still visible. There is a slight scar, and I wonder if he purposely wanted to hide it.
What is the story behind the scar? I want to know every secret the creature in front of me holds.
I don’t notice that I’ve inched closer to him on my knees until I feel the warmth of his breath fanning against my ear, and his knee gently pressing against mine, sending a pleasant yet unknown tingle through my body.
He allows me to trace his tattoo in silence, and I feel him studying me as I study the tattoo. When I glance to the side, his eyes are glued to me, like he’s trying to figure out a complicated math equation. I have never seen anything as captivating as his tattoo, with its intricate swirls and stunning shades.
There are many beautiful paintings in the world, but nothing beats the art of a tattoo, a permanent mark on your skin that comes in many forms. Paintings can be destroyed, resold at auctions, or displayed in museums and changed, but tattoos stay in the same place for life. They are there with you through all your troubles. It’s an art that tells the story of an entire life, a tale filled with pain and sorrow that makes your heart ache, but also a promise of the braveness and strength that got you to where you are today. I admire the tattoo and savor the feel of his skin against mine because as soon as those doors open again, this moment will be as if blown away by the wind.
Other humans and I have never worked well together, and I always felt poisoned by them, like when Snow White ate the red apple given to her by the evil queen.
The tension thickens around us, and the way he looks at me makes something heat in the lower part of my abdomen. His tongue wets his lips, as if trying to decide whether to say something but deciding not to, and the sudden urge to suck on his lips and take in his tongue has me blushing. I’m out of control, so in the moment after having a panic attack that I’m reacting in ways I shouldn’t, and he says nothing. His eyes widen with a pang of fierce hunger and desire, and the sheer power of his emotions makes me want to turn and flee, never to look back because it’s too frightening.
The sound of the banging on the door, coupled with the harsh voice shouting my name, makes me aware that the moment I dreaded earlier is upon me. Ray is outside, waiting for me to step out of my hideaway and take me back to a brutal reality, one that I don’t want to enter again.
