Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 522(@300wpm)
“Oh, I’m sorry. I did it again.”
The ache returned to his chest, unbearably tight around his heart. Slowly, he reached for her hand and lifted it. Myrtle watched him study her chipped, red nails and said nothing when he lowered his head to her palm.
He let her hand go, and she stayed like that for a long moment, unsure what he was asking of her. Then, her fingernails combed softly through his hair, and he closed his eyes.
It was the softest touch he’d ever felt, and his breath caught at the excruciating pleasure of it.
“My mother used to rub my head like this,” she said gently, sweeping his hair slowly to one side. “I would lay my head on her lap, and she’d stroke my forehead just like this while she read to me.”
Jack looked into her eyes, creased with the subtle smile she reserved for him. He scooted closer and lowered his head to her lap, blinking at the wall ahead.
Her hand lowered, fingers returning to his hair as she continued to stroke. “I don’t remember many children’s stories, but you’re not much of a little boy, are you?”
He swallowed, unsure how to answer. Sometimes, he felt like the smallest boy alive, living in a world of shadows cast by the largest, cruelest giants.
She let him rest on her lap like that until she had to leave for work. The day after, she invited him to do the same.
She never pulled him closer than he was willing to go. Never let her hands wander where they shouldn’t. She simply held him, the way she said her mother used to hold her. The way his mother never did—at least not to his memory.
“You’ve been through something terrible,” she said one night, softly stroking his hair.
It wasn’t a question, but Jack nodded against her lap anyway.
“You don’t have to tell me what. But I want you to know somethin’.” She turned her fingers, running the backs of her knuckles softly down his cheek. “Whatever they did to you, it wasn’t your fault. And whatever you did to get away, you were right to do it.”
A dam cracked open in his chest, rupturing the stillness inside of him. His vision blurred, and his chin trembled as one lone tear slid into her touch. But as she attempted to wipe it away, he caught her hand and brought her fingers to his lips, pressing all his gratitude into a single kiss.
“Thank you,” he whispered in a voice so tight it was barely audible.
“You don’t have to thank me, Jack. It’s okay to simply expect human decency.”
At that, he wept. Great, shuddering sobs that tore through him like storms.
Myrtle held him, patient as the longest night that faithfully waits for day. Jack cried until there was nothing left, as Myrtle softly whispered that he would be okay.
Like the promise of dawn, the ache in his chest finally subsided enough that he could breathe again. No expectation to do anything but.
“That’s it. Just breathe,” she whispered, as she hummed and stroked his hair with a tenderness he’d forgotten existed in the world.
Jack opened his eyes to the glow of surveillance feeds resting in the palm of his hand, the memory of Myrtle’s warmth fading like smoke.
That was nearly twenty years ago.
The phone screen split into six frames showing the front drive of The Preserve. Limousines arrived in a slow procession, their headlights cutting through the lavender haze of dusk.
His favorite time of day. The hour when light surrendered to dark, when the world held its breath between what was and what would be. When more than time shifted, he transcended from a raw nerve into a tapped well of hope.
Myrtle used to sit with him during this hour, back when sitting was all his broken body could manage. She never filled the silence with empty words. She simply stayed.
Always there. Always dependable. And while she wasn’t with him now, he could still feel her caring for him from afar.
As the tributes emerged from their vehicles, each figure small and tentative against the grandeur of the estate, Jack smiled. He knew what they were feeling, that potent mixture of fear, distrust, and hope. Some clutched their hands, wringing their fingers as they were led into the unknown. Others stood frozen on the gravel, necks craned upward at the ivy-wrapped Gothic towers and glittering windows, their faces caught between wonder and terror.
The disorientation of being transported into a world that operated by different rules could drive a person to tears. So when some tributes covered their mouths or held their stomachs, he only viewed it as a natural response, recalling all too well how the unknown could twist into sickening dread.
The tributes looked like royalty, but they were anything but. There was an intellect about them that privilege couldn’t buy. And that intellect was warning them now, sending their stomachs spinning as instinct screamed inside of them that nothing good came without cost.