Page 23 of Adam, Mine

Elias whimpered and curled tighter beneath the shade of the fallen oak. At once his stitches tugged, and a sharp pain struck him once again. He gasped, blinded in his agony.

The voices were getting farther away. Perhaps, he hoped, the townspeople were heading to the woods leading away from the village.

Even frightened and hiding, Elias could not be angry at them. He hadn’t the time to look at his reflection, but he could not fault them for their reaction. A thing as tall as a man walking naked through the streets, trembling in shock, burns bubbling with puss, hunched over, muscles still weak from electrocution.

A nightmarish specter arriving in the dark of night. Incapable of speech, baying like an animal, dripping with foul liquid in the light of the streetlamps.

Were it not him, he would have joined in their shrieking. Grabbed something with which to defend himself. Pushed the thing he had become from his own door and set upon himself like a stranger.

So Elias could not fault them.

Naked and cold and forsaken, he still could not fault them.

Rope

Anger came later. Elias was not quick to rage.

He didn’t have much experience with it. His father was a quiet man, strong and fierce when he needed to be. But he acquiesced often and preferred to share his pain, fear, or expectations in search for a solution. His mother fussed, but it was just the way she loved. With complaints, quick pinches on the cheek, and scolding.

Elias was kind, so people were kind back. He was vulnerable, so people were careful. He was generous, and people rarely take from those who always give. Anger was the frustration after stubbing your toe, disappointment after losing a game of dice, irritation with dough not rising high enough, sorrow at rain on a day meant for outdoor celebration.

He didn’t know it could be like this. So dark it made him shake, pulled the feeling from his smarting skin, and drowned him in the nothingness of it.

Elias had never wanted to hurt anyone before, but he immediately understood it now. As the day that one learns their body can be used for pleasure cannot be unwound, his hands were given new meaning as the craving for death swept through him sweet as release.

He stayed curled beneath that fallen tree until the sun came out and the birds began to sing. His eyes smarted from exhaustion; he hadn’t expected to live through the night.

In the light of day, he inspected himself. Though his cuts deserved warmth, cleanliness, and care, his burns had been soothed by the cold of the evening and were faring better than burns he’d received in the past. The bubbles of pus had broken in his struggle, leaving raw scabs behind that blazed when touched by the wind.

The black fluid he had vomited smelled like old blood and stomach acid. He had thought it was a foul potion given to him in his sleep. Elias was relieved that it was not.

His feet were healing well from his travels, but each step still pained him. His hair, hair that his mother loved and braided for him each night, was nearly gone. More fell into dust as he felt around his head, taken in the fire. No wonder she had not known him.

Tears prickled his eyes again, but he willed them not to fall. He didn’t need the pain of them.

What he did need was a plan.

Rowan

He bathed in the freshwater spring where his family drew from for baths and drinking. Waited until he heard his sisters come and go, knowing that they wouldn’t return until the following day. Then Elias sluiced the filth from himself with his bare hands.

It was too cold to bathe outdoors. This was the season they boiled wet cloths to keep clean, filled the water with herbs to scent their skin and the house.

Elias thought of that pine-scented heat and sobbed, hard and dry, as the wind blew through him.

The temperature was going to become a problem very soon. He needed to stay here only until it got dark, but that was many hours from now, and he was starting to get hungry besides.

Elias chanced a fire, praying that the villagers didn’t see his smoke and come to investigate. He filled the pit beneath the flames with rocks from the stream. When they roasted near to boiling, he buried them beneath a thin layer of earth and lay upon them as a heated bed.

This could not last him for days, but it did not need to.

When the sun finally went down, and the chill had begun to wrack him again, Elias stood up. He walked steadily along the side of the village in the woods until he reached the house of the carriage driver.

No one had entered this house since Franz had gotten ill, for fear of it catching. His rough coughing could be heard from the street, and he had been coughing for months. Women covered their mouths with their handkerchiefs when they passed, forced their children to cross to the other side of the street.

It had been some time since anyone had checked on him. He was widowed and had no children. Franz was either dead or dying, and it was not custom to intervene until there was a smell. But tonight the outside of Franz’s home smelled like earth and wind. There was no smoke from his chimney and the windows were dark.

Elias had never been this sort of man, the kind who creeps and trespasses. The ache of his heart was quieter than the ache of his skin. So he placed a hand on Franz’s door. He wanted to call out, to ask after him, to apologize. But his ruined throat did not allow for that kind of grace.