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The words were ugly to my own ears, but it drew him out of his rage-induced spiral.
“Is that what you believe I think of you?”
I nodded without hesitation. “I am a liability, and a burden.”
His hands hung at his sides as he studied me. “No.”
That was it? That was all he said, in true Antonio fashion.
“No… what?” I asked.
The frenetic energy returned as he stepped impossibly closer and held his hands out toward me, only to clench his fists and drop them back to his sides. He turned away, and then spun around again. He opened his mouth and closed it.
Tears were pricking my eyes. Emotions threatened to swallow me up. “We don’t have to do this right now.”
“Yes we do,” he breathed. The manic behavior waned, and I could hardly believe I’d seen so much from him in such a short time. “When I was young, there was a small garden on my parents’ estate. We did not always live as grand as all this.” He looked around, almost bitter. “One day, I found a baby bird with a broken wing, and the servant told me it would die.” His eyes were lined with silver. “I didn’t believe them, and tried to nurse it back to health. When I held it in my hands, it was almost like I could feel every bone in its body. It was safe with me.”
My throat tightened, and he swallowed.
“It didn’t matter. The bird died after a few days.”
The words stung. “What an awful story.”
He shook his head. “It got worse. I was always too soft for my family. Too gentle to be anything but a failure.”
With a deep breath, he unbuttoned the top button on his thin white shirt and pulled it off, revealing the pale bronzed skin of his torso. I couldn't help but stare, my eyes drawn to the jagged lines that marred his once flawless flesh. They were old scars, their edges softened by time, but still impossible to ignore.
There was no way that they came from a singular beating over a bird, these were a testament to years of abuse.
"When we were on the mountain, you told me you weren’t born as the person you show to the world, you were made,"—his light brown eyes clouded with pain,—“and I understood you."
My fingers trembled as I reached out, hesitating just above the raised ridges of his scars. My touch was feather light, an offering of understanding and empathy. The unnaturally smooth texture of the marks beneath my fingertips sent shivers through me, connecting our shared experiences in a way words never could. I dropped my hand.
"Lo siento, Antonio," I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. "I didn't know."
"Few do," he replied, his gaze locked on mine. "When I see your pain, it hurts me to my very core. You are another bird.”
I recoiled. “I’m not—“
He silenced me with his hand. “You are fragile. Reckless. Of course, you are also strong and brilliant, but you can’t control the entire world. The snow, the Cinturón de Fuego, the competitors—all of it could kill you. One evil man nearly did.” His voice cracked.
What was I supposed to say to that? I felt seen to my core, naked in the most vulnerable way, and I didn’t like it. It hurt. Antonio didn’t even know that I had gone with Omar willingly at first.
I cleared my throat, trying to move past the moment, and gestured to the book Antonio had placed on the desk. “I was looking for a way to heal these scars. To be whole again,” I whispered, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. "I can't stand the sight of my scars anymore, Antonio. It's a constant reminder of everything that's happened. Pensé en cortarme..." The intrusive thoughts of gold blood and the silver letter opener crossed my mind.
"I’m glad you came here. I can help you fix this."
My throat tightened, and I swallowed hard, trying to push past the knot of fear and uncertainty that threatened to choke me. "You don’t need to help me. I just need Magda, I just need to leave. It will be okay. You’ll be okay."
He shook his head. "Mi Carmen," he whispered, his voice softening as he reached out to gently brush away a stray lock of hair from my face. "I’ll give you the world if you ask. Magda is a call away, and I will bring her to you. Estoy aquí contigo."
I swallowed but couldn’t speak. He was with me. What was he saying?
Antonio shifted and his eyes roved over the shelves, the soft lamplight casting shadows across his face. He pulled a book from its resting place, its spine cracked and worn with age. "You don't need to hurt yourself, Carmen," he said fiercely. "No one should have to bear these kinds of wounds, especially not at their own hand."
I shifted awkwardly.
He flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for. There was a palpable energy in the air when it came to Antonio and his books. He knew each one like a close friend. I couldn’t help staring as his finger traced the lines of text. Then, when he angled the book so I could see the page titled 'Sirena de Sangre,’ I stepped closer to get a better look. The ancient script was accompanied by intricate illustrations of people performing various rituals involving candles, incantations, and potions.
