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I'm aware that they've all spent time with me, taking it in turns to keep me company whilst I tried and failed to come back to them, so devastated by memories that even now haunt me, will continue to haunt me. There are pockets of time that I don't consciously remember these past couple of weeks since we returned to the island, but my body, my heart, my soul, they haven't forgotten what my mind has blanked out.
Concern, care, affection, worry, desperation, love.
I've felt that from them all, despite feeling numb myself. It's for that reason I slip out of bed on unsteady legs, pull on a dressing gown hanging on the back of my bedroom door, and go in search of Carrick. My legs are still weak from lack of use and my head dizzy from not eating enough these past few days, but I push on, determined.
Passing by Arden's bedroom, I see the steady rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps, still fully clothed on his bed. Clutched in his hand is my recipe book. He hangs on to it like a lifeline, and something about that makes the pain in my chest ease a little.
As I continue onwards, my bare feet pressing against the cool wooden floorboards, Carrick's voice carries through the house like an ethereal lullaby, somehow both calming and soothing to my soul. Words that are not sung but intoned with sadness, with heartbreak and passion, love and hope, and despite the heaviness of my limbs and the lingering pain in my body, I press onwards.
My feet carry me downstairs, past the kitchen and dining room, past the office and the door leading down into the basement, towards a part of the old monastery that I've never ventured in before. Carrick's voice grows louder as I near, and at the end of a long, dimly lit corridor is a door that has always been locked, now standing ajar.
Iwas afraid of dying, afraid of falling,
Afraid of loving, silently grieving
But you came along, healing.
Stealing my heart...
His words wash over me and I stumble a little, so profoundly affected by his voice. Steadying myself, I place my hand on the thick wood and push the door open to find myself standing on the threshold of a tiny chapel.
In front of me, Carrick's tall frame is silhouetted against the large window opposite, rays of warm light streaming around him as the sun continues to rise.
His head is thrown back and his eyes are closed as his voice lifts up into the arched ceiling, scattering goosebumps across my skin and taking me back to that time when we were kids.
Back then I'd been affected in much the same way by his voice, drawn to him by its purity and the secrets he kept hidden inside of him. That hasn't changed. In fact, when I look at him now, I sense something he's tried to hide, rising to the surface with every note that releases from his lips.
It isn't just the melody of the song and the words he's singing that touches something deep within me, it's the pain buried beneath it, the trauma. And just like when we were kids I approach him, my silent footsteps gliding across the stone floor.
Carrick finishes with a long trembling note that scatters the dust motes around him and shakes his body to the core.
"Carrick?" I whisper, reaching for him, my hand squeezing his shoulder gently.
"Go away," he cries, knees buckling as he falls to the ground. "You're not real."
My heart tightens painfully, and I remove my hand as his head bows, uncertain what to do next.
"Now I'm imagining your voice, your touch," he mumbles, a broken laugh escaping his lips.
"Carrick, you're not imagining things," I whisper, my voice hoarse as I step around his body and kneel before him.
Slowly he looks up, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief. I gasp at the scar that carves across his face, something I remember seeing at some point over the last few weeks, but not really comprehending. When they took me, he fought so hard, and they hurt him.
"Carrick..."
"Cyn?"
The second he realises that I’m real and not a figment of his imagination, he lunges for me, hauling me into his arms, holding me close. It's not tender, this hug, it's a clawing kind of hope, desperate.
"Fuck, I was going insane waiting for you, Cyn," he mutters into my neck, his lips sliding across my skin as he talks. "I thought you'd never come back to us, so I came here to sing in this place I hate, hoping that whatever mighty power exists would somehow hear my prayers this time.
"And I dreamt of an angel singing. I guess that was you," I reply, his fingers curling into the material of my dressing gown and clutching me closer.
"I'm no angel," he answers at the exact same moment his fingers hit the tender spot on my ribcage and I hiss with pain. He jerks back, letting me go as though scolded. "Fuck. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"
I raise my hand, tears smarting my eyes as he falls onto his arse and scoots away from me, regret, fear, and pain twisting up his features.
"Don't do that," I say.
