Page 62 of Debt of My Soul

Fleur hasn’t moved a muscle. She stands straight, arms clasped to her front, eyes roving around the homely living area.

“Shower is on. Everything you need is in there. I’ll grab you some clothes from my room. Unfortunately, until we can get you some new ones, you’ll need to borrow a shirt and sweats from me.”

Fleur doesn’t answer. I track a single tear falling from the inside corner of her eye as it drips down her nose. She looks lost.

“You’re alive, Fleur. Get in the shower.”

A hand smacks her tear away and she scowls at me while slowly moving to the bathroom. Once she steps in, she faces the rectangular medicine cabinet mirror, and her eyes widen in horror.

She doesn’t look bad. I’m not sure Fleur could look bad. But her eyes are bloodshot and so heavy they look swollen, and red dirt is slathered all over her face. While she studies herself, I gather an old T-shirt and the smallest sweatpants I own and setthem on the toilet next to her towel. I realize quickly she won’t have a new bra and underwear until we can go into town.

“Fleur. Get in the shower. Then you need to eat.”

She startles when I speak. Playing with the hem of her shirt, she opens and closes her mouth several times as if she wants to say something. I wait for what feels like an eternity before she finally says, “I can’t lift my arms.”

It takes me a moment to fully understand what she’s saying. Her voice is so thin, torn by her screams and pleas. But it finally registers. She spent hours tonight digging in hard-ass dirt and her arms are spent. She’s got nothing left.

I step to her, holding her eyes in a silent question. She nods, and I move my fingers to the bottom of the stained shirt and lift the fabric off her. The lace bra from the last time I saw her sits on her pale skin, while several bruises mark her body from, I’m assuming, her struggle at the farmhouse and the metal cot. I don’t let my eyes linger on her, even though I want to. She’s in such a vulnerable position, and I don’t want her to get the wrong idea. She blinks at me when I don’t instantly move, then I turn to leave and shut the door.

The shifting of the shower curtain lets me know she’s gotten in, but it’s quickly followed by short whimpers growing into long, drawn-out sobs. She tries her best to silence her cries, the muffled sounds muted, but this is a small cabin. You can’t hide anything.

The charcoal pencils sitting on my desk call to me, and I trace my fingertips over some paper before I flick it away and storm out the door.

Echoing laughter from the clubhouse manages to filter toward the cabin, but it’s better than the ugly sobs causing my stomach to knot.

For twenty minutes, I stare at the stars. They’re dull, and the dark of night settles over the cabin like some kind of omen. Fleur being here is … wrong. She shouldn’t be here, let alone with me.

I push to stand, noting the noises coming from the cabin closest to mine. Most of the men had a great night tonight if the roaring laughter and sounds of pleasure echoing through the compound are any indication.

I walk back through the door and listen for the crying I was so desperate to escape. It’s gone, the cabin is utterly silent. Turning each of the three deadbolts to lock the door, I also draw the simple ivory curtains shut.

The fridge is currently empty aside from a few items, so I’ll have to make a trip to the grocery store when I take Fleur to pick up some items she needs. I mentally run through the canned soups possibly in my cupboard while switching off the cabin porch lights.

Turning, I freeze.

Fleur stands in the living room, hair wild and wet. Droplets from her long hair drip down the shirt I gave her, and the pants she’s wearing barely stay up despite the fact she rolled them several times.

She stares at me, gaze flicking to the three locks on the door. Her gray eyes, like the stars, are dull and lifeless. Her face is clean, free from the dirt and grime of the past couple of days, and I had almost forgotten about the scattering of freckles dusting her nose and cheeks. But now that I can see them, I’m wondering how I could ever forget.

She glances at the couch, and with a lean ever so slightly, her eyelids flutter. It’s as if she’s imagining how it would feel to sit on the soft love seat after days of sitting on concrete, and she’s drawn to it.

“Why don’t you sit,” I say. “I don’t have much. But I’ll heat up some chicken noodle soup if that works for you.”

As if on cue, her stomach rumbles and she wraps her arms around her middle and nods before shuffling over to the couch.

Sitting straighter than a rod, her gaze flits around the cabin space. She pauses when she gets to the coat rack my grandfather made, and she spends even longer studying the sketch of the forest framed above my desk.

In three strides I’m rifling through the cabinets, searching for the canned soup. After placing a pot on the stove, I empty the can’s contents and stir, making sure the soup is plenty hot. The fanciest bowl I have is a speckled blue one, but I pour the soup in there and then grab a spoon. I take the dish to where Fleur is still frozen on the couch.

Milk crates make up my coffee table. It was a project I did with my grandfather in high school, which he kept stored away in his garage. When I moved back to Ruin, he pulled it out for me. It’s sturdy enough, I guess, so I set the bowl down on it and extend the spoon to her.

She blinks but reaches up to take it, carefully leaning over the bowl to bring the first taste to her mouth. Her throat works the soup down, her eyes widening a bit before her slow pace melts away into a small frenzy. She eats so fast I’m worried her stomach won’t be able to handle it, though I say nothing.

In no time at all, the spoon clinks in the finished bowl and she wipes the back of her hand across her mouth.

“Sorry,” she says, redness creeping up her neck and blooming over the apples of her cheeks. “I was really hungry.”

Pain settles deep in my gut.You could’ve done more for her. You should’ve done more.

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