Page 14 of Enzo

“Hmmm,” Tudor murmured. That could have meant anything from calling a SWAT team to suggesting coffee. I’d given up on deciphering what the old man meant by his hmmm’s and Yoda-like wisdom. I wasn’t clever enough to second-guess anyone as worldly-wise and manipulative as Tudor Barrera.

FIVE

Robbie

The room was barely morethan a storage closet—a converted filing room carved out of the garage space, with walls of cold sheetrock and one flickering strip light buzzing overhead, clogged with the bodies of dead insects, but it was mine.

I shifted the mattress to the cot inch by inch, muscles screaming with each movement. The pain was evil—sharp, unforgiving—it stole the air from my lungs and made my vision blur. But I kept going. I had to. Sweat clung to my skin by the time I got the mattress into place, and I collapsed onto it, gasping, knife clutched in one hand. My fingers cramped around the hilt. That too, was mine.

Above me, the ceiling offered no comfort—just more sheetrock, cracked in places, water-stained and old. The room reeked of oil and mechanical fumes, but there was no rot, no mildew, no damp earth. I could live with that. I knew this air. I understood it. It made sense in a world that hadn’t in a long time.

I crawled to the door, dragging my battered body with me. Pain flared in every joint, every breath. I cracked it open to see if anything had been left. My meds were there. A bottle of water. A plate with a cold slice of pizza, a cookie, and a sad-looking carrot. I reached out, snagged it all in one go, and pulled it back into the room.

The cookie was too sweet. I managed one bite before it turned to glue in my mouth. I couldn’t touch the pizza. Couldn’t think about the carrot. I shoved the plate back outside, shame and fury churning in my stomach. The memory of being denied food lingered. It had been one of their favorite punishments—twisting the mind as much as it weakened the body.

“You need to eat,” came the voice, and I froze.

I gripped the knife and jabbed it toward the door.

Peeking out, I saw him—Enzo. Leaning against the wall outside like he wasn’t waiting.

“Go away,” I hissed.

“You need to eat.”

“I can’t, okay? I can’t!”

I wanted to scream at him, to beg him to leave me the hell alone. But I didn’t. I shut the door and curled up on the mattress.

The next time I opened it for meds, something had changed. A mug. One of those keep-warm ones. Soup. Tomato, I think. A few small crackers on the side. My stomach cramped at the smell, and still, I forced myself to try. A sip. Another. A nibble of a cracker.

There was a note, taped to the mug.We can get you any soup you want. Just write it here.

There was a tiny arrow pointing to a blank space.

I stared at it for a long time before scratching out one word:vegetable. I didn’t expect anything. Tricks were easy. Promises were easier to break.

Later, I needed the bathroom. I took the knife. Crawled up the stairs. Every step was agony. My lungs burned. At the top, the one called Jamie stood back, arms folded, eyes anywhere but on me. He didn’t speak or move—he gave me space

I got to the bathroom. Didn’t cry. Almost did.

The shower was there, calling to me—I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had hot water. I ignored it. The toilet was all I could manage.

I noticed another sign.

For Robbie, it said, with more arrows. Same handwriting. Next to it, a pile—washbag, deodorant, wet wipes, toothbrush, toothpaste. I stared for a long time.

My throat closed. I could’ve cried. I brushed my teeth, gagging. The soup came up. Not much of it. Enough to sting. I tried the deodorant, but my hands were too unsteady. Settled for a wipe. One. Dragged it over my arms, under my shirt. Stared into the mirror.

Who was I? Who did Enzo see when he looked at me? Who did any of them see?

A ghost. A wreck. Nothing.

Gaunt, bruised, with stitches at my temple and one eye swollen near shut. My eyes—Christ, my eyes. One pale blue, one a deep brown. Heterochromia. My blessing, John called it. Like all the things that made him do awful things to me. He used to say it wasn’t his fault and it was all on me with my mismatched eyes , the way I remembered too much. Said I wasn’t right. Said it made me his to use because I wasn’t fit to…

“Stop,” I said on repeat, nothing more than a whisper

I was wrong, inside and out.

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