Page 172 of Sins of the Hidden

My hand rose of its own accord, hovering near his face, not quite touching, waiting for permission I wasn't sure would come.

His eyes remained fixed on mine, obsidian pools revealing nothing but infinite emptiness.

He didn't look damaged. That was what broke me most. There was no shaking. No tears. No human reaction at all. Just a man who had already mourned himself out of existence.

Another microscopic nod, perfectly controlled—the greatest act of trust he was capable of.

My fingertips brushed the corner of his mouth, the lightest whisper of skin against skin. The scars felt different under my touch—smooth divots in the otherwise rough texture of his stubbled jaw.

His exhale remained steady against my palm, warm but measured. His pulse continued its rhythmic cadence at his throat, unnaturally regulated. His skin remained dry beneath my fingers, temperature unchanged, his face a mask of composed indifference.

This close, his eyes were bone-dry, devoid of any moisture—eyes that had forgotten how to weep long ago, if they ever knew at all. His gaze held mine with an intensity that transcended emotion, asking me not to look away, not to flinch from the ugliness of his truth.

I traced the matching indentations on the other side, completing the circuit of his suffering. Ten points of deliberate damage. Ten monuments to cruelty. Every instinct screamed to pull away, to shield myself from this pain too vast to comprehend. Instead, I cradled his face between my palms,holding him as if he might shatter—this man who had seemed carved from immovable stone.

The truth crashed over me in waves, each realization more devastating than the last. The mask wasn't to hide deformity. It was to hide evidence. It wasn't vanity. It was protection. It wasn't a quirk. It was the only way he knew to keep breathing in a world that had used him and discarded him like garbage.

His entire body turned to carved stone, impossibly motionless. Muscles coiled beneath his skin, not in fear but in absolute control. Nothing about him revealed weakness or vulnerability. Every cell in his massive frame locked in place, refusing to betray even the slightest discomfort at being exposed, at being seen.

But he stayed. For me. With me. Trusting me with the most wounded parts of himself.

"What did they do to you?" My question emerged, cracked and barely audible through the thickness in my throat.

His uneven lips twitched at the corners, a movement so subtle I wouldn't have seen it if I hadn't been memorizing every detail of his exposed face. Not a smile—V didn't smile—but something terrible and intimate, a crack in the foundation that had kept him standing for decades.

"Everything she was supposed to protect," he whispered, and my heart shattered, the pieces piercing my lungs, stealing breath, killing any lingering illusion that love alone could heal wounds this deep.

Trauma numbs you. It carves out the parts you can't survive remembering. My mind built shelters of forgetting. But now Oakley was knocking, gently, relentlessly, and those hidden parts of me were breaking loose, slicing through me like blades. Those gentle taps had pulled these memories free—every touch forcing me to face the truth of who I was, and who I could never escape.

Never truly remembering when it all began, the only thing I remember is when it ended.

Mother flinched every time she saw me, cursing the air I breathed. I was the sole cause of wiping every smile off her face and every tear that fell from her eyes. The man who took advantage of her was a family friend, leaving her with me as the consequence.

Every time she looked at me, I was his face staring back—the stranger who ruined her life. I was a living, breathing reminder of everything she'd lost.

Paying for the sins of someone I never knew. After learning of my mother's pregnancy at only sixteen, her parents sent heraway from Greece to a religious camp in the States to be purified. Divine Diligence was where they sent us. I was only a toddler there and have few memories of the place. After escaping, I questioned why she bothered to take me with her in the first place. She could have easily left me behind.

If she had, I might not be the monster I am today.

We stayed on the streets most nights after we escaped. Mother would dumpster dive for our necessities. Rainfall was all around, the sky above us black. We had been drenched when an older man approached us.

"Come with me," he said. "I have room for the both of you."

Mother jumped at his offer, wanting to get off the streets.

He had a wife. I still remember the wrinkles that traced around her eyes when she smiled. Taking my small hand in hers, she led me away. Mother was taken upstairs with the man who took us in, the sound of the door slamming echoing in my mind. The nice old lady stayed with me, giving me snacks and playing games with me.

Three days went by before I saw my mother again. Sitting in the kitchen with Mrs. Wilson, who had made me pancakes, the footsteps sounded. My mother entered looking different than she had. Sunken black eyes, pale skin, and her hair all messed up. She didn't even look at me.

The same thing happened again. Mother would vanish for days at a time while I was left with Mrs. Wilson. She cooked and baked whatever I wanted, played games with me, and made sure I was clean. She was the first stability I had ever had in my life.

I remember how she'd let me lick the wooden spoon after mixing pancake batter. The way she nodded when I got every drop was magical—like I'd accomplished something important. Each time she ran my bath with the bubbles that smelled like lemons, I thought it meant I was special that day. Good boys getbaths, I'd tell myself. If Mrs. Wilson gave me a bath, it meant I deserved to be clean.

I wished Mrs. Wilson would keep me forever. She felt like safety, like warmth. But even her gentle smiles couldn't protect me from what lived upstairs. Sometimes I'd catch her watching me with sad eyes when she thought I wasn't looking. Maybe she knew what was happening all along.

Everything would change once Mother got an apartment. I don't remember much about it other than my first ever bedroom. A room all to myself. Mother began to smile more when we lived there. She treated me better. I was well fed, had toys, and was clean, just like Mrs. Wilson had done for me.

Mother had taken me back to see Mrs. Wilson. She said she had a friend for me to play with. I was so excited I didn't sleep the night before. Going into the house, my face lit up at seeing paints set out, paper, water cups with what felt like thousands of brushes to use. The other boy smiled. I don't remember his name.

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