Page 44 of Collin: Episodes 1-3
The bell, of course, the bell, as if he would use it. Collin forced a hint of a smile and nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Try to rest. And if you can’t, ring the bell. And if I don’t answer, you can come get me.”
Collin shrugged. I’m not afraid of the dark. He almost said it. But it was a lie. He was afraid of himself in the dark.
“I’m fine, sir.”
Mr. Reevesworth pressed his lips together. “Being fine is not a requirement, Collin. It’s not even an expectation.”
“Yes, sir.”
If only he could ask Mr. Reevesworth to stay, to hold him through the night. But that was Mr. Moreau’s place.
Mr. Reevesworth bowed his head as if thinking and then nodded. “Rest well, Collin.” And then he was gone, the closed door stealing even one last glance.
Collin stared out the window for another hour, watching lights flick on and off in the building to the south. In time, there were more lights off than on. And still, he couldn’t bring himself to lie down. Visions of Mr. Reevesworth stretched out, asleep, long arm outstretched over a pillow, filled played through his thoughts with all the force of a Wagner symphony. Loneliness as an ache crawled out of his chest and gripped him by the throat.
He threw himself down on the bed, jarring his head. Drawing up his knees to his chest, he clutched his temples and breathed through the momentary throbbing inside his skull. Note to self: not yet ready for that. At least it was better than before.
How was he supposed to function now? He’d been fine, pushing through, surviving on a knife’s edge, embracing the bitterness of not enough. Starving, he had been living in a state of shutdown where things continued to get done, money got made, and existing got marked off in a checklist manner. But now he’d tasted food. He’d had water on his tongue. Warmth had bled into his skin from Mr. Reevesworth’s hands on his skin, from his arms holding him down. How was he supposed to return to the cold now that he knew what warmth was?
He couldn’t.
He stared at the bell.
If only he could ring it and the man would come back and hold him until he could close his eyes. The metal was cold in his hands as he picked it up. A finger inside the bell kept the tongue from clanging. He turned the small silver instrument over and rubbed his thumb against the bright shiny surface reflecting the night lights in the window. The handle was mahogany or some such dark color. With the lights off, it looked black.
Maybe he could ring it. Maybe he could try.
Then Mr. Reevesworth would come, looking like warmth and safety, soft pants hanging low on his cut hips. He’d ask what Collin needed, and then what?
You. I need you.
How could he say that? He had no right. He’d already ruined one of the man’s shirts today. No, yesterday. It was long past midnight.
Collin stood and paced, holding the bell silently in his hand. It bit into his palm. He gripped his opposite elbow with his free hand, digging nails into soft skin and tight muscle.
His nails tore through his skin, elbow to wrist, before he’d even realized what he planned to do. He looked down.
Small droplets of blood rose to the surface, dark in the light. He stepped to the window and watched them. He flexed his hand around the bell, forcing more blood to the surface. All too fast, it stopped flowing. He pressed in on the cuts, pushing more dark life force out.
Silent tears, speaking for him with no one to see. Poetry in moonlight; dark words no one should read.
He should stop.
He should ring the bell.
He opened his palm around it. It was so small, sparkling in the specks of the city lights. Ring it.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t bring himself to make the motion. He clenched his fingers tight, hiding it from sight. Maybe, maybe if he was just closer, maybe he could wrap this feeling in his chest tight enough to stop this madness.
Placing his hand on the door, he paused. Long practice helped ease it open without sound. Bare feet glided over wood floors and soft carpets. Across the living room, into the hallways, past the first and second offices. He kept on. The scent of Mr. Reevesworth lingered on the air, a cologne, perhaps. It was strongest in front of a recessed door, darker than the other doors, with a pattern burned into it.
Collin’s feet led him right to it. He raised his hand to knock.
But there would be no knocking. He already knew.
I should go back. Mr. Reevesworth’s words about only being where he was invited rang in his head. He was risking it all.
