Chapter 20
1328words
I sat on his couch.
He filled a basin with water and stirred in soap until suds rose. Then he carried it over with a rag.
"I'm glad you're not badly hurt," he said. His said softly. He wet the cloth and lifted my chin. I let him.
He wiped my cheek, then my forehead, then the bridge of my nose. Each pas of the rag was gentle. Is this how he handles his clay when he sculpts? Being gentle and careful.
"Would you like to stay here for a while?"
I stared past him, at the shelves with photos of his daughter and son. I wonder why I remind him of his daughter, Sylira. I don't see any resemblance expect for the eyes.
"... no, I don't want to be a burden," I muttered.
"You're not." He smiled at me. "I'll always here to help you. You just have to allow for me to do that."
He folded the rag back into the basin. Sat across from me on a chair.
"You don't have to go back there," he said. "...If you want, you move in with me and stay here. ʸᵒᵘ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵐᵒᵛᵉ ᶦⁿ ᵐʸ ᵈᵃᵘᵍʰᵗᵉʳ'ˢ ʳᵒᵒᵐ "
As Mr. Or'dara spoke, his voice became more muffled. The whispering came back again.
"Tu es venari. Quem pater requiir. Quem Octavian vult."
I closed my eyes. The same phrase. It keeps repeating itself over and over again. Stop it.
"ᴵ ʷᵒⁿ'ᵗ ˡᶦᵉ ˢˡʸᵛᶦᵃⁿ, ᴵ ˢᵉᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʰᵃˢ ᵐʸ ᵒʷⁿ ᵈᵃᵘᵍʰᵗᵉʳ ᵉᵛᵉⁿ ᵗʰᵒᵘᵍʰ ᴵ'ᵐ ᵈᵒᶦⁿᵍ ᵃ ʰᵒʳʳᶦᵇˡᵉ ʲᵒᵇ."
Not here. Not in front of him. Stop it!
"ᴵᶠ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵃⁿᵗ, ᴵ ᶜᵃⁿ ˢᵗᵃʳᵗ ᵗᵃᵏᶦⁿᵍ ʸᵒᵘ ᵗᵒ ˢᶜʰᵒᵒˡ. ᴵ ᵃˡʷᵃʸˢ ˢᵉᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵃˡᵏ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᴵ'ᵐ ˢᵘʳᵉ ʸᵒᵘʳ ᶠᵉᵉᵗ ʰᵘʳᵗ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵒˢᵉ ˡᵒⁿᵍ ʷᵃˡᵏˢ."
My hands curled tighter on my lap.
"ᴵ ʷᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᵖʳᵉˢˢᵘʳᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ᶦⁿᵗᵒ ᵃⁿʸᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ. ᴵᵗˢ ᵃˡˡ ᵘᵖ ᵗᵒ ʸᵒᵘ. ᴵ ˢʰᵒᵘˡᵈ ˢᵗᵒᵖ ʳᵃᵐᵇˡᶦⁿᵍ. ᴰᵒ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵃⁿᵗ ˢᵒᵐᵉ ᵗᵉᵃˀ"
"STOP IT!" I yelled.
Mr. Or'dara froze, rage still damp in his hand. His eyes widened, startled by the suddenness of my voice. It's the first time I every yelled.
The whispering suddenly stopped.
I pressed both hands against my head, my breath coming in a sharp gasp. My nails dug into my scalp. "I said stop..."
"...Slyvian?" His voice was low. "Who are you talking to? Did I do something wrong?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't. I don't know how to explain it, not like he'll understand that I'm hearing whispering.
Or'dara set the rag in the basin and slowly sat back down. His gaze softened, lined with worry. "Child... you don't have to carry this weight. You can tell me."
I dropped my hands to my lap. My knuckles were red. My eyes stayed fixed on them.
He sighed. "I can't force you to talk. But I can make you something to eat."
He stood up and walked to the small kitchen in his apartment. Cabinets creaked open, plates rattled.
"A bit to eat may put you in better spirits," he said over his shoulder. "I would know. I love to eat, my gut shows it." He chuckled awkwardly."
I sat on the couch, motionless.
"Oh, I know exactly what to make! Shepherd's Pie potato skins." He smiled faintly. "I used to make it all the time for Sylira. She would beg me to make it for dinner constantly." His wrinkled hands opened the fridge, pulling out potatoes, beef, and other ingredients.
"I used to be annoyed making it every single time. I always tried to convince her I could make something else, but no, she wanted what she wanted." He shook his head with a small sigh. "When she passed... I couldn't stop making it. I still make it every year on her birthday. Set it at her spot at the table."
My eyes narrowed as they drifted back to the photo of his daughter on the shelf. The smiling face that would never age. Forever seventeen.
"...Why?" I asked, low, flat.
"Huh?" Or'dara looked over at me. "Why what?"
"Why make it every year? She's not going to eat it."
He paused, a potato in one hand. His eyes flickered with pain and sadness.
"Well... it's something to remember her by."
"She's dead," I said. My tone didn't rise, didn't fall. It's just monotoned. "It's trivial to make it."
Silence filled the apartment. Only the faint hum of the fridge and the dripping of a leaky pipe somewhere within the walls.
"Maybe it's trivial," he admitted. "But love always is, child. It doesn't have to make sense to matter."
I tilted my head. "Love. That's what you call it?"
"Yes. That's exactly what it is." He said calmly
My hands clenched faintly in my lap. I kept my voice even. Detached. "But your daughter is dead. She won't taste it. She won't smell it. She won't even know you made it. So what's the point?"
Or'dara's shoulder's slumped.
"You waste time, effort, and ingredients," I continued. "All for a corpse in the ground. Is that what love is? Keeping pieces of the dead alive in your head so you can pretend they're still here?"
The rag in the basin dripped quietly. He stayed silent long enough that I thought maybe he didn't have an answer.
Then he said, "Maybe it is pretending. Maybe it's foolish. But if foolishness keeps a person sane then, I'll be that fool every year of my life."
"That doesn't make sense," I said. "She's gone. You can't keep her. People die, and they stay dead. That's the truth. You can make ten thousand Shepherd's Pies and it won't change that."
His mouth trembled; it almost looked like he wanted to cry, but didn't. He picked up the potato again, turning it over in his hands. He chuckled a bit.
"You remind me of her.... so much. Sylira used to argue like this. Cold, always blunt. Always thought the world was nothing but math and rules. But when she laughed... gods, the rules didn't matter anymore. You're the same, minus the laughing. I see it in you."
"I'm not her."
"I know. I just-"
"Then stop comparing me to someone who doesn't exist anymore."
I'm not sure why I'm being... rude to Or'dara. He only wants to help but the words just came out before I thought them through. They were harsher than I meant it to be, though part of me meant every last one.
The silence stretched.
I stared at the photo on the shelf again. Her smile. His loss. The food he kept making for a ghost. He's truly is a fool.
I don't understand," I whispered. "Why hold onto something that only hurts you once you remember it?"
"Because forgetting hurts worse." He starts cutting the potatoes in half.
"I know your upbringing is harsh, so you don't know a lot about emotions. You just don't know the feeling yet." He smiled gently. "I'm sure in the future, you'll care for someone. Even if you don't realize you care for them, once they're gone. Something will change within."
I lowered my gaze on the floor. "Or maybe nothing will change at all."
"It will." He says calmly.
He then turns on a old looking radio and played whatever music, he stirred the meat in a pan.
Minutes later, he placed a plate before me. Steam rose off the shepherd's pie potato skins, cheese melting golden across the top. He sat across from me again, hands folded in his lap. He didn't push, didn't urge me to eat. Just waited.
I picked one up. Warmth pressed into my fingers, melted cheese stretching faintly as I bit into it.
It was... good.
