Alexander Woods's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

Alexander woke on the kitchen floor. His sweater was rucked up to his ribs. His hands were sticky. He lifted them and saw the red drying in the beds of his nails, worked deep under every ring. He did not remember going downstairs. He did not remember the door. The last clear thing was the chair by the window and the small brown bird. Between then and now was a black space he could not open. He stood too fast and caught the counter. Henry was still asleep upstairs. Alexander could hear the old boards settling. He crossed to the basin and turned the tap. The water ran pink, then red, then pink again. He scrubbed with the dish brush until his knuckles stung against the silver. Blood beaded on the white rim of the sink and slid down the pedestal in thin lines. He wiped the rim with the corner of his sleeve and only smeared it worse. His hands began to shake. He pressed them flat against the cold stone and made them stop. "Alexander." Henry stood in the doorway in his brown sweater, glasses already on, hair still flat from the pillow. He looked at the sink. He looked at the smear on Alexander's cuff. He looked at Alexander's bare feet, which were streaked with dirt and something darker. Alexander felt the room tilt out and back. He watched Henry's face the way he watched himself sometimes, from far off. He waited for the questions. He tried to build a shape in his mouth that was not the truth. "I went out back," he said. His voice came thin. "There were bones. A whole pile of them, behind the cottage. I think I cut my foot on one. I was trying to clean up before you saw." He looked down. "I didn't want you to worry." Henry did not move for a long moment. Then he crossed the kitchen and took the dish towel off its hook and ran it under the tap. He knelt and wiped Alexander's foot himself, careful around the arch. "Foxes," Henry said. "They'll drag a kill up close to a house if nothing chases them off. I'll rake it out this afternoon." He did not look up. "Next time, wake me. I don't want you handling that alone." Alexander nodded. His throat closed. Henry squeezed his ankle once, gentle, and stood. Henry went to put the kettle on. Alexander watched his guardian's back, the steady hands, the sweater pulled straight. He had lied, and the lie had held. Nothing had been taken from him. No ring, no door, no promise. He should have felt safe. Instead he felt the black space in his memory widen by an inch, and understood, without finishing the thought, that he had just bought it more room to grow.