Between The Walls

Chapter 17

Isabelle gently cleaned the dried blood around his mouth. Her hands going on autopilot as her mind wanders to Brahms' confession.

Murderer. Brahms was a murderer. How did it come to this?

She refused to ask questions before; instead, decided to create her own theories. She was so sure that the Heelshires were just grieving parents, stuck with the idea of living a happy life with their deceased loved one. But she was proven wrong when Brahms himself decided to show himself to her. Then she thought him a poor, neglected child. Oh, no. Turns out, it was worse than that.

Sigh.

Brahms told her everything. How he murdered his childhood friend, how his mother locked him up on the walls and pretended that he was dead in order to save him from punishment, and them from disgrace. How they started to make deals in order to keep peace...

Her mind reels with all the information she just received. She did not notice the tears that started to fall from her eyes.

Brahms caught them in his hands.

"I'm so sorry, Isabelle." he whispered.

She did not answer. Instead, she hastily wiped her eyes and applied an ointment on his busted lip.

Why is she even crying? Was it fear? Is she afraid that Brahms is going to hurt her? No, it wasn't. Even after all she came to know, she still believes that Brahms would never hurt her. Not intentionally.

Grabbing some ice from the freezer, she wrapped it in cloth and instructed him to hold it over his swollen eye. He did, keeping his other eye firmly in her direction. She grabbed his mask next and washed it as best as she could. She scrubbed all the grime and dirt off until it returned to it's former spotless white finish. However, no soap could ever scrub what darkness and impurity it signifies.

The night continued, with Brahms hanging onto her every word like a good child and her going on autopilot. She no longer sees or think, she just do. She fed him, cleaned him, gave him his mask, read him his story, all without thinking of a single thing.

Autopilot.

As she was about to leave, Brahms gently grasped her arm, stopping her from taking another step. She didn't turn around, but waited for him to say something.

"Kiss?" he asked, hoping against hope to be able to score a kiss, an actual kiss. For so long, he longed to be shown genuine affection. And so far, Isabelle had spoiled him. But tonight is different. Brahms is in for disappointment.

"No." she gently answered, making Brahms' grasp on her arm loosened.

His hand fell on his lap as he watched her walk away. Tears of disappointment threatened to fall from his eyes, the only part of his face visible behind the mask. What else is new? She pushed Brahms away, just like many others before her.

He should've known.