Healing - Book One

twenty four

The week after we all returned home, I discovered that Enoch's birthday was on November 3rd - in other words I had four days to sort something out for his day. It will be a significant birthday too - this time he will turn eighteen.

The morning after our return to the coast by steam train, I took my coin purse and carried myself into the village. I knew exactly what to get the boy. Striding into the leather shop next to the butcher's, I called my request confidently - for I was proud that I was able to afford such a luxury. The tanner kindly gift-wrapped the present to save me a chore and handed me the parcel in a brown paper bag.

I made myself scarce when I returned to the house. The birthday boy himself was sat in his bedroom, fiddling with a mutilated baby doll which I could have sworn had belonged to Claire. Anyhow, I crept past his doorway with such silence I could have passed for the air itself.

The bag is now stashed away on top of my wardrobe, and I am lying beneath my sheets in my pink pyjamas, watching the sun rise over the sea on the morning of November the third. Beams of orange and red and pink bounce through my window panes and reflect beautiful patterns onto my bedroom walls.

As soon as the orange orb emerges fully from behind the ocean, I spring up from my bed and quickly change into a rose-coloured tea dress - always reserved for special occasions. My fingers shake with excitement while I fasten all the buttons up the bodice, then fanning my collar out at the neckline.

When I am dressed, I stand before my mirror and run a comb through my hair, pulling free knitted strands and returning the natural curl to my locks. Taking a hairpin from the surface of my dresser, I roll the from part of my hair back from my face into a neat coil on the top of my head. I apply some lip rouge with my left ring finger.

The final stage of my beauty-centred ensemble is retrieving the gift from the top of my wardrobe. Standing on my tiptoes, I reach my arms upwards and grapple around the dusty surface and, eventually, pull down the paper bag. I exclaim quiet triumphs, and take the parcel from it's bag, discarding the brown paper onto my bed.

When I creep out into the corridor, it is deadly silent. I must be the first one awake. The floorboards creak underneath my shoes while I skulk the short distance down the hall to Enoch's closed door. For a second, I have second thoughts about waking him and stand outside his room, having a silent argument with my conscience. Perhaps he would like a while in bed?

"For goodness sake." I say to myself, before pushing the handle downwards with my free hand.

The door, luckily, doesn't make a sound as I push it open. A weak stream of light finds its way through the linen curtains which cover the window. The desk and the shelves appear to have been tidied, and some of the jars have been organised into size order. Ignoring the all-too-familiar stench of blood from any fresh hearts he has stashed away, I shut the door behind me and turn towards the bed.

The scot lies facing the wall, the slither of bare back not covered by the quilt is the only part of him I see besides the back of his head.

"Happy birthday to you..." I sing, softly and as quietly as possible. I want him to wake up to the song. "Happy birthday to you..." I have reached his bed now, and I take a seat on the slice of mattress which is not taken up by his body. "Happy birthday, dear Enoch..." I place my hand on his shoulder and slowly rub it up and down his exposed bicep, trying to stir him. "Happy birthday to you."

On the lingering last note, I hear a grunt emerge from the sleeping boy. Not removing my hand from his muscle, I give him a little shake which finally pushes him to wake. His head rears, his eyes open and squint at me. My palm is forced to slip off him as he rolls onto his back, rubbing his hands over his face.

"Good morning, sleepy head." I chirp, a large smile on my face. Enoch's brows suddenly furrow, and he pulls his quilt over his bare chest.

"Why are you up so early?" He enquires, quite obviously checking his chest is covered up.

"Because it's your birthday, silly."

"You're all dressed up." His voice warbles, still sleepy.

"Well, today is quite a special occasion, is it not?" I put the present on my lap and take a long look at it, checking for any imperfections which may have slipped passed me previously. "I got you a little something."

"Oh Violet, no! I didn't get you anything!" Enoch covers his eyes with his fingers.

"Don't be silly. Here you go." I reply, insistent. I hand over the parcel into his hands, but he doesn't take full hold of it straight away. "Open it, you fool." I tell him, a playful tone in my voice.

Reluctantly - and with a heavy sigh - he rips the paper apart with his nails. His hands lift up a pair of black leather gloves. My anticipation peaks and I'm overjoyed when he smiles at his gift.

"I thought you could wear them to protect your hands." I say, looking back on the time when he burnt his palms.

"You really are clever." He remarks, trying them on for size. Thankfully, they fit him well. His finger wiggle around inside and the leather makes a nice sound while it moves.

"Do you like them?" I ask, wanting closure.

"Of course I do."

With his words, Enoch sits up and wraps his arms around me. I mirror him, enveloping his neck in my arms and resting my head on his shoulder. The feel of his skin against me sends a rush through me. His fingers run up and down the seam of my dress, his nails scraping the zipper. His arms squeeze me close to him. I have never felt so warm, so protected.