Chapter Text
Enid.
Poor sweet Enid.
She wasn't looking at you. She was looking past you—into the mirror, at the reflection of your back. At the cracked stone. At the dried blood. At the way the fissures traveled down your spine like a lightning bolt frozen mid-strike.
You could see her eyes shake as they raked over the damage reflected in the glass.
Her mouth trembled. Slightly. At a loss.
"H...what..." Her voice came out fractured, barely a whisper. "Who...why..."
She couldn't form a single proper sentence. Fear had taken over her whole being—radiating off her in waves you could almost feel.
Say something. Anything.
But your throat was closed, your tongue heavy, and all you could do was stand there while she stared at the evidence of everything you'd tried to hide.
"I..."
You looked down.
And finally—finally—realized.
The shirt was still on the floor.
Your chest was bare.
Every part of you that wasn't covered in gauze or stone was on display, and Enid had been looking past you this entire time, but now—
Your arms crossed over your chest, pressing the fabric of your own skin against your ribs. The movement sent a sharp spike of pain through your back, and a hiss escaped through your teeth.
Enid flinched.
The sound pulled her back to reality—back to you.
"D...do you..." She swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "Do you need help?"
Her voice was still shaky. But she was trying.
You closed your eyes. A groan escaped your lips.
"No..."
"Liar."
The word came out sharp—a mix of anger and fear twisting together. When you opened your eyes, her face was set in something between a glare and a plea.
She knows.
Of course she knows.
You couldn't hide anything from Enid. Not really.
"...Fine."
You nodded toward the wall—toward the small metal emergency tin mounted beside the sink. The one you'd been about to open yourself before the pain had forced you to stop.
Fresh gauze. Clean bandages. Everything you needed but couldn't reach on your own.
Enid followed your gaze.
She didn't hesitate.
The notebooks remained scattered on the floor as she crossed the bathroom in three quick steps and yanked the tin open. Her hands were still shaking, but she grabbed the supplies and turned back to you with a determination that made your chest ache.
Weems must have told her how to help.
The thought settled somewhere in your ribs, warm and strange.
While she was gathering everything, you crouched down—slowly, carefully—and reached for the old bandages on the floor. The scissors lay beside them, glinting under the bathroom light.
You'd clean it up. You'd get rid of the evidence. You'd—
"Nope."
Enid's voice cut through the air.
"Nuh uh. We're not doing that."
You looked up at her, frozen mid-reach.
She was standing over you, fresh gauze in one hand, the other planted firmly on her hip. Her expression was a mix of exasperation and something softer—something you couldn't quite name.
"Get up," she said. "You're not cleaning right now."
"...It's just—"
"I don't care." She shook her head. "You're hurt. You're barely standing. And you're trying to pick things up off the floor like that's a normal thing to do."
You opened your mouth to argue.
"Up," she repeated.
You pushed yourself up slowly, bracing against the sink as you rose. The movement sent a dull ache through your back, but it was manageable.
You grabbed your shirt from the floor.
You pulled it up, using the fabric to cover your chest completely instead of your arms. The loose material hung over you, hiding everything beneath.
Enid let out a small squeak.
Her face flushed—deep, unmistakable red. Almost a Roman tomato.
"Y-you might wanna turn around..." Her voice was strained, and she pointedly looked off to the side, refusing to meet your eyes head-on.
You turned.
Your back was away from the mirror now. The image of your damage was already engraved in your mind—seared there by Thornhill's hands and reflected through Enid's horrified eyes. It would take more than turning around to get rid of it.
Now all the mirror showed was your face.
Hollow. Tired. Broken.
Enid made her way over to you, carefully—like she was approaching something fragile. She glanced at your face through the mirror, but her eyes darted away quickly, back to what was in front of her.
There was a solemn look to her face now. Pity. Sorrow.
There was more, but you couldn't read it.
You just closed your eyes to try and forget everything that was happening.
She found the scissors on the floor and picked them up.
Then she started fixing you up.
The process was slow. Quiet.
Enid's fingers worked carefully, peeling away the old bandages with a gentleness that made your throat tight. The scissors snipped through the stubborn strips, and each piece of gauze that fell away felt like a small release.
Something lingered in the back of your mind, though.
Something unrelenting.
You tried to push it down. Tried to focus on the warmth of Enid's hands, the soft sound of her breathing, the way she paused whenever you tensed.
But the thought crept in anyway.
We've seen everything. No need to cover up.
You stiffened.
"Hey—" Enid's voice was soft, concerned. "Did I hurt you?"
"No." The word came out too fast. "Just—keep going."
She hesitated, then continued.
But the memory was already there.
You were twelve years old.
Standing in the middle of your family's estate, fresh from a training session that had left you bruised and bleeding. Your shirt was torn, hanging off one shoulder. You'd been trying to hide the damage—trying to slip past your parents before they noticed.
But they noticed.
They always noticed.
"Stop that." Your mother's voice was cold. "We've seen everything. There's no need to cover up."
Your hands froze over the torn fabric.
"You think we haven't seen worse?" Your father stepped closer, eyeing the bruises with something that wasn't concern. "You're a gargoyle. Act like one. Stop hiding."
So you dropped your hands.
You let them look.
You let them see every wound, every scrape, every failure written across your skin.
And they did nothing.
No comfort. No care. Just cold observation—like you were a specimen, not their child.
"See?" your mother had said, almost pleased. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
You'd wanted to disappear into the stone floor.
You blinked.
The bathroom was back.
Enid was still working, her fingers pressing fresh gauze against your shoulders. She hadn't noticed the brief slip—or if she had, she wasn't saying anything.
But your hands were trembling.
You gripped the edge of the sink.
"Almost done," Enid murmured. "Just a little more."
You nodded. You couldn't speak.
She smoothed the last piece of tape down, her touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
"There," she said softly. "All done."
You let out a breath.
Enid stepped back, setting the scissors on the counter. She gathered the old bandages from the floor—she cleaned them up, not you—and dropped them into the small trash bin.
"Okay," she said. "Come on. You shouldn't be standing in here any longer."
She walked out of the bathroom, leaving the door open behind her.
You stared at your own reflection in the mirror.
We've seen everything. No need to cover up.
You looked back toward the doorway—toward where Enid had disappeared to—but your gaze caught on the floor instead.
The dropped books and papers were gone.
She’s taken them.
You pulled the shirt away from your chest, lifting it over your head in one motion. The fabric rubbed too hard against the fresh bandages, dragging across the sensitive stone and raw skin.
A sharp wince escaped your lips.
Staggered breaths followed—quick, shallow, painful.
Nothing too bad.
You’ve endured worse.
You walked out of the bathroom, feet dragging against the floor. Clothes still littered the ground—shirts, socks, and a jacket you abandoned days ago. You’d get to them soon.
Just not now.
Your eyes found Enid.
She was sitting on the edge of your bed, the notebooks and papers placed neatly on your desk near the window. The scattered mess had been organized. She organized it.
She looked over at you.
Her usual bubbly smile appeared—bright, automatic, practiced.
But you knew it was fake.
It didn’t reach her eyes.
You made your way over slowly, each step heavier than the last. When you finally reached the bed, you lowered yourself onto the mattress with care—every movement measured, every shift of weight calculated to avoid pulling at the fresh bandages.
The mattress dipped under your combined weight.
It groaned—a low, familiar creak.
Used to it, you thought. It’s used to it.
You sat there staring at the floor.
Enid didn’t say anything.
Neither did you.
The silence stretched between you—not uncomfortable, but heavy. Filled with everything neither of you knew how to say.