Chapter Text
The sun rises again.
As it does every morning. Regardless of clouds, of rain, of terrible haunting memories and moods like snarls of thunder. Ignorant of it all, the sun will always rise.
Just as it does today.
My eyes are already open, watching the words on the flimsy scrap of newspaper turn from little black smudges into full, powerful words.
Boy born without eyes reads with his hands.
I’ll never tire of reading that.
The mourning doves begin first, cooing their gentle dirge to wake the rest of the wildlife. They talk to one another — from the shrubs in the garden to far-off trees. I don’t know what they mean, but they seem to understand one another. I like that. The finches that nest in the eaves begin next, with their high, unpredictable titters. And they, of course, wake the crows, who cough and caw and flap about, making a ruckus. Once the crows are up, I know it’s my time.
I rise from my own nest and step out onto the floorboards, wincing as they creak. They never used to creak this loudly. Maybe they will collapse some day, much like the roof. I don’t know what I’ll do then. I like sleeping up here, on the top floor; going downstairs brings back too many sour memories.
For now, I ignore the creaking. I want to trim the hedges.
The sun has risen much more by the time I hear the growl. It snaps me from where I’ve been lost in trimming the stag's antlers; it’s been a long, long time since I’ve heard anything like it. But nothing could make me forget the low grumble, the crunching of leaves and twigs beneath the weight of round rubber. It means someone’s coming. It means someone’s here.
I don’t know what to do when people visit. The last time it happened, it had been nighttime, and a group of young ones had arrived in their growling metal box which belched smoke into the garden. They were laughing, squealing, and pushing each other towards the door of the house, but none of them had ventured inside. Back then, I’d been watching from my window, not understanding. Were they here to visit? But if so, why wouldn’t they knock? Now, I think they may have been playing some sort of game. At least, it seemed like they were having fun, despite their squeals.
Before then, a man dressed in blue shorts would arrive most mornings in his white metal box, posting papers and envelopes into our door. As time passed, his visits had grown less frequent. Now, it’s been countless sunrises since I’ve seen him. I don’t think I’ll see him again.
Now, hearing the growls makes me rush back inside, pressing the heavy wooden door closed with my shoulder. I head up the stairs, and once at the top, I cross over the creaking floorboards towards the window. By the time I’ve made it, the new metal box has stopped — a beautiful bright yellow colour, like a goldfinch — and the wrought-iron gates are being pushed open.
I hope it’s not more young ones. The sounds of their laughter had been enchanting, but the squeals they emitted made me cower. It was like they feared the house. I don't like fear.
But wandering through the gate comes a lady, and she is not so young. She’s alone. In one hand, she holds a large bag; with the other, she pushes through the vines that drape down over the gate.
She stops. She looks around. And a strange sensation overcomes me. It’s like the contents of my chest leap up into my throat, closing off my airway and leaving my chest empty and tingly. But oddly, it is not a bad sensation. It’s light. It’s fluttery. It makes the corners of my lips twitch upwards in a way that my muscles aren’t used to.
I’m incapable of blinking as I watch her step inside the garden. The breeze, light as it is on this sunny day, tousles her hair, which is as golden-brown as sparrow feathers. Her clothes are like lilac, and beautiful. She twirls around as she gazes upon the hedges, whispering to herself in a voice that is light, airy, and sweet. She sounds nice. She sounds friendly. I think she is admiring the hedges.
That is, until she lifts her gaze upwards, hand shielding her eyes from the sun. I duck back from the window, letting the shadow of the roof engulf me. Making my muscles shudder, she calls out.
“Hello?”
That word… It reaches out to me.
All at once, she is walking down the gravel pathway. Approaching the door. She does something I’ve never seen anybody else do — uses the big iron ring upon the front door to create dolorous knocking sounds. They echo through the whole of the house, through the vast empty halls and up onto the top floor. It makes some of the nesting finches take flight.
I am still. I am quiet. Moments pass with no sound, and I am beginning to think it’s all safe — that the lady has given up — until the word calls out again.
“Hello?”
She is not leaving. On the contrary, I hear the door open. It protests, groaning and sighing in its old age, and her footsteps fill the hall below. Hearing footsteps aside from my own in the house panics me, and I realise… I don’t know what to do. This has never happened before. Is she here for a reason? Does she want something? Surprising myself, I venture slowly down one staircase, looking over a balcony until I can see the bottom floor.
She calls out in a soft voice. “Hello…?” It is soft, yes, but demanding. “Avon calling!” I don’t know what an Avon is. Should I know what it means? Is it something everybody else knows?
She takes small steps through the shaft of light the doorway creates, and stops as they come into view. The machines. The creations. In contrast to her, with her small frame and colours and soft voice, they look dangerous.
She doesn’t seem to know what they are. She backs away, towards the staircase, and her shoulders are tight — is she afraid? Of the creations? There’s no need to be afraid of them. They are just like me, but cold. All they do is make cookies. My fingers start to twitch.
She spins suddenly, calling her ‘hello’ s again, and the intensity with which she begins up the bottom stairs makes me retreat. I got too close. I flee back up the upper staircase, and her voice tails me.
“I'm Peg Boggs, I'm your local Avon representative—” There with that word again — Avon. It sounds like butter, smooth and harmless. It isn’t a word I’ve seen in any of the innumerous books downstairs. It isn’t a word that I was taught.
“I’m sorry to barge in like this, but you don’t have any reason to be afraid,” she continues, her voice bouncing like birdsong. It's a nice voice. I like it. Still, I have reached the top floor, and I move instinctually to one corner. Here, the roof is intact, casting the most shadow — the same colour as my body — and so I crouch. “Ooh! This is some huge house, isn’t it!” her voice says. I hope I am small enough to remain unseen. “Thank goodness for those aerobics… classes…”
She has reached the top of the stairs. The floorboards don’t creak as much under her weight, and the sight of the roof seems to silence her. Light pools through the shards of broken timber, just in front of my nest. Cocking her head, she approaches it.
Her brow furrows as she peers at the collection of news clippings. Once again, my chest floods with the sensation of tingles — the clippings pinned up there are ones that I enjoy. They interest me, they make me happy. And she looks at them with a concentration that makes me feel they interest her too.
As my own curiosity in her piques, my fingers twitch. They twitch when I'm happy, and when I'm anxious, and right now, I can't tell which feeling is stronger. But either way, they make the metallic snip sound that my ears have grown so used to, and the lady turns towards me. Looks at me. She’s seen me.
“Hello?” she coos, not unlike the mourning doves. Her voice is quieter now — less demanding. “Hello…?” But still, she is talking to me. I stay crouched, because what else can I do? What is she going to do to me? Now that she’s found me?
“Why are you hiding back there?” she asks with a smile. The sun floods through the holes in the roof and bathes her skin in light — the lines around her mouth, where she smiles, cast playful shadows.
She isn't like the frightened, playful young ones that visited the garden. She acknowledges me. Talks to me. Her eyes crease at the sides with her smile; she smiles at me. Slowly, I stand.
“You don’t have to hide from me!” she says, walking towards me. In return, I take steps out of my corner. My fingers twitch; I think in anticipation. This is all new, I don't know what's going to happen, but she says I don’t have to hide. She wants me to come out. “I’m Peg Boggs, I’m your local Avon representative, and I'm as harmless as cherry pie—”
Her voice hitches as her eyes dart down. A sliver of sunlight slips onto me now, warming my skin, glinting off my fingers—
“Oh, my.” The lady's face has paled — she steps backwards. No, I think. She was so nice. She wanted to talk to me. But now, she backs off, stumbles towards the stairs. “I can see that I've disturbed you — how stupid of me. I-I’ll just be going now—”
“Don't go,” I say suddenly. It surprises even me. It's the first time I've spoken in so many sunrises; my voice is rusty, unfamiliar in my throat. I step out of the shadows fully, taking cautious steps towards her, and she watches. She's pretty. Her eyes are a colour between blue and green, like the sky at dawn after a night of rainfall. A little hat perches atop her hair — her hair which is cut so neatly, in a style that perfectly frames her jaw.
“Oh, my,” she says again, but in a whisper this time. After looking me up and down, from my legs up to my face, her head begins to shake. “What happened to you…?”
I hold up my hands, to show her. “I’m not finished—”
“Oh!” She raises a hand of her own, palm towards me. “Put those down, don’t come any closer, just— please—”
Yet as I do what she asks, lowering my arms, I see her eyes widen.
“Those are your hands…?” she breathes, unable to take her gaze off my fingers. I look down at her own, small and delicate. Their skin is so smooth, like her face. In one, she still holds the handles of the bag — the bag looks heavy, but her fingers curl effortlessly around the leather. I wonder what it feels like to curl one's fingers.
“Those are your hands,” she says again, but this time, it is not a question. Her eyes find my own, and she searches them. I wonder what she's trying to find. “What happened to you?” she asks.
I don’t know how to respond to that.
“Where are your parents?” She steps closer. “Your mother?” She’s face-to-face with me now, and she effuses a sweet scent — like flowers and honey. Should she really be this close? “Your father?”
That question, I can answer. I recall his body, unmoving, slumped — his skin paling by the minute until there was no colour left. “He didn’t wake up.”
She deflates somewhat: nods, averts her eyes, exhales a little. When next she looks back at me, she continues. “Are you alone? Do you live up here all by yourself?”
I think. From up here, I can gaze out of the windows down onto the streets below. They are faraway, and I remember the land before they were built. At the bottom of the hill there used to lie empty fields, but then the building began. The building, the shaping, the painting. The houses down there are as brightly-hued as flowers, and I watched the little specks of people begin to fill the neighbourhood. Them, and the birds, and the butterflies and bees and lushness of plants… They accompany me. I am not alone up here, not truly.
“What happened to your face?” she asks me, leaning in closer. She is just so here, so present and alive. I can hear the whistling of air through her nostrils — feel the warmth of her skin as she nears me. But then, she reaches out. Her hand, coming at my face — I flinch away. “I won’t hurt you,” she murmurs. “But at the very least, let me give you a good astringent, and this will help to prevent infection.” She smiles, pleased, and nods again. I don’t know what those words mean.
She bends, placing her bag on the floor. From out of it she pulls something small and white, pouring liquid from a bottle onto it. As she stands once more, reaching out towards me with the tiny white bundle, I freeze up. It presses against my skin, so cold, but so soft; true to her word, not hurting — not in the way my own hands hurt when they touch my face. The gesture is so gentle it’s unusual; how is it that she pokes the soft bundle against me so many times, on my chin, my lips, my cheek, and doesn’t hurt me once? I didn’t think it was possible.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Edward,” I answer.
“Edward…?” she repeats. She dabs against my skin a few more times, up on my forehead, then pulls her hand away.
She looks at me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine. In hers, I see the clear sky after a storm — calm, stable, understanding that all will be okay. I wonder what she sees in mine?
When next she speaks, she does so with assurance, conviction, pleasure.
“I think you should just come home with me.”