Obsessed(2)

That very first night I met him, Daddy welcomed him into our home and introduced him to us. I watched the boy carefully. His baggy pants and shirt were at least two sizes too big. He had long blond hair that ended at his chin. His face was haunting. His green eyes, a shade so vibrant, stood out from his pale skin, and they looked empty. He didn’t say a word to us, and when his eyes caught mine for the split second that it did, he looked away instantly, determined not to meet my eye.

Shortly after, Daddy settled him into the spare bedroom. I wanted to ask Mom what was going on, but she had followed after him. They had a quiet conversation I couldn’t hear, but I was aware of what was happening. This boy was staying with us. A boy that appeared despondent and broken. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. On one hand, I liked my life. I didn’t want interruptions. I didn’t want it flipped upside down. I liked the attention my parents gave me. But on the other hand, he looked sad and alone, like he needed a place to call home. I wondered if that was what Dad had done: given him a new home – our home.

He joined us for dinner. We ate spaghetti, and while we talked casually, there was that tension in the air. My eyes flew to Aston every few moments, watching him like he was an exotic piece of artwork as he picked up the fork and clumsily tried to eat his food. His movements were unnatural.

He was ten, a year older than me, and he didn’t know how to use a fork.

He made a mess. Half his food fell on the table. The first time it happened, he glanced up fearfully at Daddy. Daddy just smiled and said, “Use your hands, Aston, and don’t worry about the mess.”

My jaw dropped. If I used my hands, hellfire would have rained upon me and I’d have been scolded to death.

He used his hands, and his face reddened when his eyes caught mine again. In hindsight, I’d look back and realize how humiliated he must have felt, and I should have looked away and pretended not to care like my parents, but my eyes were too transfixed to him. I couldn’t look away if I tried. I didn’t want to, either. He was all bones, but his face…Man, his face was so beautiful, he reminded me of a prince. A haunted prince.

This boy didn’t have manners. He was like Tarzan come to life; a jungle boy thrown into a different world with no trees to swing from. He used both hands and sloppily dug into the bowl, shovelling the spaghetti into his mouth. I’d never seen someone so ravenous before. I felt full just watching him. I glanced over at Mom and Dad, and they discreetly watched him with broken expressions. His lack of propriety didn’t matter to them in the slightest. No hellfire and brimstone, just sadness all around.

He finished the food in record time, and then he sat there, clenching his stomach.

“Are you feeling okay?” Mom asked him concernedly.

The first words I’d ever heard him say were, “My stomach hurts,” in the tiniest voice.

“You’re just full,” Daddy told him with a forced smile. “You haven’t eaten this much in a very long time. You’ll get used to the feeling, Aston.”

Aston just stared at his empty plate. I’d barely touched my food. My entire body was turned in his direction, my eyes glued to his face. It was rude of me to blatantly stare. I knew that. But…there was something about this boy. Something about his despair I wasn’t used to seeing in other kids. He was utterly tragic.

He caught my eye a few times over the remainder of dinner, and every time they connected, he’d tear away and look back down at his plate. His pale cheeks started to grow red, and after several exchanges, he stopped looking away and kept staring back at me.

Haunted green eyes glued to my cheerful blues with a look of surrender. I smiled kindly at him at some point, and his eyes flickered down to my mouth, examining the way my lips widened. It was almost like…like he didn’t know what I was doing.

After dinner was over, Mom led him back upstairs to show him around and settle him in. Daddy stayed seated in his chair, focused on a spot on the wall over my head. His breathing changed, and his eyes watered again.

“Are you okay, Daddy?” I asked him, worried.

He looked at me warmly. “I’m okay, butterfly,” he answered hesitantly.

I glowed at the nickname he used for me. Butterfly. I was his butterfly. My chest warmed and I nodded in relief. Moments later, Mom called out to Daddy and he got up and hurried upstairs. There was a small commotion. I slid out of my seat and stopped by the foot of the staircase, listening in.

“He wants you, Arthur,” Mom told Daddy. “He won’t talk to me. He said he wants you.”

“Alright,” Daddy responded. “Go down, put Elise to bed. I’ll take care of Aston.”