But I’m his protector. If I don’t do it, no one will.
And sometimes, we have to do things we aren’t proud of to protect those we love.
So I lock my door and pull out his book, curling up once again in my window seat so I can invade his privacy.
Below me, I see Finn go outside, and pull out an ax. He takes his aggression out on the wood, chopping piece after piece, even though this is summer and we won’t need it for months. In fact, we won’t even be here when it turns cold. But my father will.
So Finn chops wood for our father, while I turn my attention to his journal.
The craziness it contains spirals and leaps on the page, and I find myself holding my breath as I read.
I’m drowning. Drowning. Drowning. Immersum immersum immersum
Calla will save me. Or I will die. Or I will die. Or I will die.
Serva me, servabo te. Save me and I will save you.
Save me.
Save me.
Save me.
Calla calla calla calla calla calla calla calla
I will save you calla. Calla calla calla.
I tear my eyes away from the painful words, wrenching them away, because once again, just like always, Finn calls out for me when he’s afraid.
Even in written words on the pages of his journal.
He thinks I’m the only one who can save him and I have to agree.
But he also thinks he needs to save me, which is slightly ridiculous.
I’m the only one who understands. I’m the only one who knows. And I can’t tell anyone, because if I do, my father will have no choice but to send Finn to a mental institution, and I know enough to know that he’d never get out. They’d keep him.
So I have to save him without telling anyone.
And the only way to do that, is to read his innermost thoughts. All of them.
I shift my gaze out the window, into the rain, and I’m startled to find Finn gone, but Dare is in his place. Jogging along the trail, up from the beach, he strides confidently and unaffected by the downpour.
In fact, when he’s on the edge of the lawns, out in front of my window, he stops abruptly.
Then his gorgeous face tilts upward and his eyes meet mine.
I stop breathing.
I stop thinking.
I just lift my hand to the glass, pressing it there, as though Dare’s hand is resting against my own. The rain runs in rivulets down the pane, around my fingers like tears, and Dare’s eyes soften. Without a word, he lifts his hand.
He holds it there, as though he’s touching me. As though he’s comforting me from things he has no knowledge of.
But what I know, is that he is comforting me.
His presence comforts me.