In a few minutes Chris came speeding back with our medical emergency kit. He fell down on his knees beside me, his hands still glistening with water from a fast scrub-up. He was in too much of a hurry to dry them well.

I was fascinated to see he knew so precisely what to do. First he folded a heavy towel, and used that to press down hard on the long cut. Looking very serious and intent, he bore down on the pad, checking every few seconds to see if the bleeding had stopped. When it did, he busied himself with antiseptic that stung like fire, and hurt worse than the injury itself.

"I know it stings, Cathy . . . can't help that . . . have to put it on to avoid infection. Wish I had sutures, but maybe it won't make a permanent scar; and I pray it doesn't. It would be so nice if people could go through all of their life without ever cutting into the perfect envelope they're born with. And here I am, the first one to really scar your skin If you had died because of me--and you could have if the shears had been slanted differently--then I would want to die, too."

He had finished playing doctor, and was now winding the remaining gauze up in a neat roll before replacing it in the blue wrapping paper, and into a box. He stashed away the adhesive, closed the kit.

Leaning above me, his face hovered over mine, his serious eyes so delving, worried, and intense. His blue eyes were like the eyes we all had. Yet on this rainy day they were catching colors from the paper flowers, making them limpid dark pools of iridescence. A lump came in my throat as I wondered where the boy was I used to know. Where was that brother--and who was this young man with the blond whiskers, staring so long into my eyes? Just that look of his held me in thrall. And greater than any pain, or ache, or hurt I ever felt before, or since, was the pain caused me by the suffering I saw in the shifting kaleidescopic, rainbowed colors of his tortured eyes.

"Chris," I murmured, feeling unreal, "don't look like that. It wasn't your fault." I cupped his face in my palms first, then drew his head down to my breast as I'd seen Momma do in the past. "It's only a scratch, doesn't hurt a bit (though it hurt dreadfully), and I know you didn't do it deliberately."

Hoarsely he choked, "Why did you run? Because you ran, I had to chase. And I was only teasing. I wouldn't cut one strand from your head; it was just something to do, to have fun. And you were wrong when you said I thought your hair was pretty. It's more than just pretty. I think you may grow on your head the most glorious hair in the world."

A little knife twisted in my heart as he lifted his head long enough to spread my hair fanlike and cover my bare breast. I could hear him breathing deeply my scent. We lay there quietly listening to the winter rain drumming on the slate roof

not so far above. Deep silence all around. Always silence. Nature's voices were the only ones to reach us in the attic, and so seldom did nature speak in friendly, soft tones.

The rain on the roof pitter-pattered down into only drops, and the sun came out and shone down on us to shimmer his hair and mine like long glimmering strands of silken diamonds. "Look," I said to Chris, "one of the slats from a western window shutter has fallen out."

"Nice," he said, sounding sleepy and content, "Now we'll have sun where once there was none. See, I've made a rhyme." And then in a sleepy whisper, he said, "I'm thinking of Raymond and Lily and their quest for the purple grass where all dreams are fulfilled."

"Were you? In a way, I was kinda thinking the same thing," I answered, whispery, too. Over and over again I twirled a strand of his hair around my thumb, pretending not to notice one of his hands was ever so cautiously stroking my breast, the one his face didn't cover. Because I didn't object, he dared to kiss the nipple. I jumped, startled, wondering why that should feel so strange, and so extraordinarily thrilling What was a nipple but a tannish-pink little peak? "I can picture Raymond kissing Lily, just where you kissed," I went on breathlessly, wanting him to stop, and wanting him to go on, "but I can't imagine them doing what comes next."

Words to make his head pop up. Just the right words to make him look at me intensely again, with strange lights flickering in his eyes which wouldn't stay only one color. "Cathy, do you know what comes next?"

A blush heated my face. "Yes, I know, sort of. Do you know?"

He laughed, one of those dry chuckles you read about in novels. "Sure I know. My very first day in school, I was told in the boy's restroom; that's all the older boys could talk about. They had four-letter words on the walls that I didn't understand. But they were soon explained, in detail. Girls, baseball, girls, football, girls, girls, girls were all they could talk about, and all the ways they were different from us. It's a fascinating subject for most boys, and, I suppose, men."

"But not fascinating for you?"

"Me? I don't think about girls, or sex, though I wish to God you weren't so damned pretty! And it would help if you weren't always so near, and so available."

"Then you do think about me? You do think I'm pretty?"

A smothered groan escaped his lips--more like a moan. He bolted up to sit straight, staring down at what my open sweater revealed, for the fan of my hair was displaced. If I hadn't cut off the top of my leotards, he wouldn't be seeing so much. But I had had to cut off the too-small bodice.

With trembling, clumsy fingers he fastened the buttons of my sweater, keeping his eyes averted from mine. "Get this straight in your head, Cathy. Of course you are pretty, but brothers don't think about sisters as girls--nor do they feel any sort of emotion for them other than tolerance and brotherly affection--and sometimes, hate."

"I hope God strikes me dead this second if you hate me, Christopher."

His hands lifted to cover his face, hiding, and when he came out from behind the shield, he was smiling, cheerful, clearing his throat. "Come on, it's time we went down to the twins before they burn their eyes into black holes from staring at the boob- tube for so long."

It hurt to rise, though he assisted me up. In his arms I was held close while my cheek was pressed against his heart. And though he would put me from him quickly, I clung tighter. "Chris--what we did just now--was it sinful?"

Again, he cleared his throat. "If you think it so, then it was."

What kind of an answer was that? If thoughts of sin stayed out of it, those moments lying on the floor when he touched me so tenderly with magical tingling fingers and lips were the sweetest moments since we'd come to live in this abominable house. I looked up to see what he was thinking and saw that strange look in his eyes. Paradoxically he seemed happier, sadder, older, younger, wiser. . . or was it he was feeling like a man now? And if he was, then I was glad, sinful or not.

We walked hand in hand down the steps to the twins, where Cory was plucking a tune on the banjo, while keeping his eyes glued to the TV. He picked up the guitar and began his own composition, as Carrie chanted simple lyrics he'd composed. The banjo was for happy tunes to move your feet. This melody was like rain on the roof, long, dreary, monotonous.

Gonna see the sun, Gonna find my home, Gonna feel the wind, See the sun again.

I sat on the floor near Cory, and took the guitar from his hands, for I could play a bit, too. He had taught me how--taught us all how. And I sang to him that special, wistful song that belonged to Dorothy in the movie The Wizard of Oz--a movie that the twins adored everytime they saw it. And when I had finished singing of bluebirds that flew over the rainbow, Cory asked, "Don't you like my song, Cathy?"

"You bet I like your song--but it's so sad. How about writing a few happy lyrics, with a little hope?"

The little mouse was in his pocket, just his tail poking out as he fingered down there for bread crumbs. Mickey made a twisting movement, and then his head was out of the shirt pocket, and in his forefeet he held a bit of bread and daintily began to nibble. The look on Cory's face as he stared down at his first pet touched me so deeply I had to turn away to keep from crying.

Tags: V.C. Andrews Dollanganger Horror
Source: readsnovelonline.net