The Eyes Of Wonderland

#Chapter15-01

#Chapter15-01

"So, psychic wonder," I drawled out, trying to disguise just how on edge the intensity of the other man's silent anger was making me, "Did you see that one coming?"

The world outside was surprisingly calm. Dusk approached on a steady wave, the skies dipping from a sulking grey to a musky hue of dark blue. The rain had started again, tapping against the window in the corner with a steady, pattering beat.

The world inside, however, was anything but.

The armchair seemed to swallow me; beneath the storms of his eyes, I felt so small. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

Yet, I would have rather have yanked my teeth than ever admit that he intimidated me. Bravado was a well-used tool in my arsenal, and as the words fell from my mouth, instantly igniting a reaction in the other man, I tried to seek satisfaction in the fact that it had worked once more. That I had succeeded in pissing another person off.

It didn't come. Instead, all I felt was a restless sense of unease. Fear, even.

I wasn't a child anymore. My pranks were not funny or cute, and broken windows were no laughing matter. If he called the police. . . I had no idea what would happen.

"Are you out of your mind?" He sat opposite me, as though it were an interrogation, and his eyes never once left my face. They held me, suffocated me, refused to release me from their grip. "What were you . . . are you really that . . .." He trailed off, shaking his head bitterly.

"Was that a no then?" I asked. My chest felt funny. Tight. As though each stupid word that passed through my lips were trying to fight their way back down. "You should probably consider a new career choice."

"My life," Deacon said icily, hands curling into fists, tapping against his knee, drumming to an irregular beat, "Is not a joke, Isaac. You don't get to treat it like one."

"It's not my fault you're a f*****g clown," I tried to joke. He didn't smile. In fact, scowling and sporting a serious case of the 'are you for reals', he looked anything but amused.

"Look. Clearly you're going through something," Deacon said as he rose to his feet, tone strained. "I've offered to be your friend. Either accept that offer and start acting like a friend acts, or . . . just go. I've apologized to you for what happened. But it grinds down to the fact that we are both adults who made a mistake. You don't get to punish me for that just because you're feeling shitty about yourself. It won't change anything."

I had been expecting threats and belittling. Maybe even for him to take a swing at me. I hadn't been expecting an ultimatum. Then again, Deacon was a f*****g freak and he never seemed to react the way a normal person would.

"What about the window?" I asked. The damage wasn't that bad — well, it was, but it was only just a little hole in the glass. It wasn't like the whole thing had shattered. A bit of cardboard would fix it right up. Probably.

Ragging his hand through the inky waves of his hair, his face scrunched up. A bitter, almost sad smile turned the corners of his lips, and as his eyes reopened, they seemed more tired than angry. "I really couldn't care less about the window. But I . . . what's going on with you? Nothing for weeks and then this? I've been nothing but nice to you, Isaac. I don't deserve this."

He didn't deserve it.

Except he f*****g did.

"You ruined everything," I accused, but even to myself, the words felt empty and hollow. The taste of them seemed to linger in my mouth. Battery acid and vinegar. Seemed to burn against the tip of my tongue every time a syllable passed my lips. "You — you just had to ruin everything."

Softening, his composure easing, he settled beside me, perching on the arm of the chair; his presence attacked me, demanding my attention. A lump settled in the base of my throat. Seemed to grow with every second he stared down at me. It wasn't until my chest ached, a sharp gasp wheezing out my mouth, that I realised I'd been holding my breath.

"What happened?" He didn't so much as ask as demanded, but his tone was soft and his gaze tender. His hand reached up, lingering over the claw marks that Delilah had branded me with, not quite making contact, before he let the limb fall back into his lap. I was grateful he didn't touch me. Just the sensation of his fingers hovering had set off an odd reaction in my lower stomach.

"Nothing."

Nothing ever happened. It was always nothing. But sometimes nothing had a way of becoming too much. It was always nothing. Nothing important. Nothing to worry about. But those nothings, they gained momentum and didn't stop until they blew up like daffodils on the fourth of July.

With hindsight, the cause didn't warrant the effect. The conversation with Blake was a nothing, and it hadn't demanded a broken window as a toll, but it had. It had, and there was no amount of words in the English language to put the chaotic process into perspective. Or at least a manner in which it maintained a shred of logic.

In the simplest of terms: Nothing had happened. In simpler terms: I had happened.

I overreacted. I always did.

"You can tell me to mind my own business," Deacon said. His anger, his annoyance, they still lingered in the tightness of his mouth and the stead set to his jaw, but they seemed to have taken a backseat while his concern came out to play. "Tell me to leave you alone, but please . . . please, don't lie to me. Something happened. You were upset. Maybe you took that out on me. And that's okay, but that just means you're deflecting the issue. I can help you if you'll let me."