Touched by Smoke

Chapter 5

Adam

I bite my lip until I taste the metallic tang of blood. What the hell does this girl mean to me? Why doesn’t she leave? Why doesn’t she give up?

“You’ll leave one day, you know?” I say. “You’ll get tired of my shadows and walk away.”

She comes closer and touches my hand — the bandaged palm, my shame. She doesn’t pull back. She isn’t afraid.

“Maybe. But not today.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. I stay silent and look back at the light. Maybe she’s right. Maybe darkness can’t swallow light… as long as someone has the courage to ignite it again and again.

“Dinner’s ready. Come eat,” she says, changing the subject.

To hell with her food...

It’s true that since she started coming over, I’ve been eating better. Before her, I only ate when I remembered. Now, she always brings me something. She runs into the kitchen and comes back with two bowls of pasta and meatballs in marinara sauce. She sets mine on the coffee table in front of me while she starts twirling her fork in the pasta and eating.

I don’t get her at all. Why is she eating with me now? Usually, once she finished cooking, she left. Why is she staying for dinner?

“They’re delicious. You should eat, or I might end up finishing your portion too,” she says with a smile.

I’m tempted to tell her to take her food and go, but I find myself reaching for my bowl and starting to eat.

A heavy silence falls between us, but it’s not the uncomfortable kind. It’s something else. Like the calm before a storm, or... before a confession. I don’t look at her, but I feel her. I feel her presence and her energy. She doesn’t try to make me talk, and yet, somehow, she draws more out of me than all the therapists ever did.

I chew slowly, tasting the marinara sauce that reminds me of something old. Distant. A campfire, maybe. Someone cooking for us, back in that hellhole no one made it out of — except me.

I swallow the memory like a bitter pill and force myself to finish the bowl. She eats quietly, as if she isn’t sitting across from a monster. As if she doesn’t know that the man in front of her has screamed names in his sleep that no one will ever scream again.

“Why are you doing this, Elara?” I ask again, my voice low, this time looking straight at her.

She shrugs, but her smile fades a little. Not completely, just slightly — like a flame caught by the wind.

“Because you’ve forgotten how to take care of yourself. And if you won’t... then maybe I can. Just a little.”

I run my tongue across my teeth, feeling that chaotic impulse rise again — to drive her away or pull her close. To tell her she’s a foolish dreamer, or… to rest my forehead on her shoulder and forget who I am for a few minutes.

But I do none of those things.

Instead, I get up with my empty bowl and go to the kitchen. I place it in the sink and stand there for a few seconds, hands braced on the counter.

“Are you really not afraid of anything, Elara?”

I hear her approach. Not too close, but close enough for her voice to reach me.

“I am,” she says. “I’m afraid that one day, you’ll be completely lost. And there’ll be nothing I can do.”

That… hurts. Not because it isn’t true, but because… maybe I don’t deserve her fear. Maybe I only deserve to be forgotten.

“I can’t be saved,” I say. “Stop trying.”

“I didn’t come to save you, Adam. I came to be here. And if that’s all I can do... then at least let me do that.”

Silence.

And in that silence, I feel something inside me crack. The walls don’t fall. But they split.

No… If my walls crack, then light will get in. And in the light… I’ll become a monster. A monster afraid of everything around him. A monster afraid of his own demons.

A monster… Why can’t she see I’m a monster? If she’s not afraid of my demons, that disgusting scar on my face should make her run far away from me.

“I don’t want you here,” I say, still with my back to her.

“Too bad… I plan to come every day and let a little sunlight touch your skin and chase away some of your darkness.”

I can’t take it anymore. No...

My demons take over, and I turn to her quickly, grabbing her throat with my hand. I feel her trembling, her eyes widening in shock, but she quickly regains her composure and stares straight into my eyes, defying me.

Her breathing is shaky, but she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t try to break free. She just looks at me, with a spark in her eyes that tears me apart.

“Then kill me, Adam,” she says quietly. “If that’s what your demons demand, do it. But at least do it knowing you’re not afraid of me… you’re afraid of yourself.”

My hand trembles on her skin. I feel her pulse beneath my fingers, steady and real. Alive. Am I… alive?

I collapse to my knees, releasing her abruptly. She steps back, but doesn’t run. Doesn’t scream. She just stands there, massaging her neck and breathing hard.

“I can’t… I can’t anymore…” I hear myself mutter, face to the floor.

My hands tremble. My body burns — not from illness, but from shame. From horror. From self-hate.

She approaches slowly, like someone nearing a wounded animal, and kneels beside me.

“Does it hurt that much?” she asks, and there’s no defiance in her voice now. Only gentleness. So tender, it makes me want to scream.

Instead of answering, I close my eyes and start to shake.

She wraps her arms around me.

I don’t deserve it. But I let her.

She moves her palm up and down my back, soothing me, calming me, and I press my face against her chest. I hear the mechanism pumping blood through her veins, singing in my ear, and I try to remember if my own heart sounds the same.

I’m weak. So weak.

Tears start to stream down my face, soaking her shirt, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she whispers sweet, dangerous words into my ear.

“You’re not a monster, Adam... You’re just hurt. And it’s okay to be hurt. I’m here. I’m not leaving…”

Her words — those damned whispers — sink deeper into my flesh than the bullet that tore through my comrades. Deeper than the pain of surviving. Because she doesn’t strike with hate — she strikes with kindness. And that hurts the most.

I clutch her shirt in my fists, like a child clinging to the last illusion of warmth. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to admit that, for the first time in years, I’m afraid of the moment I’ll have to pull away from her embrace and return to my shell. Back into the darkness.

“Elara… Don’t… don’t whisper anymore. Please. You’re destroying my peace,” I say through my sobs.

“Then I’ll destroy it every day, until you understand you deserve more than silence and darkness.”

Those words hurt. More than any wound. Because a part of me wants to believe them. And that part… is dangerous.

I slowly lift my gaze to her. Her face is so close to mine. I don’t see pity. I see stubbornness. Strength. Belief. In me. In what I could be, not what I am now.

And I think, without meaning to… I hate her a little for that. But at the same time, I think I’m starting to love her. Or maybe I’m just clinging to her like my last lifeline.

“Stay…” I say in a faint voice.

And there’s no more war in my voice. Only a plea.

Night falls over the house like a heavy, suffocating blanket. The silence between us is no longer uncomfortable. It’s warm. Almost intimate.

Elara doesn’t leave. She doesn’t make any grand gestures, doesn’t ask for explanations, doesn’t force me to talk. She just sits next to me on the couch, tucks her legs under her, and stays. That’s it. And, for the first time, that’s enough.

We sit there in the semi-darkness, with only the soft flicker of the lamp. My eyelids grow heavy, my body slowly giving in to the exhaustion I’ve been denying for days. But I can’t sleep. Not with her here. Not while I still feel the memory of her hand on my back and the warmth of her chest under my cheek.

“Do you have a bed?” she finally asks, in a whisper.

“I do. But I don’t really use it,” I say, almost ashamed.

“Then maybe you should,” she adds, standing up and holding out her hand. I hesitate. But I take it.

When we get to the bedroom, I stop in the doorway. It still smells of broken dreams and nightmares. She looks around and says nothing. She doesn’t judge, doesn’t comment, just pulls the blanket back, fluffs the pillows, and motions for me to lie down.

“I can’t sleep alone in an unfamiliar house,” she lies with that mischievous smile that makes my heart beat louder. She’s clearly staying for me.

I lie down. She joins me, placing a pillow between us like a boundary — a border between her world and my hell — but I feel my fingers searching for hers under the blanket. And she gives me her hand. No questions asked.

It takes me a while to fall asleep. But I do. And the nightmares are still there, somewhere, but for the first time… they don’t drown me.