Enemy Beloved

43 | fixing things

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C L A I R E

The room smells of dust and smoke. The curtains are drawn, darkening its appearance. It holds a bed covered in white sheets in the middle, an oak closet, a beanbag, and a guitar hanging on the wall — a guitar just like Vaughn's. The color of the walls is a dull grey, with paint chipping out in some places.

I haven't visited this room for years. None of us has, except for the maids who used to clean it once in a while. A while passed before Dad couldn't even handle the maids being in this room so he asked them to leave it alone. Two years of being locked up, yet, the room still smells like him. He is here without being here.

I walk over to the closet in slow, steady steps, my feet dragging along the sandy dust on the floor. When I reach it, I touch the cold handles, pulling them. The doors open with a creak. A puff of dust hits my face and I have to cover my mouth as I look through his clothes.

There are rows of shirts and a coat hanging at the top. The bottom has his T-shirts and pants, folded neatly but collecting dust. Another part of the closet has his football gear with his jersey hanging on top.

Christopher

7

It reads.

Beside the jersey, there is his red sports jacket, its color duller than the last time I saw it. I touch the jacket, moving my fingers over the soft material, dusting it off before I pull it out of the hanger. I bring it close to my nose, inhaling it. His scent still lingers on it. He kept it as a memory to remind him of his high school years.

If he was still here, he would have had a freak out seeing me in his room. He would have scolded me and complained to Mom. Mom would have laughed at us and asked Dad to handle the issue. I smile faintly at the thought.

Yes, that would have been us.

I pull down the zipper of the jersey, sliding my hands inside the sleeves, wearing it. Its warmth quickly engulfs me in a cozy hug and I am driven back to a memory of him.

"But the one who saved the princess was the thief. Why would the king give his kingdom to a thief?" I asked Chris as we lay side by side on my bed.

He was leaning against the headrest with a storybook open in his lap while I was cuddled close to him, our legs tangled together. My small feet with his big ones. He was fourteen then and I was soon to be ten.

The book he was holding was a thick one. Mom said they were for adults but Chris begged to differ. He said this book was much more real than my little storybooks.

"He wasn't just any thief," Chris answered, looking at me with his blue eyes shining bright. He had Dad's dark hair and Mom's eyes. Everyone at school called him handsome but to me, he looked too pale all the time. He was my ice prince. "He was a clever one. He tricked the king by putting the princess's life in danger and later pretended to be the hero. He was tasked with stealing the kingdom from the Goblin and he succeeded."

"He was a bad person. How can he have a happy ending while the poor soldier who knew his truth got exiled just because he kidnapped the princess to warn her?"

"That's the moral of the story, love. It means bad people get the best of this world while the good ones are judged for doing something remotely bad." Chris shut the book and placed it on my bedside table.

Sliding down, he got under the blanket and held me with one arm as we both stared at the ceiling.

"So, it means that we should be thieves in real life?"