A Lesser Captive
”You shouldn’t have asked about that.”
“Why not? I just, well I like the city too.”
She couldn’t help but defend herself. And if she had done something wrong he didn’t have to go right to scolding her.
Just tell what was wrong!
He didn’t.
”Please, just don’t be saying that kind of stuff,” and his face turned pained. And it hurt her. “Not to Emile, Emile is— sensitive.”
Even though they were whispering just like he’d started doing.
Again, without saying anything.
Abel and Emile had spent Thanksgiving with her and her mother and her sisters too.
She’d— very nervously— made sure to sit next to Abel.
He told her of the chores he’d done while grounded, some books he was reading, and how long someone could hide in an attic just inside the roof?
The idea scared him a little.
And that was it.
No riddle, no point, he was just scared of what could hide in a dark single room full of dust and other people’s junk and for how long could it be a secret, one of the one things he didn't know.
And she’d buried her friend like a caterpillar on her bed which he’d certainly seemed to like.
Considering he didn’t get out for a whole hour and just buried in deeper.
It was good he hadn’t been punished too long, but apparently at the time Mr. Emile had ended up buying something bad at the store.
Which had made poor Abel sick. In a way his wealthy-palette food never had.
Violet made sure to be careful with the nicely wrapped house gift they’d picked out.
Certain thoughts wanted to escape, certain questions but they were the kinds that made people think she was crazy.
Mother rang the doorbell, Violet stared at the door and barely reacted when Emile flung it open, a grin on his face.
What if— could— Emile feed Abel something to make him sick?
The four of them stepped inside and to the kitchen where some tea was already made and a plate stacked with biscuits and next to it was a second with a fruit tart.
“You can just leave that on the table honey,” Emile said of the gift. So she did.
Violet licked her lips, the cake had blueberries and raspberries.
“Abby, our guests are—“
“Oh.”
Violet turned around pretty fast to see that Abel stood at the doorway to the stairs.
Abel's face grew into an awkward, somewhat starry smile. She would have joked if he'd developed a crush-- until he just about tumbled into her.
They were hugging now.
______________________
It was one thing, going to another person's home. A person who like the whole town was aware of his tendency to take things. If he told-- though he wasn't a liar-- he would be called one and looked at with pity. And Emile could decide all manner of things, do all manner of things.
Yet at their own house, where there were baby gates, locked doors, possibly the clothes he had come in that had been taken away-- surely not. That would be-- would be absolutely foolish. Idiotic.
But all the same, Emile had removed the gates at both ends of the stairs taking such thing as a challenge.
"This was never meant to be forever," drifted in his head just shy of the first step.
Violet was here. Had rung the bell and entered the house.
Violet had a wrapped present with her.
Abel's breath caught, his foot taking that step--
Abel had been so certain he had come to that point, the very worst outcome, where Emile's patience had run out.
Such consequences would be for him to weather alone.
But it had not come.
Abel had been concisely and pragmatically grounded. It was explained why this was being done to him and why the choice was being taken from him on where and how to spend his time.
"I guess, Abel, I am terribly selfish. Did I worry what you could have done with a lighter, of course. Though more that you may not be able to live with yourself if someone else were to have gotten hurt. And I know you know that," and he'd stayed right to his eyes.
"You're a smart, bright kid. You're a good kid Abby, I love you son."
One step.
What was happening? What-- what was this?
One step.
And two.
He closed his eyes.
Two, three, "Abby."
He rushed down the rest of the stairway. And could he explain the sudden jolt at hearing his voice, the sudden want to do as was asked? No, and that was infuriating.
But for now what mattered was pleasing his guests.
Violet was the first to look at him, followed by her mother and two teenage girls.
He almost backed having seen at how the mother's arms reached out, but focused on Violet.
He'd had fun with her over Thanksgiving.
They'd talked quite at length about life in a farm.
And at that moment, he couldn't quite describe what the feeling was, that wanting of warmth.
Simply that in less than a second he had very much invaded her personal space, which she certainly wouldn't appreciate.
Abel wasn't the kind to simply embarrass others.
Abel had been granted permission to roam the house.
However he was simply not allowed to be alone anymore, not outside to do the chores, not in the hours before mealtimes, and not even always in his room where he'd simply read and done his notes.
Emile hadn't looked into his notebooks, still he'd torn the pages out and into pieces. And made his mess right in front of him.
Sitting with his knees drawn up, he was in an ideal position to refuse anymore hugging or petting.
Emile came closer and fingered his cheek anyway, tickling at the skin.
However Violet did not shudder or squeak. She hugged him too and it was... appreciated. Very, very much appreciated.
Besides the adults' fawning-- yes he included the older sisters-- he was not required to hug anyone else. Emile ruffled his hair all the same, before taking a plate of biscuits which he handed to Abel.
"Have fun with your friend," he said with a smile, eyes equally jolly. Still, something almost, cold, lay in how he said so.
Scampering upstairs Emile reminded, "lunch will be in two hours."
This time Abel marched up the stairs, possibly confident with the knowledge that Violet was in tow.
Leading her into his room he gently shut the door behind him.
"Woah, this is, this is nice. Do you use all this? And this many books," she continued, fingering one.
He rushed beside her, quickly checking and confirming that it was just a book.
"I like to read," he said, passing it to her. "We can do that if you like, or we can work on a puzzle? Draw? Do you--"
"Eh not really. Reading sounds fine or talking, we can talk."
And per usual she held the book up to hide her lips.
"You were, clearly very happy to see me," she mused, a cheeky kind of happiness in her voice.
"I'm not exactly spoiled for choices," he replied in their usual rhythm, but then-- well, he did very much need her.
And, he suspected Emile had caught on to that.
Perhaps noticed that she was just a bit wary in how she would look at his guardian sometimes.
"But yes, I am happy. I enjoy your company very much."
"Huh, well yeah. I guess I-- I enjoy yours too," she replied. "Then we're friends?"
This time quite hopeful and dare he say eager to hear an answer.
"I would say very good friends," he decided with a firm nod, so he held out his hand palm open. For however she may take that.
She did so by twining her fingers between his, and they clasped hands.
The touch continued to be enjoyable.
"Oh my gosh," she suddenly said, "I bet, you rich kids have never played patty cake. Uh I mean it's kind of stupid but you know--"
Abel raised his other hand, "that sounds just fine."
"It is a word game."
But nonetheless straightened up.
Both sat at the floor just at the side of his bed.
"Well then okay, listen to me. We'll do a practice round first and don't get pouty when I have to correct you," she decided, serious and smug. "I promise I won't laugh at you too much."
Play date.
He'd never had much use or reference for it before. He knew other kids did it, even society kids. His Mother often derided it every time, his Father espoused they were important for the family and for Abel.
He found he much more agreed with her.
Play dates were dull and demanding exercises more for the adults. The children being shafted into a singular room with random colorful toys and menial level reading.
Emile then sequestered all the children into learning about "playing together" and "sharing" once he'd become a presence in their home. Turning Abel into the pseudo-popular one.
___________________________
It was just himself with Violet's charming mother. The two teens had decided to indulge of the gardens and the animals outside.
Taking pictures for their social media pages.
He waved them aside, somewhat auspiciously flubbing the names of the apps and the likes or followers.
His and their mother's own little joke.
Absolutely adoring the expressions they made.
Topped off with tea and the delightful cake Abel had made.
Which of course he couldn't not mention.
Abby had certainly become accomplished when it came to baking and putting together the food.
A far cry from the boy he had been just a few months back.
Who had screamed when walking into the sight of Emile, admittedly horrifically drenched in a poor slaughtered hen's blood for tomorrow night's chicken alfredo.
Granted, he omitted that his fear stemmed from a non-existent implicit threat supposedly posed by the blood and sharp knife.
Nevertheless it made his company burst out laughing.
"Oh I'm-- I'm so sorry, I shouldn't. Who knows why the child reacted that way. I imagine it was a nightmare to explain," she said.
"Yes, let's-- not mention we had this conversation," he agreed enigmatically, "and your right, I do think it was his city living until that point that made it so-- visceral-- I didn't mean for him to see it. I'd meant to use it once cleaned as a learning moment of where his food comes from."
She nodded, "I remember when I explained to Violet what one of the families who used to live around the area did with the baby cows. She was still quite young, but I did tell her they went for a lot of money in the city."
"Oh no."
"Mmm she'd imagined they were pets and well, I realized I'd caught myself in the coop at that point."
"Did you say it?" Emile uttered, truthfully wrapped up in the story.
"Oh I did," her mother said, drawing from what he was sure was a terrible expression on a poor, little face.
"She cried and cried, I couldn't get her to eat the cheese or any meat from then on, she'd thought all animals were treated that way and tried to free ours."
"My well," he said, "least that's a very good hearted girl you have."
"And you have a good son."
He beamed. Six times she had called Abel his son.
And Emile was rightly proud. But he knew it was just as much Abel's own progress and the person he simply knew had to exist, that had waited to be permitted to exist.
"Whatever did happen to that place, you had mentioned it used to be for veal."
"Abandoned, quite a long while now. Old and falling over, kids like to play there when they make the trek anyway," she said with a sigh.
"Is it-- safe? To allow that I mean."
"Absolutely not," she said, scandalized it looked like at the notion, "the townsfolk and the sheriff's office tried several times to put signs or fence the area off but the older kids could be paid off then by the little ones-- don't ask me how."
And Emile nodded, listening as well as worried. What with Abel--
"Turns out best course of action is to teach early. Tell them from the start its dangerous, spin a story if you have to-- so the bigger ones will tell the younger siblings and would be stupid to help any rambunctious adventurers from looking and possibly getting buried."
Emile shuddered.
And noticing how the mother looked askance, he quickly rectified that it wasn't her fault for anything.
"Thank you for letting me know. Then I'll be sure to let my son know."
He could almost burst and die from saying that.
"Happy to help, now how do you like that centerpiece? Be honest now sugar."
Emile glanced at the object now gracing the counter, what with the encumbered tea tray and cookie tower. It was a wooden made bird branch with adorable red swallows and bluejay at its top.
"Absolutely lovely, thank you so much."
"Violet was the one who picked it out, said her friend would like that it had native birds too, and what type of tree it was?"
"He'll absolutely try to guess," he agreed.
Emile spared another glance.
There wouldn't be any other place but his room that Abel would permit he and Violet to converse.
Perhaps play some games, simply to say they did and would not be lying.
He was clever like that.
What they were talking about-- he'd been prepared with ideas, should it become important.
He certainly hoped not.
And he certainly hoped there was a better option to a time-out.
After all, Violet's mother was just simply a lovely woman and certainly the sort of mother, whose heart would break.
To be parted from your child, for even a moment, he doubted any pain compared.
___________________________
Very soon he simply couldn't continue.
Keep playing games and assuring Violet of fears that he knew for certain crept up on her.
Often from very little.
But always, from the little he gave her.
Including when they'd still spent four hours together making deliveries and loading eggs and other produce for the stores and Mr. Haley's home.
"Abel-- Abel what is it? What's," she delayed but eventually said it, "wrong?"
Considering how out of character it was for Abel to simply coax himself closer to her and almost-- cuddle.
"I'm... tired," he said. "I'm really tired."
Perhaps so tired that his voice could handle little more than a heavy plunge, sounding wooden and hollow.
Violet put her book down.
She put her book down, and bit at her lip.
"This isn't-- let's go to sleep tired-- is it?"
"No."
"And I can't, I shouldn't tell weird Emile should I?"
"Please don't."
For a moment, he turned the idea over again. That Emile had done this with a secondary motive. Rather than just further expanding upon the role he envisioned for Abel, he'd meant to take his bluff and retaliate.
There was no guarantee, that Violet would keep what he said next secret.
Oh she would try, would certainly try as she understood the weight of what the situation was. And that was just it, it was such a heavy situation.
One-- even he may be less than fully adept to deal with than he'd dare admit.
Even to himself.
"Abby, hey Abby," she said, now whispering.
He'd perched his head on her shoulder.
Which he craned up just a bit so he could look into her eyes. He deeply, absolutely abhorred that nickname.
And even with a muted growl an otherwise silent contempt bled through, which she felt.
"Sorry," she said next still quiet and yet managing to express a waspish mood.
And he replied in kind, quietly stating it. "I am not a foster child, I never have been and never will be."
Emile would not-- physically could not-- hurt her. He wouldn't.
His entire philosophy, each and every thing he was hinged upon the principle and valor of protecting and safeguarding children. So to harm Violet, to blame Violet and not him who told her--
That was-- had to be-- his limit.
That was simply what he must trust in.
"Could you tell me your last name."
"What?"
"For when I go home," he said simply.
"Abel, you're--"
"Emile is my kidnapper, I have a family and a home, I am wealthy and I say am because this isn't my home, I wanna go home. I wanna go home right now but I can't."
Violet looked like someone who had been struck. Physically and violently struck. Or more accurately, he had metaphorically just throttled her.
She struggled to speak, her lips hardly moving despite the unsure, harried sounds.
Then he'd sorely miscalculated.
He slowly made to grab one of her shoulders, until she hugged him again, this time by the scruff of his neck.
"This never happened okay, this conversation never happened."
"I see, okay," he accepted dutifully.
"Erwin."
"I beg--"
"My last name is Erwin."
"Rossilini."
And he said it. Again and again and again, rapidly and discordantly until she would tire of hearing it.
Or until his captor called again.
"Kids, lunchtime!"