u n s a i d — dedicated to violet moore and clayton doyle
and we are leaving some things unsaid
and we are breathing deeper instead
He had finally managed to calm her down, having muttered false words in order to cease the flow of tears from her glistening eyes. "It's gonna be okay. We'll figure it out. You'll be fine." Things he too wanted to believe, for her sake. And now he watched her walk up the stairs, her head held low, ruffled raven hair spilling down her back like a dark, trickling waterfall. Thud, thud, thud, and she was gone from view. He waited, then, sure enough, he heard her door close: a small, defeated sound, as though their talk had made such a mundane task an effort, a toll on the soul.
Heading back into the living room, Clayton gathered all the bloody pieces of tissues and bandages and threw them into the bin. Cleaning up the evidence, so that when Violet woke up tomorrow, she wouldn't have to be reminded of her troubles, and could live in an unworried fantasy for just a little longer. He owed that much to her, right? After all the times she had sat with him in this very room, sealed his gashes, wiped away his blood, looked at him with something other than pure loathing—
Click. Lights off. The darkness seeped in, tugging at his weary limbs, come to bed, go to sleep. He let his feet (and the shadows) take him to the stairs and carry him up into the gloomy hallway. He turned and walked softly, heading for his room…
Visions of another life came to him. A woman - a werewolf - moaning beneath him. A flick of the head, hair covering her face, and it was Violet pressed against him; it was her arms linked around his neck, and it was her breath on his lips, and it was her that he wanted to hold and touch and kiss.
His heart was racing when he realised he had stopped at Violet's door. It stood between them, a solid board of old wood, and Clayton approached it, praying that she was both awake and asleep, for he could not understand why his mind had slotted her in Elena's place that night. The switch had only lasted for a fraction of a second - a flash of time both minuscule and incomprehensible - and yet it had left Clayton shaken and disturbed. Violet had pushed him away. She didn't want him. It was so clear that it made Clayton's head ache. Then why, why, on the night that he had wanted to forget her, had he forlornly, blindly, instinctively craved for her?
The wolf stood before the door, too afraid to knock, but also too burdened to move on. Something was rooting him here. Maybe it was the danger that now hovered over Violet's head. Someone had hurt her, and could well hurt her again if she wasn't careful. He recalled running his fingers over her wounds and bruises, assessing the damage, and a storm grew inside him. Knowing that she had been injured hurt him more than any physical wound on his own body ever could. He wanted to find whoever had done this to her, to make them suffer as much as she had. Funny, how she could do this to him, make him want to lash out, something he'd never done for himself.
And maybe that was why it didn't matter that she had cut him off. Not only did he care about her; he needed her simply to exist and be. All along he had tried to disguise it as some sort of curiosity or appreciation for all the help she'd given him. He had painted his motives cold and emotionless. But no. They were only lies. The truth - the honest, hard-hitting truth - behind his insistence and desire for closeness was simply because Violet Moore was the one thing that kept him going. She was his life source. He sought energy and the will to live every time her eyes flickered over to meet his; he discovered hope every time her fingers brushed against a long scab puckering his skin; and, most unexpectedly of all, he had unearthed love on the day he took her to the park, when her laughter had filled the air and drowned out the jazz music, which was no match for the happy words that burst from her lips and the radiant smile blossoming on her face.
Clayton grappled with these thoughts. He tried to burn them, to throw them back into the pit they'd came from, but he was poisoned, and all of a sudden his heart was weak, but fuller, much, much fuller, so much so that he felt fit to burst.
It was unsaid, and it was the most honest thing he had ever known, and it comforted him, knowing that the echoes of his mind would remain in this house and follow her as she went about her life. A lightness buoyed him; he was free of this secret. It was out, a true thought, exploring the cracks and tears of the hall and seeping into Violet's room, maybe even dancing beside her ear as she drifted in her sleep. Or was she awake? Standing a few feet in front of him, breathing deeply, while more unspoken confessions caught in her throat?
He could write songs about her, he realised, as his forehead rested against the door. He shut his eyes and imagined telling her, letting her play with the thoughts of a dead man, who had nothing left in the world except for her. How had he lived thus far without knowing any of it? Perhaps he'd been too scared to delve and understand; not knowing was better, a philosophy he'd long stood by when it came to matters of the heart. He placed his hand on the doorknob. Her scent coated the cold metal surface, and he knew he could walk in, do it right now, sit on the edge of her bed, watching her stir and rise in anger at his intrusion, then slowly understanding, just like he was doing now as he stood there, head against the door, wondering if she'd be even more distressed if she knew…
Clayton nearly gasped, and only just managed to bite down on his tongue at the sudden noise downstairs. He let go of the doorknob (and a billion possibilities) and turned to the staircase. An old fear took him. Was it a hunter? Here to silence Violet, to stop her warning the pack? It could have been the wind, could have been a rat skittering across the floorboards, could have been anything, but all he could think about, standing in the dimness, was Violet.
He turned his back on her bedroom door and went down the stairs. Nobody there. But it wouldn't hurt to go out and look around, make absolutely sure that they were alone, that she was safe. He didn't bother putting on a coat before stepping onto the sidewalk, the streetlamps shining on him, as though pointing him out, look, a man acting for love, fighting for it, a hero.
The street was deserted, and he supposed it was finally time to accept reality. From this point on, he would endeavour to be a hero, someone who could protect Violet, who could make her stay on this damned earth a less tragic journey, and whether or not it included him, well, that didn't matter. It really didn't. He made his way toward the looming forest, and he knew deep in his core that he was willing to die for the one person who'd given him such hope and longing. He was aware of many things now, and, subconsciously, emerging from the depths of his mind, his memories became brighter, clarified, like they were yesterday's stories: long nights spent in utter silence except for the scratch of bandages and the ticking of the clock, not wanting to be anywhere else; hand-in-hand, her fingers slim but with a firm grip, strolling beneath the canopies together whilst music followed them like birds; watching her cry and feeling like the heavens had deserted them, leaving them to fend for themselves, lonely and scared and like children again; seeing her in Elena's place, half-delusional, not knowing that his mistake would lead to an unborn child and more bloodshed and a deeper hunger to end his life; standing in front of her door, drained, thinking, sensing the growing war between hunters and werewolves and feeling like he belonged with her.
Clayton Doyle walked between the trees and let the black unknown swallow him whole.
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