by M. A. George
CHAPTER 8
I regained consciousness with my face still resting against his chest, rejoicing at its steady rise and fall. His heart thumped powerfully in my ear, and I paused there to listen to the most wonderful sound imaginable. I would have been content to daydream there for hours, but I snapped back into reality as a low groan resonated in Eric’s chest. I quickly pushed myself up and scooted back to sit a few feet away from him, suddenly uncomfortable with physical contact.
Eric reached his hand up to rub the side of his head as he slowly propped himself up with the opposite elbow. His eyes passed over the contents of the cramped shed, coming to rest on my face.
“Palta?” he asked, the confusion plainly visible on his face.
I hesitated momentarily, preoccupied with the fact that he knew my name. “Yes?” I finally managed to speak.
Regaining his polished composure, he lowered his hand and pushed up to a seated position. With a polite tone, he said, “Forgive me, Palta—but I seem to be having difficulty recalling how we got here…”
“How’s your head?” I asked, as he reached up again to massage the side of his scalp. “You took quite a blow.”
He lowered his eyes, tilting his head to the side and creasing his forehead for a moment as he considered the idea. Eventually he collected himself again as he looked back up toward the door. We both realized simultaneously that the light through the tiny window was beginning to fade to night.
Eric began to shift his weight to stand, but faltered as he stumbled backward into the cabinet behind him.
“Sit back down,” I urged him. “You’re still weak…You lost a lot of blood.”
Suddenly he froze, his eyes now wide with alarm as he focused on my left shoulder. I looked down to see the conspicuous patch of orange beginning to dry on my sleeve.
I looked back up at his face, still frozen with shock, with an anxious tension in my eyes. I waited for a moment, then sighed aloud with the thought of what I was about to do. Tentatively, I raised my hand and touched my fingertips to my right temple. Diverting my eyes away from his, I slowly swept my bangs up and back, carefully tucking the strands behind my ear. After a long pause, I shifted my eyes back to meet his gaze.
Eyes still wide, he swallowed hard as he took in the sight of me. Then, with a startling jolt, he turned and darted toward the door. I sat motionless as the sound of his footsteps pounding on the pavement rapidly receded into the distance.
I stayed there for several minutes, utterly spent, mulling over the images in my mind. I was used to the unusual—but this evening had gone well beyond unusual. My mind settled on two concerning realities:
Firstly, the sight of my ears could definitely clear a room.
Secondly—and much more disturbingly—Eric Moran was deathly afraid of me.
