Zion's Garden - Chapter 4.1

As the petals of a flower might touch the ground and then lift away again, he held me close.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered.

A broken-winged angel wrapped himself around me, voice brushing my ear. I tried pushing him off with clenched fists against his shoulder, but Zion didn’t move an inch. My sobs softened into ragged breaths. Struggling, I kicked, writhing to free myself from his hold, but Zion’s embrace only tightened, unyielding. My tears seeped into the fabric of his pristine white shirt, staining it with the storm inside me. He murmured, voice soft and fractured.

“I’m not going to ask for sex.”

The grip of his arms firmed around me, and I found myself entirely enclosed. Like a fish trapped in a net, I flailed before collapsing in defeat, spent.

“Just stay like this until you fall asleep.”

Another sob tore from my lips. I hated Sion. I hated seeing him broken. I hated how easily I unraveled in front of him. The tightly wrapped bandages around my wounds felt like they were being pried apart, leaving raw, aching flesh exposed.

“Huh…”

“This isn’t a plea. It’s an order.”

“I hate you.”

“A doctor shouldn’t let their patients know that.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“It suits you best.”

His touch glided over my hair, soft and rhythmically soothing. He sang in a whisper, low and melodic.

“Zion lulls the doctor to sleep.”

“Shut up…”

“The doctor falls peacefully into slumber.”

His gentle fingers threaded through my hair, lulling me into a stupor. Somewhere between the hazy bounds of reality and dreams, a song hummed like an echo.

Happiness lies in your own hand…

It took me much too long to understand…

I dreamt of an angel singing to me, and for the first time since middle school, I woke from a nocturnal emission.

Three days passed. Thankfully, Zion had kept to his room since that night, only appearing briefly in the living room where he would meet my eyes but speak no words, as if he knew how fiercely I was trying to forget the shame that hung over me like a storm cloud.

I was grateful. One more word from those beautiful lips would have pushed me over the edge, and I was prepared to throw a punch. Everything that happened in this house was off the record, so it wouldn’t matter if I did. The memory of almost surrendering to the basest desires in his arms was something I prayed he’d keep buried forever.

Clack.

I sat alone at the vast dining table, biting into the bland hospital food that had been delivered by silent, unseen hands. Just after a cymbal-like clang echoed eight times, Zion’s door creaked open. He emerged, not in his usual white T-shirt and casual trousers, but in a cream-colored, wrinkle-free shirt and tailored gray trousers. His polished new shoes glistened under the chandelier’s light.

“Are you going out?” I asked, pausing mid-scoop of my tasteless soup. It was the first time I’d seen him leave the house since my arrival.

“Yes. Do you need anything?” His voice was casual, almost offhand.

It hit me then. Unlike me, trapped in this place without the hope of escape, Zion could leave whenever he wished. Frustration churned in my gut as I bent over my food with renewed aggression.

He sank into the sofa, his fingers combing through his golden hair, claiming it as his own.

“You should take your meds. Just in case you’re out for a while.”

At my curt suggestion, Zion turned, eyes locking with mine.
“Want to come with me?”

There was something unsettling in the way his gaze wavered, a shadow of doubt, the calm timbre of his voice dissonantly quiet. I scowled at him from across the table, the five meters stretching into a tense gulf.

“Where to?”

The shrill ring of the intercom shattered the silence like a sharp slap, reverberating through the high ceilings and jarring my nerves.

“Guess it’s not happening,” Zion murmured, standing up. An unease settled deep in my gut, coiling tight as he walked to the door. I watched him with growing apprehension until I was on my feet without realizing it.

“Kim Zion!” I called.

His hand, adorned with ornate metal engravings, paused on the door, his head turning just slightly. His face was unreadable, the mask so stoic it made my voice falter.

“W-wait. I’ll get your medicine.”

It was an excuse. I didn’t want him to go. I didn’t know why, but instinctively, I felt it—whatever place he was heading to, it was bad. Something gnawed at my core, begging me to stop him.

“No.”

The soft syllable seemed to dig into my chest as the intercom rang again, relentless. Fists clenched at my sides, I could only watch as he gave a small, tired smile.

“I’ll be back by midnight. I’ll take the meds when I return.”

“Don’t drink,” I managed, the words hollow.

“That’s not for you to tell me, doctor,” he chuckled weakly, turning away as the door shut with a resounding thud, and the silence that followed engulfed the mansion in a suffocating shroud.

Only after he disappeared did I fully realize I was now trapped alone in this monstrous, cold house.

Rage rose unbidden, a slow, simmering boil. It started as a discomfort, bubbling under my skin, until I flung my tray of untouched food into the sink, the metallic crash echoing through the space. There was no one to see, no one to reprimand me.

I cranked the music as loud as I could, mimicking Zion’s habits, but even the blaring notes failed to soothe my restlessness. The textbook pages blurred as my eyes shifted again and again to the crawling hands of the clock. Time dragged. Mickey and Minnie, characters that always popped out cheerfully, now felt suffocating in their silence.

Eleven. Three hours since he left. Unable to contain myself any longer, I uncapped a fresh bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, downing two shots in rapid succession. Yet the burn did nothing to quench the anxiety gnawing at me. As the hands neared midnight, inch by painful inch, the bottle emptied and left my head unnervingly clear. I waited, motionless on the leather couch, staring at the door.