Army Boy: Chapters 1-2 (Draft)

(BEFORE YOU READ: The first & second chapter of my book, taking place in late 1940's Georgia. Arthur Collins, after suffering a life-altering injury just before the end of the war, is brought back home and is now a shell of what he once was; disabled and viciously depressed. His mother is overwhelmingly desperate for her boy to be happy again, and his father can't even face him. However, everything changes once a new family moves into the empty house across the street; a mother and father, with a beautiful daughter he couldn't stray his eyes from. Arthur's quiet solitude outside is now replaced with a picture perfect family across the street, haunting his every escape out of the home. And if his mother had anything to do with it...They wouldn't be strangers for very long.)

Chapter 1

Death could have been a better fate than this.

Those very words haunted his thoughts within every passing second. He could have died with honor, could have kept his dignity. But, God had decided it was not his time. So, instead, he found himself sitting on his bed, aimlessly flipping through channels on the television; a daily activity. The light that once filled those young, innocent eyes had long dimmed, and now adorned a chiseled, hardened face scarred by the terrible product of the war. He realized with a bitter twist of his gut that the last time he’d actually felt like a man—the last time he’d smiled—was in a dusty olive uniform three thousand miles away. Before the accident. What he considered the end of his life.

Now, what had remained, was only the shell of what he once had been.

Getting out of bed was a struggle. It felt like fire seared through his leg every time he tried to stand. It stung, it ached; a pain that tore through him with every attempt to move. When he had the energy, it was like going to battle with himself, destined to lose every single time.

That leg of his was nothing but a heavy sandbag filled with terribly sharp needles. It took all the strength he had left just to drag it across his room.

Click

Click

Click

The soft sound of wood against a carpeted floor. He was 23 years old, and he could not walk without a cane. By his bed there remained a wheelchair, practically brand new, hardly ever used. It haunted him every time he’d gaze upon it, but he’d never dare to prove his own weakness by using it.

The mirror in his room was covered, although the bathroom mirror he was now approaching was the last man standing. The only thing worse than getting injured on the battlefield was looking at himself in the mirror.

He heaved, his weight leaned against his cane as those dark eyes of his finally faced himself in the mirror. He was disheveled. His hair was a mess, his face scarred and scruffy, eyes surrounded by dark circles. Despite hardly ever leaving his bed, he looked exhausted. The man he faced in the mirror was not one that he recognized. There once used to be a happy, athletic young man with all the promise and charm in the world in that mirror. Now all that was left was a body without a soul. And it tore him apart every time he faced it.

“Arthur Collins, is that you?” The voice of his mother echoed through the hallway, summoned by the clicking of his cane. She was utterly joyous every time he got out of bed, every attempt at normality giving her hope that her son was coming back to her even when he was always just upstairs.

There was no response, of course. Arthur did not talk, not a lot. Even using his voice was using energy he no longer had.

“Look at you! My darling boy.” Adaline Collins proudly looked upon him as if he had achieved an amazing feat just by getting out of bed. He hated it. “What’s gotten you all out and about this mornin’?”

Arthur clenched his jaw, straightening himself as he remained before his bathroom counter. “I’m dirty.” A deep, emotionless voice finally replied; scratchy and unused, enveloped by hints of Southern twang.

“How ‘bout I run you a bath, then–” Adaline already started walking over to the bath, excited that her beloved son was even just up and putting effort into himself.

“Ma.” Arthur quickly intervened, a hand raised. “I don’t need no help.” Slowly, he limped over to the bath.

Click

Click

“You don’t need to be putting so much weight on that leg of yours–”

“I said,” Just the mere mention of his leg made the ever-burning fire within him rage. “I don't need no help, Ma.” Arthur slowly lowered himself to reach the bathtub faucet, gritting his teeth.

Adaline bit her tongue, the frown beneath her happy facade slowly making itself known. Arthur absolutely refused any help from anybody. She could not help him, but that also didn’t mean that she would stop trying.

“Why don’t I set some clothes out for you?” She suggested warily, watching as he managed to turn the faucet, slumping over as he sat upon the side of the bath to catch his breath.

"I'm a grown man. I can get my own damnclothes.” He huffed. “Now, go on. Please. I’m filthy.” He would go days on without bathing, not getting out of that bed. Not taking care of himself. It was almost embarrassing to even think he was cleaner in the muddy trenches than he was now. Constantly laying in his own sweat and grime, marinating in his own filth while he melts his brain away, bitterly watching people on tv live the life he couldn’t.

Adaline sighed, a familiar look of worry washing over her features. He couldn’t understand why she was trying to be so positive all the time. He was nothing but a cripple who weighed her down every moment she dared to have hope for him in her eyes.

“Ma?” Arthur impatiently raised his eyebrows, his head motioning towards the door as he began to undo his belt.

“Well,” Adaline, defeated, brushed off her apron. “I’ll be downstairs. Got breakfast cookin’. Take your time, darling.” She gave one last smile before she quickly left the bathroom, the door closing behind her.

A sigh escaped his lips. He shook his head. Arthur knew better than to treat his beloved mother so coldly, though her worries for him made him feel weak. And Arthur Collins was no weak man.

As his clothes slowly dropped to the floor, his jaw clenched as he dared to face the mangled mess of scars that covered his right leg. Beneath the thin, translucent skin of his shin, there was a strange, bruised hue that never faded. It wasn't a natural color of the body; it was a dark, slate-grey tint—the dust of a German forest and the soot of a cold explosion—ground so deep into his tissue that it had become a permanent part of his American anatomy.

In the center of the largest craters, he could see the dark, blue-black specks of German steel. They looked like stubborn ink stains or heavy buckshot trapped under glass. Sometimes, when the weather turned cold, he could feel those tiny shards of metal hum with a different kind of ache, as if the iron was still trying to find its way back to the earth.

He ran a calloused thumb over a small, hard lump near his ankle. It was a jagged, blue-gray speck no bigger than a grain of rice, but it felt like a mountain under his skin. It was a souvenir he never asked for; a piece of the war that refused to be discharged.

The water, as it submerged him, brought temporary relief to the weight that his leg was, though he could never hold back the cringe on his face as the heat met with his sensitive skin. How pathetic he felt knowing that even bathing himself was a struggle, but he’d rather suffer than accept help. And he’d rather die than ask for it.

The steam that had masked the bathroom mirror began to thin, and the water, once a scalding sanctuary, was turning lukewarm. As the drain gurgled, the buoyancy vanished, and the sandbag returned with a vengeance. The weightlessness was a cruel lie.

Arthur’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the high porcelain rim, his left leg shaking under the strain of hoisting his mangled half into the air. It was a slow, mechanical victory. When he reached for his towel, he didn’t rub it over his right leg. He patted it, wary of the mountain beneath his skin. Every pass of the cloth was a reminder of the German steel that now called his body home.

Heavy, wet feet slapped against the porcelain tile of the floor followed by the heaving of his breaths as he sat on the edge of the tub. Getting out was only half the battle.

Click

Click

Click

Admittedly, soaking his mangled leg in the heat of the water relieved him from some of the pressure, but it was all too temporary. The cane that held him upright pressed hardly against the floor with each limp he made to get across his bedroom, his breath trembling with every effort.

Dressing himself was another exhausting victory. By the time he forced his stiffened limbs into a clean pair of trousers, he was already spent. When he reached into the back of the closet for a clean shirt, his hand brushed against something heavy and coarse. He paused, his fingers curling around thick wool and smooth leather. With a sharp tug that nearly cost him his balance, he pulled the object into the dim light of the bedroom.

It was his high school letterman jacket. The deep navy wool was pristine, the leather sleeves still supple, and the large, gold ‘C’ for Collins sat proudly over the heart. In 1941, this jacket had been his armor. He remembered the weight of it—not the dead weight of a useless, mangled limb, but the glorious weight of a boy who could run a forty-yard dash in four-point-five seconds; the local star who had the world at his feet before he’d ever set foot in a uniform.

Arthur held the jacket up against himself, leaning heavily on his cane with the other hand. The contrast was sickening. The jacket was built for a chest that didn't heave with exhaustion after a bath, and for shoulders that hadn't slumped under the invisible weight of a war.

As he shifted his weight, his right leg buckled slightly. He looked down at the jacket, then at his leg, realizing that the athletic young man who wore that special gold embroidery was more than just three years gone—he was a different species entirely. The jacket was a relic of a boy who had died in a forest in Germany, even if his heart was still beating in Georgia.

“Breakfast is ready!” The eager tone of his mothers voice echoing from downstairs broke him from his train of thought.

With a bitter grimace, he shoved the jacket back into the dark corner of the closet. It didn't belong in this room anymore. It was just more static, more noise from a life he no longer had.

He straightened his shirt with trembling fingers, and turned toward the door.

Click

Click

Click

The sound of his cane was a somber metronome against the hallway floorboards. Like the steel embedded within him, the clicking was inescapable; a part of him that haunted his every move. The familiar aroma of bacon grease and rich coffee brushed against him as he reached the top of the stairs. To anyone else, it was the smell of home; to Arthur Collins, it was the smell of a life he no longer knew.

He descended one step at a time, a jarring rhythm of wood and bone. When he reached the kitchen doorway, the steam from the stove swirled around his mother like a halo, a soft tune playing on the radio. Adaline turned, her face lighting up with that fragile, desperate joy he had come to dread.

“There he is! Clean as a whistle and just in time,” she chirped, her hands fluttering as she set a porcelain plate of eggs and fresh-sizzling bacon on the table. “Go on, sit down. I’ve got the coffee just the way you like it.”

Arthur slowly sank into the wooden chair, the movement sending a fresh spike of fire from his ankle to his hip. He forced his jaw to unclench. He could feel her eyes scanning him, searching for a glimmer of the boy who used to bolt down these stairs three at a time, an eager smile on his face.

“Smells good, Ma.” Arthur said once he caught his breath. His voice was a dry rasp, but he forced a small, tight nod.

He picked up the silver fork before him, hand steadying only through the sheer force of will. He chewed the eggs, but to him, they tasted like nothing. Across from him, Adaline was talking—something about neighbors, the heat wave, the price of milk—filling the heavy silence with a frantic tapestry of normalcy. Arthur nodded at the right intervals, a ghost of himself.

The effort of holding his back straight, of keeping the grimace off his face, and of pretending to listen was more exhausting than the climb down the stairs. By the time he pushed his half-finished plate away, a cold sweat had broken out across his brow. He had given her ten minutes of "Arthur Collins, the survivor." He didn't have an eleventh minute left in him.

“I’m gonna go sit on the porch,” He muttered, grabbing his cane.

“But you hardly ate a thing!” Adaline started to rise, the worry lines returning to her forehead like ink bleeding through paper.

“I’m full, Ma. Just need some air.” He didn't wait for her response, holding up a hand to halt her before he shakily arose from his chair and limped his way out the door.

Click

Click

Click.

When Arthur had the energy, he would almost always find himself sitting outside. In the lovely suburban southern home he lived within, there sat two rocking chairs on the front porch. He always sat on the one on the right. Something about that spot had the sun sitting his person just right with a perfect breeze that brushed against his abused skin so gently. In the distance, he heard the sounds of children playing in a yard a few houses down, the scent of freshly cut grass following. Just getting to sit back and breathe in the fresh air and feel that sunlight was more refreshing than any bath he could ever soak in.

Across their lovely suburban home was another. The elderly couple that once lived there during his youth had been long gone, their absence established with a ‘for sale’ sign that sat right in the front of the yard for several years. The sign always faced him when he sat in his chair; bringing him back to a time long lost, but today– it was gone. It was only yet another forgotten relic.

The suburban quiet was broken by the low, steady rumble of an engine turning onto their street. A moment later, his father’s car turned into the driveway, its black paint dusty from the commute and the chrome bumpers glinting dully in the morning sun. It was a sturdy, sensible machine, built with the rounded, heavy curves of the years just before the war—a reliable relic that had survived the gas rations and the rubber shortages right alongside the family.

As the ignition cut out, the car gave a final, shuddering vibration before falling silent. The heavy door opened with a metallic groan and closed with a solid, echoing thud that seemed to vibrate through the porch floorboards and into Arthur's good leg. He watched from his shadow on the porch as the familiar silhouette of his father emerged, pausing for a moment to straighten his hat and pull his briefcase from the bench seat, his movements slow and practiced in the humid Georgia heat.

Arthur straightened in his chair– as much as he could. His father’s presence made him stiffen as he slowly approached. The older man glanced over at his boy, standing on two functioning legs adorned by neatly-ironed dress pants, fit for the perfect office job. He had worked overnight so he could come home early. Exhaustion was visible in his eyes.

“Boy,” Eugene Collins spoke out to him, a nod of acknowledgement following. “You’re out of bed.”

Arthur was tense, hands unconsciously gripping at the sides of the rocking chair. His relationship with his father was wary. He no longer knew where they stood since he came back home, and hadn’t for quite some time. His father hardly could ever bring himself to look at him anymore. He didn’t know if he was disgusted, or simply trying to mask the pain he felt seeing his son in such a state. Honestly, Arthur could not blame him for either reason.

“I wanted some air.” Arthur replied, taking in a breath.

“Your mother cooked you somethin’?” Eugene asked. His tone was unreadable, and so was his face. It always was. But maybe somewhere in those words, he showed concern.

Arthur nodded, humming. “A breakfast for five.” Adaline was once the mother of a promising athlete, and she still cooked like she was too. She had a habit of doing that, just so there would be enough for her and her husband.

Eugene, showing a hint of a smile, gave another nod. “As I thought.” And finally, he went on to the door. “You don’t stay out here too long, now.” He’d say before the door quickly closed behind him, leaving Arthur once again by himself. His father, once his best friend and biggest fan– could not even stand to be in his presence for more than a few minutes, couldn’t even look him in the eye. It hurt him more than any warzone ever could.

He released a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, a hand stressfully running back his untrimmed brunette waves from his face. Just as Arthur began to settle into the familiar, bitter comfort of his own thoughts, a new sound disrupted the neighborhood’s rhythm—a heavy, discordant grinding of gears that didn't belong to the smooth-running sedans of the block.

A large moving van, its sides caked with the dust of a long journey and its engine let out a protesting hiss of steam, lurched to a halt directly across the street. It parked squarely in front of the house where the 'For Sale' sign had once stood. And only moments after; another car followed in from behind.

Arthur watched, his hand tightening on the head of his cane as his body tensed once more. This was a violation of his sanctuary. For years, that empty house had been a mirror of his own life: silent, abandoned, and static. Now, the back doors of the van swung open with a violent clang of iron, revealing the stacked skeletons of a new life—wooden crates, rolled rugs, and the sharp corners of a dining table wrapped in burlap.

Then, he saw them; the silhouette of feet stepping out of the vehicle, hidden behind the doors. With a heavy mechanical slam or two, out walked what looked like a picture perfect family; a mother, a father, and– a daughter.

She didn't move with the practiced, heavy exhaustion of the people in Arthur’s world. She moved with a terrifying amount of energy, shielding her eyes from the Georgia sun with a gloved hand as she looked up at the peeling paint of her new home. Behind her, an older man in a flat cap hopped down from the driver's seat, wiping his brow before leaning back into the van to haul out a heavy trunk.

She was young—perhaps his age, or a year or two younger. The parents seemed as old as his own, never ending smiles of pure joy and excitement on their faces. They were the kind of people who looked like they still believed in the "post-war dream" the radio was always selling.

Arthur didn't move. He sat deep in the shadows of his porch, a ghost watching the living. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of nakedness, as if the covered mirrors in his house were no longer enough to hide him. If any of them turned their heads just a fraction to the left, they would see him: the broken soldier in the rocking chair, a grim monument on an otherwise perfect street.

The older woman said something to her husband, a bright, melodic laugh carried across the pavement by the breeze. It was the first time Arthur had heard a laugh that wasn't filtered through a television speaker in months. It tasted like ash in his mouth.

He clenched his jaw in an outrage, eyebrows kitting as his hand gripped at his cane. His peaceful outing had come to an end, and he refused to be seen. Fire struck through his leg as he slowly got up, wincing as he stumbled on his first try standing straight. Arthur limped as quickly as he could back to the front door that now faced unfamiliar faces.

Behind him, the violent clang of the moving van’s doors echoed like a mortar blast, the vibration shivering through the porch boards and straight up into Arthur’s person. The sound didn't just reach his ears; it impaled him. His heart kicked against his ribs, and for a moment, peaceful Georgia vanished, replaced by the gray smoke of the front. He nearly buckled, his hand raising to his chest as he fought to pull air into his lungs. Across the street, the young woman’s head began to pivot—a slow-motion turn that threatened to catch him mid-collapse. Panic, sharp and cold, overrode the fire in his leg; he pivoted and scrambled back toward the door, fleeing into the dark of the house before any pair eyes could find the wreck of the man he was.

Chapter 2: A Neighborly Welcome

The invitation had been issued in the local grocery store, whispered over a pile of peaches like a conspiracy. Arthur only found out when the smell of the house changed.

Since his return, the air in the Collins home had been stale, smelling of dust and the medicinal tang of the ointments Arthur rubbed into his leg. But Saturday afternoon was different. The scent of floor wax, and roasting ham filled the once-empty air, followed by the frantic clatter of china. It had to have been his momma’s good china that had been left untouched since his sendoff party.

"Ma?" Arthur called out, standing at the top of the stairs, his voice echoing down the hallway.

The clattering came to a halt, and in a moment, Adaline was at the base of the stairs, smoothing down her favorite floral apron over a dress she usually wore at Sunday service. Her hair was styled and pinned back with a certain precision that signaled a battle was coming.

"Oh, Arthur! You're finally up," she said, her voice a pitch too high, filled with a nervous, artificial brightness that heightened Arthur’s rising skepticism. "I’ve invited the Ellsworth’s over for dinner, our new neighbors. They’ve been in that old house nearly a month now and haven't had a proper Southern welcome."

Arthur’s grip tightened on the banister. The wood groaned under his weight. "What?"

"Oh, hush! They’re just the kindest people, Arthur! Truly. Little family of three. Thomas is a veteran, too—Navy, I think— Margaret stays at home like me, and their daughter, Charlotte..." Adaline paused, her eyes flickering with a desperate, transparent hope. "She’s just around your age. She’s been helping her mother finish the curtains. She’s a sweet thing, Arthur. A real beauty."

The weight in his leg felt like it doubled. Of course his mother would do this, force people onto him. He could see it already: the pitying smiles, the way they’d watch him struggle with his chair, the inevitable, suffocating silence that would fall when they realized that boy in the letterman jacket photos was gone, replaced by this scarred, scruffy cripple..

“When’s the last time we’ve had company over, hm?” Adaline continued, her tone doing its best to convince him. “Surely it might be nice to have you a little friend-

"I'm not coming down," Arthur intervened, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous growl.

"Arthur James, you will not embarrass this family," Adaline snapped, the steel in her Southern politeness finally showing. "They'll be here at six. I want you in that nice blue button-down of yours—the one that matches your eyes. I expect you to be shaved."

Before he could retort, she disappeared back into the kitchen, her word final. The decision was made.

Arthur, nearly enraged, retreated to his room with a huff. The Click-Click-Click of his cane sounded especially hollow. When he yanked open his dusty wardrobe drawer, there it was, the blue shirt. It sat there, crisp and untouched for years, almost mocking him as he looked at it now. He felt sick.

The hour before six o'clock was a slow-motion execution.

He stood at the bathroom sink, his weight braced painfully against the porcelain basin because his cane kept slipping on the tiled floor. Arthur knew if he didn’t shave, his mother would come up here with that watery heartbreak in her eyes that he didn’t have the strength to fight.

The razor was a cold weight within his trembling fingers. As he scraped away weeks of neglected scruff, his scars began to emerge. One lagged line ran from his jaw up to the side of his ear, a permanent reminder of a piece of shrapnel that was nearly a half-inch of ending his life. He finally got a good look at himself in the mirror. His eyes looked dark and hollowed out by a thousand-yard stare that hadn’t blurred even back on American soil, like they belonged to an old man rather than what should have been a twenty three year-old full of life. It was sickening.

Below him, the muffled thumps of the dining room table being set, the silver drawer opening, and the rhythmic shink of cutlery being polished filled the house with a terrifying domestic energy that had been absent for far too long. He couldn't remember the last time his parents had done anything like this since he came back.

Then, the doorbell rang.

The sound, so unfamiliar to him at this point, felt like it vibrated through the floorboards. Arthur froze with the razor halfway to his chin.

“They’re here!” Adaline’s voice drifted up, breathless and high. “Eugene, the door!”

Quickly, Arthur rinsed his face with cold water, the shock of it doing nothing to settle the riot in his stomach. He moved back to his bedroom and looked at the blue button-down shirt Adaline demanded he wore. Putting it on felt like donning some sort of sick costume. When he reached the final button at his throat, he felt like he was choking.

For a moment, he sat on the edge of his bed, taking deep breaths to calm his nerves. The tick of his bedside clock felt like it was mocking him and his inevitable surrender downstairs. He could hear them now—the low, rumbling baritone of the father, the soft murmur of the mother, and then—

A girl's voice.

It wasn't as loud as his mother's, but it carried. It was light, clear, and softer than anything he had heard in so long.

"It’s such a lovely home, Mrs. Collins," she said, that voice muffled from downstairs.

Arthur’s hand tightened on the handle of his cane until his knuckles turned a ghostly white. He hadn’t been in the presence of any young woman in a long time. Didn’t dare to, not like this. He realized then that he wasn't just afraid of the pity. The very thought of her looking at his mangled leg or his haunted eyes under the bright glow of the dining room chandelier felt like being stripped naked in the middle of a crowded street.

“This is my Eugene, I have my lovely son, Arthur.” Adaline could be heard as she spoke to the family. “Arthur! Come down! We have guests!”

He forced himself toward the door. Every step was a negotiation with pain, a slow, deliberate march toward a dinner table that felt more dangerous than a German pillbox. He reached the top of the stairs and looked down. The hallway was bright, gold-leafed by the setting sun, and there, standing by the coat rack, was a flash of yellow fabric and dark hair.

“Arthur is a war hero, you know. Served in the Army for four years, my darling boy.” Adaline went on, the sound of chairs shuffling following.

“The Army? Well, I’ll be—nothing but respect for a man who did his work in the mud while we Navy boys were busy getting pampered with hot coffee and dry bunks! Brave thing, your boy must be.” A voice that he concluded to be Thomas Ellsworth replied.

He hadn't even reached the first step, and he already wanted to turn back. His mother was talking him up as she always did, and Thomas’ reply felt like a smack to the face. He almost turned around, though the floorboards creaked beneath his weight and gave away his looming presence.

“Oh, there he is! Arthur, come down to the table!” The eager nervousness was clear in her tone. Now, he had no choice.

The ever-going conversation at the dinner table slowly began to quiet, as the sound of Arthur’s cane clicked heavily against the wooden stairs, slow, and deliberate. His jaw clenched and his heart hammered against his ribs like a wild, encaged bird as he limped down every step.

There, Arthur slowly emerged before the group of people. His mother’s face was full of nerves with a desperate hope in her eyes, his father looking away. Then, there was the Ellsworth family; Thomas, Margaret, and– Charlotte. His cold, tired eyes filled with bitter fury slowly raised to gaze at them, and it was almost in an instant that their expressions fell, everybody halting mid-breath. It made him sick.

“Everybody!” Adaline quickly broke the tense silence with a practiced joy, walking over to him, a hand proudly resting upon his shoulder. “My Arthur.”

Thomas gave a small, awkward nod, Margaret following with a pitiful smile. And Charlotte…

“Arthur, meet Thomas, and Margaret Ellsworth.” Adaline looked back at him. Arthur’s gaze drifted away from them and to her. He was enraged, but he would not humiliate his poor mother. He gave a small nod. “And this is their daughter, Charlotte.” She said with an extra high pitch to her tone, giving away exactly why she invited them over with ease.

“Hi…” Charlotte’s honeysweet voice spoke out to him, her eyes gazing at him with a careful curiosity that he hated.

His mother nudged him, demanding he speak. “Hi.” Arthur finally replied, refusing to look her in the eye, far too humiliated enough.

“Now, why don’t you be a gentleman and show Charlotte around the gardens while we finish up? Get you some fresh air.” Adaline’s desperation was hidden by a simple suggestion, though the begging look in her eyes said it all.

“Ma-” He was humiliated enough, and now was asked to walk this girl around and put his disability on display at his mother’s request.

“Please.” Adaline did not ask this time, her tone was final.

He clenched his cane in a silent rage, shutting his eyes for a moment before he slowly turned around. “This way.” He finally said, his tone almost low and threatening as he began to slowly limp out of the kitchen, and down the hall towards the backyard where his mother’s garden; her pride and joy remained.

He could hear the hesitation in Charlotte’s footsteps behind him before she began to slowly follow him. He didn't look back. He didn't want to see if she was staring at the way his hip hitched with every step, or if she was looking at the flowers. To him, the garden wasn't a sanctuary; it was a gauntlet.

He huffed with every step, his jaw clenched to hold back his tongue.

The afternoon breeze brushed across his skin with a gentle familiarity as he slowly walked the garden path, his cane clicking softly against the pavement. The view around them contrasted deeply with the tense air; bright beautiful flowers of every kind, flowing with an elegant delicacy amidst the cool breeze. Spring time was always his mother’s favorite, it’s when her precious flowers could bloom. She spent hours just working out here, and it showed. Sometimes, Arthur wondered why he didn't come out here more. He just needed to be away from it all, wanted to separate himself from everybody and just look at the sky and think about what could have been.

“It’s– beautiful, here.” Charlotte finally spoke out to him as she slowly followed along, eyes watching him carefully, unable to peel away from his limp. “Your mother did this?”

“Mm.” Arthur hummed.

“I’d like a garden like this.” She added. “I-l’d love to just sit out in the grass and read all day..” A soft laugh that jolted Arthur’s senses slipped from her.

“You’re not much of a talker, are you?” Charlotte spoke again, the words finally making the man halt.

Slowly, he turned to face her with that cold stare of his for the first. Charlotte tensed visibly, eyes widening just enough for him to notice.

“No. I ain’t.” He replied simply, almost monotone.

“That’s okay! I-I could talk enough for the both of us…” Charlotte was quick to say, a nervous laugh following.

There was a small pause, the two looking at one another. They were completely opposite from one another. Charlotte was prettier than any movie stars he saw on television. She had these big hazel eyes, with long, curled eyelashes that fluttered beneath the sun. Her hair was a honey brown, neatly curled and styled with delicate precision, and he could not miss her soft, plump lips paired with the slightest hint of cherry. They gave the kind of smile that could tug at any man’s heartstrings. And there he was, nothing but a scarred, mangled cripple before her.

“Why don’t– we sit for a little?” She broke the silence once more, spotting his mama’s garden bench ahead. “Been in these heels all day, it’s starting to take a toll on me.” Charlotte rubbed at her ankle, letting out yet another soft laugh to release the tension.

Arthur sighed and turned back around, beginning to drag the weight of his leg down the path and to the old, wooden bench at the end of it. He gripped at his cane fiercely, his body shifting his weight to his good leg as he slowly, carefully lowered himself, though the pain that shot up him was inescapable, like silent gunfire. He clenched his jaw and winced as he sat down with a groan.

“Are–.. Are you alri-” Charlotte hadn’t sat down yet, and instead watched him with a concerned gaze that instantly added fuel to that fire that endlessly raged within him

“I’m fine.” Arthur snapped between gritted teeth, huffing as he turned his head to look opposite from her.

Charlotte quickly closed her mouth shut, hesitating only for a moment before slowly, lowering herself at his side. Yet again, there was silence.

“Do you…usually have company over like this?” She said after a moment, her eyes gazing over at the way he was hunched over, breathing heavily.

“No.”

“You should. You might be the most hospitable host i’ve ever met.” Her unexpected sarcasm finally caused his head to turn to her, brows furrowed disapprovingly. But all she did was smile, hoping to god he’d do the same.

“Are you insulting me?” Arthur asked with a hardened stare.

“If I say no, will it get you to talk a little?” She said with that infuriating smile, daring to joke at him.

His eyes narrowed just a little more before he once again turned his head away from her.

"You know, my daddy says silence is a virtue," Another attempt from Charlotte, her voice smaller now, the energy beginning to leak out of her under the weight of his stare. She smoothed the skirt of her dress over her knees, her fingers trembling just a fraction. "But I-I think he only says that when my mother is talking about her book club…”

She waited for a chuckle. A smirk. Even a dry huff.

Arthur said nothing. The silence stretched, becoming almost deafening between the two of them. A cicada buzzed in a nearby oak tree, the sound grating against Arthur's nerves like sandpaper.

"It’s okay if you don’t want to talk," she murmured, her politeness sounding strained, like a string pulled too tight. "I know–I know things are different now. For everyone. My cousin came back from Italy and he– he doesn’t like to talk much now either.."

Different. The word felt like a slap. Arthur inhaled, and finally turned his head once more, his eyes catching the way she was perched on the edge of the bench as if she were ready to bolt at any moment.

"Your cousin," Arthur rasped, his voice cutting through her politeness like a rusted blade. "He have both his legs?"

Charlotte flinched as if he’d swung the cane at her. Her hazel eyes widened, reflecting the harsh evening sun. "I–... Yes-..."

"Then he don't know a damn thing about how I feel," Arthur said. He didn't say it with heat; he said it with a cold, dead finality that was much worse. He looked back out at the horizon, his jaw set. "And neither do you."

Charlotte sat there, her mouth slightly ajar as the sweetness in her eyes twisted into something bitter. She looked down at her lap, her hands clenching into small fists. She had tried every polite trick in the book—sarcasm, kindness, shared stories—and he had dismantled them all in ten seconds.

"I-I’m sorry– I was just trying to be nice–" she whispered.

"I don't need 'nice,'" He seethed. "I need to be left alone. So why don't you go back inside and tell 'em the garden was real pretty?"

He expected her to cry. He almost wanted her to, just so he could prove to himself she was just another obnoxious, sensitive woman that wasn’t worth his time regardless of what his mama wanted.

But Charlotte didn't cry. She stood up, her heels clicking sharply on the stone path. She didn't look at his leg, and she didn't look at his scars. She looked him right in those hollowed-out eyes, her face set in a mask of wounded dignity.

"You're right," she said, her voice steady but thin. "The garden is beautiful. It’s a shame the man sitting in it is so determined to be ugly." She turned on her heel and began the walk back to the house.

His eyes widened, his expression giving away his shock for a fraction of a second before he shoved himself up and forced himself to his feet. “Ms. Ellsworth!” He called out to her. “Ms. Ellsworth!”

Charlotte, with a final huff, stomped inside the home, the heavy door slamming behind her. She gave him exactly what he said he wanted, though he sat there uncomfortably, a bitter taste of resentment in his mouth. Maybe guilt. Mama was gonna kill him.