Free Blackened by A.E. Richards Page A

knife to his eyes.
    “I am a man of great patience, but even I can wait only so long.”
    He steps closer, so close that his chest is an inch from mine and I can feel his hotness, his simmering rage, his sour lust. His eyes are so pale, so unreadable. I yearn to turn, dart out of the room, race down the stairs and away from him, from Father, from their dark plans, but the bread knife hovers above my arm. With one flick of his wrist, Jean-Bernard could render me utterly helpless. I imagine the blood flowing from the gaping wound. The pain, so much pain, too much to bear.
    The small window at his back is a painting of freedom; angel lights in the sky bidding me come. But it is too small to escape through. It mocks me with its false promise.
    “Answer me Lisbeth,” he repeats. His voice is more growl than purr.
    I lean away. My back touches the door. Hard. Immovable as stone from this position.    
    I clear my clogged throat and lick my lips.
    I whisper, “I, I – I sometimes fear the worst is all. I felt that perhaps this knife would offer protection from, well, if a dangerous person or persons were to invade my room as I slept.”
    The insincerity in my voice is so obvious to me that I do not believe he will accept my tale. I wait. His eyes narrow into slits. His tongue clucks. His eyes scrutinise my eyes.
    I hold his gaze and my breath, praying fervently to a God I no longer believe in that he will back away.
    His tongue roams around his upper lip, tickling his trimmed moustache.
    He steps back and drops Villette onto the bedclothes. She meows and rolls around with a ball of wool; her favourite plaything. As I look at her I am reminded of the innocence I once possessed, and how I would give anything to be unaware of this bleak reality.
    I want to hold Villette to my breast, but dare not move. Jean-Bernard, apparently deep in thought, taps the knife's smooth side against his upturned palm in a quick, constant patter-cake. I cannot predict what he will do if I move at this precise moment.
    He steps further away and paces back and forth in front of my desk. His legs are so long and my room so small that two strides are enough to take him the width of the space. With him wafts the burnt scent of a sickly sweet future; sweet for him, sick and twisted for me. 
    Abruptly he stops, whirls to face me, the knife poised by his eye.
    “Are you afraid of me Lisbeth?”      
    “No,” I reply. I dare not tell him the truth.
    “Then why are you so reluctant to join me? Charles wishes it, and he has your best interests at heart, as do I.”
    He halves the gap between us in one stride. I press myself into the door, struggling to think of a good response.
    “I suppose I am reluctant to leave my Father,” I say.
    “Your Father?” Jean-Bernard's voice is suddenly harsh.
    I know he can see right through my lies. He is as incisive as they come.
    “Yes,” I say, lifting my chin.
    “Why would you be reluctant to leave him?”
    “Because...because I do not think he will be able to cope alone. And when Eddie returns, he shall need me too.”
    Jean-Bernard's face loses all mockery, “Eddie shall not be returning.”
    I feel as though I have just had acid thrown in my face, “What do you mean? Of course he will be back. He shall return for the holidays.”
    Jean-Bernard shakes his head sadly, “I am afraid not. It is just you and Charles left now and Charles can fend for himself.”
    My certainty melts. No longer are my legs strong enough to support me. I crumble to the floor pulling my knees tight in front of my chest; a barrier and a support.
    “It cannot be. How could he take him away from me? Why?”
    “These are things we can talk of when we arrive at my home,” Jean-Bernard says moving to sit beside me on the floor.
    He holds the knife in both hands. Its lethal tip wavers beneath my ear.
    “Where is he? Where is Eddie?” I whisper through my hands.
    Jean-Bernard does not answer. Instead, he places the knife on the