An Apple A Day (Wattys2019)

Chapter 11 - Secrets

Miles

I look in the smudged mirror now and hate my reflection. The boy in the mirror is someone I don't recognise but who is slowly becoming more familiar, day by day. I see scars and surgical incisions all over my once smooth face. Or is that the beginnings of acne? It's difficult to tell. I wear thick bandages to hide it from myself, ashamed even if nobody can see me. Doc doesn't seem to mind even though he likes my scars. Likes to touch them.

Doc seems scared to touch me, like I'll break. I'm not going to break. I have blackouts after he hurts me, and sometimes I'm so scared of him my body and voice freeze; totally paralysed. But I don't break. I'm not some bloody wounded bird.

I eagerly anticipate the day he goes too far and accidentally kills me. He's killed people before, but how 'accidental' that was I'm not sure.

I make blueberry pancakes for breakfast. Doc just uses the microwave, so I've become skilled in the culinary arts to avoid growing emaciated and  unhealthy like him. Maybe one day I'll get out of here and become a chef. Hahahahahahahaha. I really should cease with the self-delusions. But they help, escaping into a world when I'm not here. But not one where I've never been here; one where I've been here and escaped or been released.

Not that I'd ever do that.

I throw on one of Doc's shirts that's too big for me and eat in front of the shopping channel, cause what else in on at eleven in the morning when everyone is at work or school? You know, people with normal lives.

Doc hurries in and I chuckle at his weird apparel. I've only seen him dressed like this once, right at he beginning. Shirt, tie, lab coat, and he's actually wearing trousers for a change! "What on Earth are you doing?" I laugh at him furiously searching for something.

"I'm- business, so lost, where?" He mutters incoherently, pushing me along the couch to look behind the cushions, finding the keys to his van. "I'm going to the clinic. They need me - urgently - I'll be back in a couple of hours,"

"What?!" I gasp in annoyance. "Hours? What the Hell am I gonna do?!" Doc's house is even more boring without him here. I hate him but he provides me with much-needed insanity avoidance. Just someone to talk to  when I need, it's suffocating being alone.

"I don't know - use your imagination," he gathers his bag and files and swoops for the door.

"There's nothing fun in this house!" I call after him.

"I'll bring us back microwaved pizza!" Is his reflective response before he slams the front door behind him, locking it.

No, Doc, you'll bring yourself back microwave pizza because your BMI is lower than my age. And I don't even know if my birthday is passed yet!

This is the first time I've been left alone in Doc's house without restraints, albeit behind a locked door. I never realised how spooky it is here before, every little creaking and groaning of this old apartment. Dripping of taps years overdue to be fixed, loose floorboards with literal skeletons buried underneath. I gravitate towards his mantel, hovering over the dusty clock face thick with cobwebs. I smile, Doc hates dirt and germs yet he allows dust to build up everywhere. The man is a walk-in contradiction and it amuses me.

An old ticking clock years out of battery frames the centre of the mantel, gathering dust in its neglect. Half-melted candlesticks line either side, a pocketknife rusted and forgotten about stabbed into the wood, extending at an odd angle. I get the impression that Doc hasn't always lived here. It's decorated for someone much older than him, but then why wouldn't he redecorate after moving in?

Third Person

There's one noticeably new, or newer, decoration adorning these walls. Above the mantel is Doc's framed medical degree, the glass of the frame shattered and a tiny blood mist covering some important details. Doc's name specifically seems deliberately buried under coats of crimson, blood smeared over it in fingerprints to hide it. Miles reaches out, dusting his fingers across the crinkling paper darkened by years of grime.

"What are you doing?"

Miles gasps, spinning around to see Doc having returned, bags of shopping under his arms. He's smirking in amusement. Miles realises he must have spent hours staring at the degree, wondering why Doc keeps his name so secret. Something sinister lies in his past, it must be. Something he'll go to any lengths to conceal. The child gulps, backing fearfully against the mantel. "I was just-"

"Relax," Doc chuckles, dumping what he bought on the chair. He walks up to Miles, cupping his youthful cheek in his hands, staring deeply into large, questioning eyes. His light touches caress every part of Miles' face, an oddly soothing gesture. He doesn't feel so insecure around Doc as he does by himself. "It's only natural you'd be curious. I haven't told you my name,"

"Will you?"

He seems to think for a moment, but the answer has always been predetermined. "No, I won't,"

"Why?!" Miles surprises himself with this demand, making Doc falter slightly from his 'cool' persona. "Why won't you tell me?! You were gonna let me go, and I could have sent the police to this address! That's more serious than me knowing your name, right?!"

"Oh dear," Doc relaxes his arm, letting his hand drop to his side. Miles finds he misses the warm, nurturing feeling of  Doc's hands exploring his face. "I had thought you'd figured it out by now,"

Clearly disappointed in Miles, he pouts like a child, slumping onto the sofa with a crestfallen expression. "I wouldn't have opened that door if I though there was even the slightest chance of you taking my offer,"

His face hardens, once again, to stone. "And if you had, I would have left. The city, the country. And found another subject. Never forget, Miles, that you are expendable. There's always someone more interesting than you,"

Miles stares, utterly betrayed and vitriolic, at the man he had thought might actually love him. Doc stands up, heading upstairs but not before uttering the command. "Make dinner, and not fucking ice cream. Something real,"