Chapter 6: Covered in Scars
“Mrs. Quixall!” Cries of alarm filled the air. Startled, Caleb spun around to see Deborah kneeling. He rushed to help her up, but she refused, gripping his arm. “If you insist on leaving us, I will stay kneeling here!”
Caleb exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers to his temple. “Mrs. Quixall, please, get up first.”
After a pause, he said, “All right. I won’t leave the Quixall family.” Only then did Deborah’s expression soften. She rose, taking his hand as if nothing had happened. “Good boy. Let Agnes take you to your room so you can freshen up.”
Caleb followed Agnes upstairs. His body moved on autopilot, instinct guiding him toward his old room, until Agnes stopped him. “Mr. Caleb, your room is this way.” She gestured toward a smaller room in the far-right corner—a former storage space, if Caleb remembered correctly. The lighting was poor, a single north-facing window offering no sunlight. A wave of musty air, thick with neglect, greeted him as the door swung open. He lingered at the threshold, recalling Deborah's desperate pleas for him to stay. How ironic. And here I thought she genuinely couldn’t bear to part with me.
The bathroom was small and cramped, steam quickly filling the space. The mirror fogged over, blurring his reflection and the scars on his skin. He knew Deborah was drowning in guilt now. In a month or two, when he mentioned leaving again, they’d probably be the ones holding the door open for him.
After washing, Caleb noticed the loungewear Agnes had laid out. He picked it up, unfolded it, and paused. It unsettlingly resembled his prison uniform. Only Jesse could be capable of such calculated pettiness. Jesse is so… petty.
He slipped the shirt on, but the coarse fabric irritated his wounds, both old and new. Frowning, he ran his fingers along the inner lining, discovering countless tiny, stiff, glittering fibers—deliberately embedded.
He stepped to the door and called out, “Agnes, could you bring me another set of clothes?”
Before Agnes could respond, Yelena’s impatient voice cut in. “This was specially prepared for you by Jesse. You just had to go against us, huh?” She stood at the bottom of the stairs, her brows furrowed in disapproval.
Caleb began to explain, “This outfit—”
“Yelena, if Caleb doesn’t want to wear it, let’s not force him,” Jesse interjected. The seemingly considerate remark only fueled Yelena’s rage. She slammed the table, her voice sharp with contempt. “What exactly are you dissatisfied with? Isn’t it enough that the Quixall family is still willing to accept you? Either wear what’s given to you, or don’t wear anything at all!”
With no choice, Caleb descended the stairs in his uncomfortable attire. The Quixalls were already seated. Deborah, ever the doting mother in public, patted the seat beside her, urging him to sit. As he sat, her gaze fell on the exposed skin at his sleeve. A faint reddish hue caught her eye. Her brows knitted in concern. “What happened to your hand?”
Caleb replied indifferently, “Oh, it’s chafed by the shirt.”
“The shirt?” Before Deborah could react, Yelena scoffed, arms crossed. “Stop making things up. Do you think you can fool Mom and gain her sympathy?”
Yelena, already simmering, exploded when Caleb continued to defy her. With a sharp clang, she slammed her fork down, storming toward him. “I’d like to see if it’s really the shirt.”
With a violent tug, she ripped the shirt open, exposing his skin. Deep scars marred his body, some raw, others with faint traces of blood—remnants of his cellmates' “farewell gifts.”
“Oh my gosh…” Deborah and the housekeepers quickly averted their gazes. Yelena’s hand froze, and she muttered, “How could this be?”