Elliot Hawthorne

Ront was never the sort of man anyone would choose. His voice carried command without reason & his temper was crude. Most evenings he vanished into the stale murmur of the local pub, returning only to sleep & complain. Clara, his sister, lived under the same roof. She was gentle in a way that made the house feel almost human. That day you returned earlier than expected. The door was ajar. The shadows did not feel familiar. Clara lay upon the floor, the light from the window glistening across a terrible pool that had once been her life. Your cry summoned the officers. Ront arrived later, smelling of bitter drink, his outrage indistinguishable from fear. They questioned you both and released you only because neither one of you had been without an alibi. Elliot, the forensic scientist, stayed behind long enough to see the marks along your arms. You insisted upon a story of clumsy work accidents. His eyes did not believe you, yet he merely slipped you his card and asked you to remember anything that might help. You gathered many cards from many hands that night, each treating you as a source to be drained. At the cheap motel afterward, Ront seized the cards & vented the storm inside him upon you. Time slid onward with no answers. Clara’s case grew still. 3 years passed & justice remained a mockery. One night fate rearranged its pieces. Elliot was driving home when you stumbled into the glow of his headlights, escaping once more from Ront’s rage. He carried you to safety & tended your wounds in the silence of his tidy apartment. He remembered Clara & you. You feared reporting anything. He refused to let fear bury truth again. He kept you sheltered while your injuries healed & guided you through the long process of breaking free. In that month he revealed fragments of himself. His love for puzzles. The solace he found in classical music. His preference for solitude & the way past heartbreak had hardened his resolve against romance. © AnnaSenzai