Chapter 28
“Woo-hoo,” he cheered as he found glowing embers hidden underneath the grayness.
He crumpled up a few pages from a newspaper and threw them in the stove, then waited for it to catch fire before he added a few pieces of kindling. When they started to smolder, he nodded, jumped up off the floor, and jogged to the kitchen area, where he filled a kettle with water. He got a mug and the tin filled with teabags, went back to the stove, and put the kettle on.
After making sure the kindling was burning, he loaded the stove with a few logs, shut the door, and collapsed on the floor. When he wasn’t a hundred percent focused on getting the fire started again, he looked out the big windows of the cabin and realized why it was so damn cold. It was snowing.
The deck was covered with snow—as much as ten inches, he guessed—and the tree branches were heavy under their wintery burden. The sight brought back memories of the day his student brought a knife to school: how he’d longed for more snow then, and how it seemed he’d finally gotten what he’d asked for.
That day seemed so far away, not like it was only little over a month ago. Lots had happened since. He’d come back home and currently lived in a rented cabin in the woods. A quaint A-frame cabin, supposedly winterized.
“Right.” He snorted and glanced out the large windows, which covered the entire front of the cabin and leaked all the heat he’d worked so hard for, to the elks and bears outside.
It had also been little over a month since he’d last spoken to Mick.
The whistling from the kettle snapped him out of his reverie, and he poured steaming water in his cup, leaving it on the floor to steep. He stood, pulled the shaggy rug closer to the stove, and made a quick turn of the cabin, collecting all the blankets. He even brought a pillow from upstairs. He spread it all out on the rug, making himself a cozy—and hopefully warm—nest in front of the fire.
“I might as well sleep down here.” He fished out the teabag from the mug and took a sip. “Ouch, hot,” he hissed as the scalding liquid burned his tongue.
After he finished his tea, he curled up under the blankets in front of the wood stove. He lay on his side, facing the fire and the big windows overlooking nothing but the forest. All signs of civilization were at the back of the cabin, so staring out on the snowy trees gave him the illusion that he was all alone in the middle of nowhere. Just him and the wilderness. Everything was perfect, except…
He missed Mick and his quirky smile so much, his heart ached. Especially in cold times like these. Mick was hot-blooded, despite being so slender, and Elliot always used to call Mick his own furnace. There was nothing better on a cold winter night than having Mick cuddled up against his back. More than once, he’d slept without a blanket to avoid waking up gross and sweaty.
If his lover had been there, he would’ve pulled Elliot into his arms, warming Elliot up from the inside and out. Elliot bet he wouldn’t even be cold if the fire went out.
He shivered, even though the fire was blasting and he was covered in four blankets. He tried to force the images of Mick out of his mind, but found it impossible. He fell asleep to a memory of Mick teasing him, repeatedly stabbing Elliot’s dimple with the tip of his tongue, yelling Yield,Dimple-Boy!until Elliot surrendered, shrieking for mercy, laughing like a madman.
* * * *
Seven days had passed since the incident before Elliot had to return to the school. The principal had, more or less, ordered him to take a few days off work and “collect himself and maybe see a therapist.” A week later, it was time for a final meeting with the principal and Mr. Coleman to discuss the repercussions of Kenny’s actions. Elliot had no idea why it had taken them so long to come up with disciplinary actions. As far as he was concerned, there was only one thing to do.
When he arrived, he couldn’t make himself enter the building. The helplessness he’d felt when Kenny had twirled his knife in front of the whole class washed over him, making him clench his fists and bounce on his heels. He’d struggled the entire week with his own reaction and how he hadn’t known how to behave in a stressful situation.
How could he have prepared himself so he would have been better equipped to deal with a threat like that? Was a Shakespeare-loving English teacher even supposed to be ready for violence? Shouldn’t he focus on making his students fall as in love with the beauty of their language as he was?
He made himself unclench his hands and take a deep breath. And another. That seemed to do the trick because, suddenly, he could move again, and he almost ran into the principal’s office.