Vulnerability: Chapter 2 - Lior's Eyes
Vulnerability - Chapter 2: Lior's Eyes
Dedication: To every survivor who whispers their truth into the void. We hear you. Trigger Warning: References to trauma, dissociation, and recovery from CSA. Proceed with care.
The attic air hung heavy with the scent of aged wood and forgotten memories, but for Lior, it was laced with something sharper—ozone, like the prelude to a storm. The owl feather still clung to his shoulder, a fragile talisman from Selene's unseen gaze, its barbs soft against the frayed collar of his purple flannel. He'd managed to crawl from the windowsill to the threadbare rug, knees drawn to his chest, mercury-silver hair curtaining his face like a shield. The flashes had ebbed, retreating into the corners of his mind, but their echo lingered: Smile. A command etched deeper than scar tissue.
He didn't smile. Not this time.
Asha's voice threaded through the haze, not as memory but as if she'd slipped into the room on silent feet. She hadn't, of course—the house below was still, the pines outside murmuring their eternal vigil. But her words from weeks ago resurfaced, steady as a heartbeat: "Vulnerability isn't a crack in the armor, Lior. It's the forge that tempers it. Berta told me that." She'd said it over a cup of faery tea in the kitchen, her dark eyes tracing the invisible map of his silences. Asha saw the webs he carried, the ones spun from The Man's red light, from basement "practices" that left welts on the soul. She didn't pry; she waited, a quiet anchor in the churn.
Lior's fingers twitched toward the feather, brushing it lightly. It didn't crumble, didn't vanish like the illusions of his triggers. Real. Tangible. He unfolded slowly, spine protesting the curl of forgotten hours, and pushed to his feet. The attic sloped low, forcing him to stoop like a penitent, but he moved anyway—toward the chest in the corner. . Its lid creaked open under his palm, revealing not dust but relics: a tarnished silver locket, a bundle of yellowed letters , and at the bottom, a small tin box, rusted at the edges.
The tin. He hadn't touched it in years. Inside, nestled in faded velvet, lay a single photograph—not one of The Man's collection, but one stolen back in the haze of escape. A Polaroid, edges curled, showing Lior at twelve: not against the wall, not grinning under duress, but caught mid-laugh. His eyes— unguarded—sparkled with something with a twinkle of freedom, a boy's joy snatched from the jaws of routine. Who'd taken it? A fleeting foster mother? A neighbor's candid snap? It didn't matter. It was his. Proof that the webs hadn't always bound him.
He lifted it, the paper crackling like dry leaves. The command flickered again—Smile—but weaker now, a shadow puppeteered by habit. Lior's lips parted, not in obedience, but in breath. "No," he whispered, the word tasting of rust and release. Vulnerability. Asha was right. It wasn't surrender; it was the blade's edge turned inward, carving away the barbed wire strand by strand.
Downstairs, the floorboards groaned—a real creak this time, not the ghost of old fears. Asha. She'd let herself in with the spare key, as she always seems to know when to pop up. "Lior?" Her voice rose, soft but insistent, carrying the warmth of concern. He tucked the photo into his pocket, the tin box left open like an invitation to tomorrow. The feather drifted to the rug as he descended the ladder, each rung a step from attic shadows into the light.
She was in the kitchen, kettle humming, her braid swinging like a pendulum as she arranged mugs. "You look like you've been wrestling ghosts," she said, no judgment, just fact. Her gaze flicked to his eyes, reading the thaw there—the subtle unspooling of the web around his mouth, his jaw.
"Something like that." He slid into a chair, the photo's weight a secret anchor in his jeans. "Asha... what if the smiles we force aren't for them anymore? What if they're just... echoes?"
She poured the tea, steam curling between them like unspoken bridges. "Then you name the echo. You let it fade." Her hand brushed his, deliberate, a tether. "Vulnerability, remember? It's not the fall—it's choosing to stand after."
For the first time in years, Lior's mouth curved, not jagged, not commanded, but his own. A real one, even if fleeting. The pines whispered approval outside, and in the distance, an owl called. The webs loosened further, threads snapping like over taut strings, and he breathed. Not against the wall. Not in the basement. Here. Whole.
But echoes lingered, as they always did. That night, an ice storm pattered the roof, Lior dreamed not of flashes, but of eyes—his own, reflected in a thousand stolen moments. Mercury-pale, yes, but no longer hollow. Vulnerable, yes, but alive, yet still distant. The Man’s red light was just a bulb, burned out long ago. And Lior? He was the one holding the switch. It still hurt, the pain but a part of him knew it needed to still bleed out some, wash the debris of nightmares away when it decides to flow.
Author's Note: As a disabled survivor using assistive technology, which changes day by day pending health - (#zebralife), I pour these chapters from my own experiences and the people I've met along the path of life. . If Lior's eyes reflect your shadows, reach out—resources like RAINN or Support for Men at 1in6.org are lifelines. What's next? Pain meets vulnerability; stay tuned. Comments welcome, always.
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