Chapter 6 Covered In Scars

“Mrs. Quixall!” Cries of alarm filled the air. Startled, Caleb spun around. Deborah was on her knees. He rushed over to help her up. But she refused to budge, gripping his arm. “If you insist on leaving us, I will stay kneeling here!” Caleb exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers against his temple. “Mrs. Quixall, please, get up first.” “Promise me you won't leave.” He said after a pause, “All right. I won't leave the Quixall family.” Only then did Deborah's expression soften. She rose to her feet, 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 left toward his old room, only to be stopped. “Mr. Caleb, your room is this way.” Agnes gestured toward a smaller room tucked away in the far-right corner. If Caleb's memory served him right, this room had once been a storage space. The lighting was poor, with a single north-facing window that never saw a trace of sunlight. As the door swung open, a wave of musty air greeted him, thick with the scent of neglect. Caleb lingered at the threshold, recalling how desperately Deborah had begged 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 swallowing the space. The mirror fogged over, blurring both his reflection and the scars marring his skin. Right now, Deborah was drowning in guilt. Give it a month or two—when he brought up leaving again, they'd probably be the ones holding the door open. After washing up, Caleb noticed the loungewear Agnes had laid out at the foot of the bed. He picked it up, unfolded it, and paused for a moment. It bore an unsettling resemblance to his prison uniform. The only person capable of such calculated pettiness was Jesse. Caleb slipped the shirt over his head, but the moment the fabric touched his skin, a sharp discomfort prickled through him. It was coarse—abrasive against his wounds, both fresh and old, setting them ablaze with irritation. Frowning slightly, he ran his fingers along the inner lining. Embedded in the fabric were countless minuscule, glittering fibers—stiff and unmistakably deliberate. Jesse is so... petty. Caleb stepped to the door and called out, “Agnes, could you bring me another set of clothes?” Before Agnes could respond, an impatient, irritable voice cut in. “This was specially prepared for you by Jesse. You just had to go against us, huh?” At some point, Yelena had come down the stairs, her brows knitted together in disapproval as she scolded him. Caleb opened his mouth to explain, “This outfit—” “Yelena, if Caleb doesn't want to wear it, let's not force him,” Jesse interjected, fanning the flames. The seemingly considerate remark only added fuel to 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 other choice, Caleb descended the stairs in his torturous attire. The Quixalls were already seated. Deborah, ever the doting mother in front of others, patted the seat beside her, urging him to sit. As Caleb took his place, her gaze dropped to the exposed skin at the edge of his sleeve. A faint reddish hue caught her eye. Her brows knitted in concern. “What happened to your hand?” Caleb followed her gaze and 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 with anger, exploded when Caleb continued to defy her. With a sharp clang, she slammed her fork down, storming over to him. “I'd like to see if it's really the shirt.” With a violent tug, button by button, the shirt came undone, exposing Caleb's skin beneath. Deep scars marred his body, some still raw, others with faint traces of blood—remnants of the “farewell gifts” from his cellmates. “Oh my gosh...” Deborah and the housekeepers quickly averted their gazes, unable to stomach the sight. Yelena's hand froze mid-air, and she muttered, “How could this be?”