Chapter 6 #3
What stands out is a striking moth tattoo on his throat, flanked by thorns on the sides of his neck. The small details of the tattoo are breathtaking.
I didn’t pay much attention to it before.
It’s like watching a sketchbook come to life on a human canvas—a beautiful one with endless scars that mirror its natural beauty.
Sliding my eyes to the right, they narrow when I see the severity of the gush in his shoulder—the flesh is ripped open, distorting his tattoo; some blood is crusted, while some still trickles slowly. “Do you know how to suture it?”
“That’s not my first.”
“Let me guess, it won’t be your last.” I shoot him a fake grin.
“You’re a fast learner.” He winces, dropping his gaze to the space between us. “Do you want to see it when I’m done?” he hesitates, and it’s the first time I hear a hint of vulnerability and longing in his voice.
I nod. “Yes, I’ll wait here.”
“If I scream like a little bitch, I’ll deny it ever happened.” His subtle laugh turns into a hiss. The way he injects humor into serious matters is quite amusing. He turns to leave, revealing a full-back tattoo of a dragon surrounded by black smoke, and my jaw drops.
Wow.
What a masterpiece.
I step away from the railings and let my sore body sink into the soft, enveloping couch. I luxuriate in it for several minutes. The radio rests on my lap as I lean back, memorizing each star in the sky.
Thoughts swirl in my mind about being off the grid, aware that I could die here without knowing my location. Yet, strangely, that notion doesn’t seem so terrible. It feels peaceful.
I’m creating my own tale.
I’ve always loved stories because, as twisted as some can be, they offer me an escape. Still, even here, my independence is restricted. When will everyone around me realize that death is chasing us all and will eventually come knocking at our doors?
I can die in my sleep, and there is nothing they can do about it.
“Can you talk?” Jason’s strained voice comes through the radio. “Distract me, please.” Although he doesn’t say it outright, I can tell that he must be worn out. His body is sore, the painkillers haven’t kicked in yet, and stitching the wound is excruciating to do alone.
“Did you kill the bear?” I ask.
“I couldn’t. He gave me the look, you know.”
“The look?” I lower my voice and pull my eyebrows together.
“Do you know the look someone gives you when they allow you a glimpse into their soul? It flashes in their eyes, and you just can’t hurt them. It’s not the bear’s fault. It’s his territory. It’s survival. Instincts. That’s what it knows. He’s the keeper of the forest. “
“So, you felt sorry for him?”
“Maybe I felt sorry for myself, too. Too much blood on my hands. I can’t kill an innocent creature, no matter how bloody it gets.” A killer with a conscience. It must be hard living with all the faces of those he’s killed racing through his head. “He was saved from traffickers and brought here.”
“What do you mean, traffickers?”
“Animal traffickers. He was abused, and your grandma sent a rescue team to get him out. He lived in the forest for a long time. Freely.”
“Why did he attack you?”
“He didn’t. He was wounded, and I tried to help him. He just got a little bit excited.”
So, he’s a saint as well.
He hisses. “Can you say something, please?”
“There’s an urban tale about ghosts that haunt an abandoned mansion in Romania.
It’s called The Ghosts of the Teleki Mansion.
During World War II, soldiers entered that mansion, believing there was wine in the cellar.
They found it and drank as much as they could.
Drunkenly, they started shooting off their guns, puncturing the massive wine barrels.
The cellar began to flood, and the soldiers could not escape in time and ended up drowning and dying. ”
“Tragic,” he says in a weak voice.
“Yeah, they say that place is haunted to this day. You can go and find out if you’re brave enough,” I tease before I tell him another story.
“Mm... I’m halfway through.” A guttural groan erupts from deep within his throat.
I push the talk button, but the channel is busy. He must be gripping the radio with his thighs. Still, I stay with him every step of the way. I can feel the pain surging through his shoulder as if I’m right there with him.
“Are you married? Kids?” Jason suddenly asks in a terse tone, releasing the channel.
I gasp, realizing I had been holding my breath this whole time. “I was married. No kids.”
“What do you mean you were? Are you divorced?” This sudden interest seems suspicious, but I’ll indulge in this conversation because he is in pain.
“I’m a widow.”
Silence stretches between us like a loaded gun. The tension is almost tangible, but the void beneath it makes me wonder.
“D—do you miss him?”
I would do anything to see him again. “More than anything.”
“Want to t—talk about it m—more?” He whimpers.
“Are you a psychologist?” I wait a few moments for his response.
“Uh-uh, but I’m a good listener.”
“Do you have time?” I chuckle, though I am prying for more information.
A weary sigh escapes his lips, “Do you think a year is enough?”
“Sure.”
So he is staying, and I simultaneously feel happy, relieved, and mad.
“If I pass out, you will have to come and save me.”
“I’ll jump over no questions asked.” I run along.
“Really? That easy? I thought you were going to give me hell.”
“I didn’t say I won’t tie you up and make you bleed until you give me answers.”
“Ah, sounds more like it now,” he groans softly, and something inside me stirs because I’ve heard that sound before. That exact sound. I know it with all my heart. But do I? Or am I going crazy?
“You should get some sleep. You can tell me tomorrow why you’re here.”
“I think I’m about to collapse in a minute or two.” He lets a tiny laugh escape him before he growls at the pain again. “See you tomorrow on our date. Or session. Whatever you want to call it.”
I shake my head but find myself smiling at his little jokes again. “Okay, Jason. Sweet dreams. Or nightmares. Whatever you want to call them.”
“I see you got jokes, too.”
“Plenty,” I reply, grabbing the binoculars from the table and waiting for him to come out of the bathroom. He trudges out; a towel hangs low around his wet hips. Bending slightly, he shows me the bandage on his shoulder.
“Goodnight, Winona. Thank you for staying with me.”
I gather my things and head to bed as well. “Goodnight, Jason.”
When the mask falls, what truths do we unleash? What secrets do we unlock? Whose fate are we sealing?