Chapter 3 #5
Before I could say any more words that I had no right to voice, and by damn, did I want to, Woodrow shot from his seat, like he all of a sudden felt I was standing too close.
He moved to the bed, lying back and making himself comfortable on the flat pillows that offered zero comfort.
Looking around, the whole room was flat. Decoration was minimal here. Nothing showed his personality. Though, that could possibly be because he had more than one.
“When did you get your diagnosis?” I wondered, figuring Woodrow would know more than Woody about this condition.
“It’s benign. My parents told you earlier. There’s no diagnosis.”
“I meant the other thing.” I stepped carefully. My head low, as I intruded his personal life and space, taking a seat on his bed. “The multiple personalities.”
He looked back at me, staring like I’d offended him in the worst possible way. I probably had.
I fingered his bedsheets, taking in the scent of woodlands that reminded me of our day together. He’d showered, his wet hair, falling down into his eyes, was proof, but somehow, he still smelt like the enchantment of forestry.
He noted my disquiet, and lowered his guard, letting me inside.
“I don’t have a diagnosis for that, either. My dad was a psychologist, once upon a time. He had suspicions. . . there’s no solid proof, you know, aside from the way I act. That’s proof enough. It’s not the only thing wrong with me.”
“How many of you are there?” I asked, eyes raising to his.
“Three, including myself, as far as I’m aware. They protect me in different ways. From my hurt and pain when it gets too much.”
“Like what happened today?” I whispered. “With your dad?”
He started fidgeting with his pillow, becoming less comfortable as each second ticked by.
“I’m tired now, Jolie.” He wanted me to leave, tiredness, nothing more than an excuse.
“Oh. . . I didn’t realize you go to bed early.” I glanced at the clock. It was only a few minutes before ten.
“I don’t always, but my throat hurts. My head hurts, too. Switching between alters does that to me.”
“Can I get you something?”
“Nothing helps.” His strained voice proved some truth behind his dismissal.
His steel gaze moved to the door, granting me unwelcome.
“I’m sorry if I crossed a line.” I put a hand on his leg, and I felt him stiffen beneath my touch.
“Don’t be. No one ever cares enough to ask anything about me.” A smile settled on his pretty lips. “Goodnight.” The smile grew, and I almost wanted to kiss his pretty lips.
I stepped from the bed, drifting to the door before such a stupid thought could even consider floating back into my mind. Pulling it open on my quick exit, had settled dust bouncing around the gloom. Cleaning up here would be tomorrow’s chore, and I wouldn’t even wait for the request.
I stepped forward, my loose socks slinking around my ankles.
I stopped, turning back to him, taking in his image.
He was grungy, almost Gothically ethereal looking.
His pale skin glowed like that of the vampires in my favorite book.
His heart pounded in his naked chest, his breathing fast, somehow causing my own to race.
“Sweet dreams,” he mouthed from the bed, fingers pressed to his throat. He was hurting again.
I stared at him for a second too long, appreciating things I hadn’t previously noticed. The curl of his dark lashes, the shape of his eyes beneath their spread.
A gentle smile crossed my face, as he surprised me again by appearing at my side.
“I’m sorry you hurt.” I extended my offer of friendship with words, hoping they’d bring a little comfort, even if a medical remedy couldn’t.
And my sympathy cracked him to his bones.
I stared up at his passive face. His eyes met mine, sterling disks of gray, and even with the coldness of their color, they became thermal.
“Thank you.” He gazed down at me, and I was almost sure he saw me differently, too, his eyes spending a second longer than he intended on my lips. He pulled back, hand to his throat again, as he said, “Goodnight, Jolie.”
“Sweet dreams.” I returned back, placing a gentle touch upon his skinny arm. He didn’t jump back; he didn’t return my affection. He stood frozen to the spot, without movement, enjoying the feel of contact.
The second I slipped out, the door closed.
I heard a sound that almost sounded like his weight falling against the door.
The sound of stress levels stealing his balance.
A noise I’d heard many times before, after my father tucked me into bed.
He’d been a good parent, always hiding his burdens and the mourning of my mother.
I didn’t head to bed. I listened to the silence of the house—the distant noises and the people that made them. Woodrow’s parents were both in their room, tucked into bed, sharing bedtime whispers. It would have been cute, if I posited his father as trustworthy.
I sidled through the umbra, led only by the stars twinkling their lights beyond the many windows.
The creaky stairs threatened to alert the household of my wandering, but I wasn’t a tagged convict; I was no longer a prisoner. Freedom to wander was granted, and it felt nice.
I turned on a light in the kitchen, and I moved to the refrigerator. Checking for the date on a half-empty carton of chocolate milk. I was relieved to see it was fresh.
But my nose still crinkled at the smell from this morning, still present, still strong.
I ignored it, dismissing it as waste from the land outside, where many animals probably roamed. . . not that I’d seen anything but fish.
I moved around the cupboards, still unsure of where everything was stored as I searched for a small glass.
A high cupboard in the corner was where the cups and tumblers lived.
I opted to pull out two, placing them on a small tray on the countertop, along with a fresh bottle of water, also retrieved from a chilly shelf within the refrigerator.
I tried to be quieter traipsing the staircase, just in case Wynter and Ville had decided to put an end to their conversations.
I left the tray on the floor outside Woodrow’s room; it sat like a doormat in front of his door, with its perfect rectangular shape.
Pat, pat, pat. My gentle knuckles brushed the wood, and I moved off, leaving behind my extended offering of friendship, along with a note I’d written on a piece of an old envelope that I’d found in the kitchen, that read:
I wasn’t sure of your favorite.
Feel better soon.
I hope, in some way, you’ve had a nice birthday.
Love, Jolie.
I wasn’t sure he’d feel better soon, or even, ever. But I wanted him to know my wish for him. Comfort for him, to know I cared, and for me, it was good to not feel selfish, to use one of my wishes on someone else.
But as I neared my room, I had no idea how stupid that was.
I should have kept my wishes for myself.
Because I needed them all.
No number of wishes could keep me safe, but maybe they could keep me alive. . . or grant me the mercy of dying quickly.
I definitely should have kept them for myself.