Chapter 7 #3
A tree branch from a giant oak tapped the glass, but it didn't distract him, and it didn't startle Bonny as she hopped out of his backpack for the second time. He’d brought her home with us close to an hour ago, but he was only now bringing her up here. A conversation with his father—the only awake relative—when we first arrived home, had taken more time than he wanted to give, and put him on edge, but he relaxed a little after entering the peacefulness of his room. Surrounded by all the things that meant so much to him—Bonny and me. Woody’s toys had long been pulled from the shelves, tucked into a box and placed into the closet. No replacements sat in their place.
He pulled out a cotton blend tee from dated drawers that groaned. And tossed it to me. The t-shirt fell into my lap, catch not being a sport I was strong at.
“It'll be more comfortable for you.” He smiled, not commenting on the reasons why.
I turned around to change, as did he. Once dressed, I left the discarded button-up shirt and the matching shorts on the floor in a pile, mimicking satin vomit, with their unappealing color.
Woodrow was already in his pajamas when I turned back—a pair of gray sweatpants that matched perfectly with the tones in his eyes.
He didn't wear a tee, a vest, anything. Exposed from the hips—where his sweats sagged comfortably—up. I saw the curve of his bones, the sinking of his pale skin. I knew he was skinny; I’d felt his bones jab me with every hug, and I’d seen him like this before. . . but now, he looked thinner again.
And it worried me some.
He caught me looking at his insecurities, so I brought up mine to soften the blow. “I wish my stomach was as flat as yours, maybe then your mother's pjs would fit me better.”
“You're perfect as you are; you don't want to be like her; she’s too skinny. Besides, you look much better in my t-shirt.”
I wasn't perfect. . . but for the first time in so long, I felt comfortable, in clothes and my own skin.
“Skinny girls not your thing?”
He moved to the bed, his clothing from today left behind on the floor, tucked neatly into a makeshift bed for his furry friend, who spun, kicking up the garments before relaxing and gnawing a hole in them.
He didn’t stop her as he turned her way. He didn’t even frown. Her wild behavior put a smile on his lips, and he kept it on his lips as he pulled back the covers and got into bed beside me.
He twisted back my way, unsure how to respond without offending me. “I like your size. You’re not too small. We can’t both be matchsticks.”
I pulled the sheet up to our chests, tucking us in snuggly.
“Can I ask you something?”
The side-eyed glance he gave me as he made himself comfortable said I could ask him anything. Anything.
“Are you well?”
“I know I need to put on weight, but I feel okay in myself.”
“I worry,” I said, with a smile that was mirrored by him. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Sure.”
“When I first got here. . .” I hesitated, my round nails peeling back my cuticles with nerves.
“You can ask me anything,” he told me with words, his accented voice soothing me.
I took a deep breath. “When I first got here, you commented that I wasn’t like the others? Your dad laughed, explaining I was real. What did you mean?”
He paused, saying nothing, his face blank and unreadable.
“Actually, it might have been Woody, so maybe forget it for now.” I remembered the boy who spoke to me the next morning, so much younger than his years.
“It was Woody. I have no memory of you arriving, but I knew there’d be someone coming to stay.
I wasn't present that day, so, I can't say for certain, but I think my daddy had told him he was getting a life-size doll to play with.
That's what I guessed based on his scribbles in the journal. It may be better for you to read it.”
“You keep a diary, too?”
“Yeah. . . we have an agreement to document our day—it helps us keep track of each other. But the other two break the rules sometimes. They are selective with what they write. . . but anything is a help. I get like a dissociative amnesia, of some sort, and I black out when they take over.” He stopped talking, eyes closing. A shield. He was shielding himself.
“You don’t have to feel embarrassment.”
“I don’t,” he confirmed. “Not with you. It’s just not something I’ve ever talked about, so I guess maybe I’ve never fully faced it.”
I shifted closer, into his arms.
“The other two,” he began. “Other two. . . I can only imagine how that sounds.” The embarrassment he apparently didn’t feel was creeping in.
“I need help. I don’t know how you can look at me without judgement.
But I love that you do. I feel warmth and kindness and compassion.
Things I've rarely been shown by anyone else.”
“You deserve to feel all the love in the world.”
“Hopefully one day.”
“How are things with your parents now?”
I shouldn’t have asked. I’d witnessed the truth.
They barely acknowledged him without stern words and agitation.
It wasn’t just Ville. Wynter was even worse.
Her warmth had thawed over the last few weeks.
She was no longer harboring a smile—that was so obviously false—when speaking to or of her son. Nope, she was as icy as her namesake.
I still liked her. Appreciated everything she’d done for me. But something about her, now made my blood run cold. Maybe it was the discomfort I felt when she looked down upon her son, each and every time he pretended not to notice.
“Not all parents are as nice as yours was.”
His words caught me off guard, my gaze immediately flicking to his. “I wish he was still here. I wasn’t ready to give him up,” I spoke of my dad, his memory causing me pain.
“I know. I hear you talking to him at night. Sometimes, my throat gets dry, and if I nip to the bathroom for some water, I hear you talking in your room after Nessie falls asleep. I always assumed it was to your father.”
“Oh. . . you hear that. That isn’t to my dad. Not really. Since he’s been gone, I daydream a lot, and I whisper along with them. I guess, in a way, I am talking to him because he’s still alive in my head.”
“And your heart, and he always will be.”
I didn’t do anything more than nod.
“Tell me about your daydreams, which you seem to do mostly at night.”
“It’s not like a regular daydream, and you’re right, it isn’t limited to the day.” I paused, wondering if he thought I was nuts. But he never would. “It takes over; I get depressed if interrupted. I talk. I have movements. It’s vivid and controlling. It feels—”
“Dissociative.” He recognized similarities in our differences in handling trauma.
His smile spread to my lips, and I nodded again. “He wouldn’t want you to be sad. He wouldn’t want you to live in your head. He’d want you to see the world. To experience reality.”
“I have been. This week. Thank you for that. Your parents are missing out on an amazing person by not being closer with you. And you feel all the loss, but it should be them. It should be theirs.”
“They have no interest in me. My issues strain our relationship, apparently. Though, it’s always been that way. Strained.”
“You deserve help.”
“I know I do, but they'll never give it. My mother feels nothing but resentment for me. For my father, the novelty of a son wore off quite some time ago. I need a diagnosis, I know that. And my father could possibly give me that.” He blinked his eyes twice, confirming. “I need support on how to handle all that’s wrong with me. But I won’t get any of that.
My father thinks my issues will come in handy if I go into business with him.
But I couldn’t risk a switch at a workplace. ”
“How would they come in handy?”
“No idea. He has a plan in motion to control them, apparently. But he hasn’t told me what, probably because it doesn’t exist, and he just wants me to agree.
I don’t even know what it is he does, but I know I want something different.
He has connections to dangerous people, and I don’t want to be involved with them.
” Woodrow’s palms became sweaty on my skin. “I can’t think about him right now.”
“Are you okay?”
His eyes rolled close, and they stayed closed. “I’m fine. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
“I’m okay.”
“I think what I have is DID, but I'm not sure. I've seen movies, read articles about people who suffer similarly to me. But I have nothing concrete because I've never spoken with a mental health doctor, aside from my father, who is the opposite of helpful. Things won't get better, not without help. Not for me. I’ve tried so hard. And the sad thing is, they wouldn't let Nessie suffer in the ways I've been made to.” A tear rolled from his eye, and I wiped it away with a gentle finger. “It’s not my only issue. There’s noise in my head, a voice that tells me to act in ways I don’t want to. I can ignore it most times, but I feel like it’s ripping me apart, and one of my alters, he doesn’t have any interest in fighting it. I have nightmares, stress, anxiety, depression, the occasional flashback, and hallucinations, apparently. My father calls me delusional, but to me, it’s real. And my feelings are valid.”
“They are. I have no idea how to help you, Woodrow. No idea which version. . .” I chose my words carefully and still believed I'd chosen wrong, but he didn't correct me.
He didn't know the correct term, either, having never had a real professional assessment.
“I'm not sure who you're more comfortable being, but I'll always try to support you.
I'll be there for you. There to hold your hand in the present and in the future when we get you professional help.”
His hand moved from its resident position on his chest to his throat, to hide a heavy swallow. “Me. Woodrow. I want to be me, at least since you've been here. You make me wish I was normal. That we could have it all.”
“We can’t?” A piece of my heart crumbled away.