Chapter 7 #4
“That depends on how brave you’re feeling. You haven’t seen the worst.” He dragged my knuckles to his lips and placed a soft kiss there.
“I’m brave.” I was confident enough with all I’d been through to believe that.
“Braver than you know. Braver than anyone I know. You’ve had a terrible few weeks, and with all I’ve told you, you’re still at my side.” Relief covered him as he pulled his watch and the rosary beads from his wrists, making sure Jesus faced upwards as he placed them on his bedside table.
“Always.”
“If you always feel that way, we can have it all. I won’t allow my issues to interfere with my feelings for you.” His arm banded around me tightly. “But don't promise me a future that we won't have. It's cruel.”
“I need you. We'll be in each other's future. I can’t lose you. I promise your issues won’t ever come between us.”
I’d been forced upon him. Brought here to be his friend. But he’d become mine.
He’d become my everything.
My first and forever love.
“Can I have a kiss?” I asked, focusing on his mouth. Focusing on the smile lifting his perfect lips as he saw where my gaze had dropped.
“Older women are so forward.” He laughed.
I shoved at his chest in a playful way.
“I’m only a year older,” I reminded him.
“I love it.” He smiled again. “I’ve never dated an older chick before; never dated a younger one, either.” He found amusement in his own inexperience.
He moved to me, lips parting. His tongue entered my mouth in the most amazing way. I pulled at his arms, tugging him a little closer as I sucked on his lips—they were perfect, not as full as mine, but still full and perfectly shaped.
He broke off for a second, catching his breath. His throat was a hindrance to him, an eyesore to many, but neither to me. . . because I accepted him for all he was. Physically and mentally.
And he loved that.
I was already devouring his mouth the second it landed on mine. I enjoyed his taste—the minty freshness of his nightly routine.
“Fuck, you taste good.” His words came through the kiss, clearly feeling the same way.
His hands wandered, pulling me closer, pulling my leg up over his hip, pressing his growing hardness into my core.
My lace knickers grew moist where their fabric brushed the tenting in his sweats. His hands trailed my thigh, dropping to the inside. I was enjoying the kiss, but I wasn’t ready for more. Not yet.
“I’m not ready,” I said, pulling my body away before my mouth. “I’m sorry.”
I sat up in the bed, feeling like the tease I’d been called by my previous boyfriend—a senior, who had no interest in waiting.
“I’m sorry if you feel like I was leading you on. I liked the kiss, I just—”
“It’s fine. Come back down.” His fingers rubbed my back, encouraging me. His tone did the same—showing no disappointment.
I settled back down in the bed, in his arms, towing the sheets back up to my chest.
“I’m a virgin, and after what happened when my dad was killed.” Those words hurt, stumbling from my mouth. “I don’t know how much you know, but I was in captivity, waiting in fear to be assaulted.”
Woodrow didn’t move, appearing to have floated into another world, happy to avoid this one, as I was saying all kinds of painful things. As I was just about to say more, he spoke, “I won’t rush you.”
“Good, because, I don’t want to rush things. I want special. . . you know, when it happens. I want it to be special.”
“Okay,” he said, his mood appearing lighter after his brief escape. “I can’t make promises. . . because I’m a virgin, too, and I’m not sure I’ll be any good. I’ve heard guys finish kinda quick the first time.”
“I’ve heard it hurts the girl the first time, so that might be a blessing.”
I leaned in, showing a little appreciation for his honesty and acceptance by placing a single kiss on his mouth.
“Can you even do it, you know, before marriage? Because of your religion?” I eyed up Jesus, who watched us from the table. “Don’t Christians see sex before marriage as a sin?”
“The naughty ones don’t.” He bit his lip, playfully. “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I didn’t think we’d get to full stuff.”
“Would you wait until I’m ready?”
“I would. Would you wait for me, if I wanted to wait until marriage?”
“You saying you’d marry me, you naughty Christian boy?”
“In a fucking heartbeat.”
“See, definitely naughty, as I don’t think Christians approve of swearing, either.”
“I do feel bad about it, but living here, I hear it a lot.”
I had, too, from both of his parents, who were apparently also religious—though aside from a few crosses scattered around walls of the house and the prayers at dinner, I’d seen no proof of it.
“I’m sure your God will forgive you,” I smiled, remaining respectful while not sharing his religion.
“I like this. Us.”
“I like this, too. You keep me in the moment.” I smiled.
“Same. I wish we could stay in this moment forever.” His words turned cold, as he said, “You're gonna hate me.” His stress brought another tear to his pretty eyes, but it didn’t fall. “You're gonna hate me,” he said again, causing my breathing to stall. “You're going to hate me so fucking much.”
“Wh—wh—what do you mean? I won't hate you. Why would I hate you? I'll never hate you.”
I sat up as he shifted away, sprawling on his back in time for his hands to cover his face. I peeled them away. I needed to see his eyes—his very sad eyes—for this next part.
“I'm falling in love with you, Woodrow.” My words, barely more than a whisper, were out.
I felt lighter. . . free.
He didn't say it back. . . he didn't say anything, and then, a moment later, he pulled me into the tightest hug. My wet hair made him shiver now, too.
It was silent for a moment, even Bonny was hushed, doing whatever it was she was doing. But as we lay silent in the lamplit room, he whispered, “He'll change that. He'll change all your feelings for me, for Woody. I won’t cope with losing you, and that will make things worse.”
I didn't need to ask who. I knew who. I knew there was a side to him who I still hadn't met. A side, that even the shadows of this house would retreat into hiding to avoid.
The square edges of his teeth sank into his lip, pressing down until they left a dent that would linger, only moving after they caused him pain. “You can read it if you want.”
“The diary?” I reeled back. “You’d really let me read it?”
“I want you to know me. Us. I’d let you in on all our secrets.
I want you to see the darkness and the light.
I want you to see all of me. Of Us.” His lips pressed against my forehead.
“I want you to still be here with your promises afterwards, but I also want you to know I'll understand if you can't be. . . even if it’ll break my heart.”
His lips left a kiss, and I nodded, my throat too clogged with suffocating emotion to talk. I felt all his pain. And all I wanted to do was tell him that I’d be here.
I’d always be here.
“And if you’re still here, still happy to stand with me when you're done, seal your promises with another kiss. On my lips.” He let go of me, moving so his skinny arm could reach under the bed.
He pulled a large book through the dust surrounding it, the faint noise causing Bonny to scarper from her close position. She was quickly back on the bed made for her after coming to investigate Woodrow’s movement.
He dropped the book onto the bedsheets, and I sat up to examine it. His eyes were on me as I stared down at the book that looked nothing like a diary and so much like an ancient grimoire.
My eyes flicked to him, keen to gain permission before I flipped the cover and unleashed the demons who were spellbound to the pages.
I started at the beginning, taking in each style of writing, each story he and his alters told.
His eyes stayed low as I read. . . as I turned the first page, now tarnished by aging. The book was old. And heavy. His written words were something he'd been committed to for many years. The top of the second page was titled Woodrow, just like the last and the next.
I read through a few more pages—through a change of perspective.
A story of the toys he'd played with, the fun he'd had with his sister.
The memoir of a little boy hiding from his emotions, all the while, being trapped inside them.
The writing wasn't as easy to read on this page.
No name was written atop the page, but letters of different sizes, some back to front, along with a misspelling holding on to each sentence, proved these pages belonged to Woody.
“Woody is Nessie’s age. Is that why they are close?”
Woodrow shrugged, almost unsure how to answer. After a pause, he told me, “I think she likes him because he’s young; I don’t know what will happen as she ages. I don’t think he will. Seven is the age I was when my parents started trying for her. I’ve been blacking out since then.”
“How did you get the others to write in here?” I wondered, taking in the last of Woody's inked words. . .
I carnt wate to play agen tomorowe.
“I asked them to. I asked for Nessie’s help to convince Woody, and he responded quickly.
I'd recorded a voice note in one of her toys, asking him to write in the book about his day.
. . everyday. And she encouraged him. I told him where to find the diary, and he did it.
Probably happy that someone showed interest in him.
Though he's aware of me, as I am him. Maybe more so, it’s like he watches from inside me.
It's hard to explain. He's like a ghost who haunts me.
. . possesses me. He's in the background, and he feels like comfort.”
“And the other one?”
“I call them alters.” He smiled an unauthentic smile, but I was grateful for it, and for his words, because his parents had barely told me anything about his issues.
“He feels the same but different. Like an entity.
I don't feel comforted. I feel nervous. He means me no harm. He just hates everyone else.” Woodrow took a heavy breath, he needed it to continue.
“It took a little longer to get him to cooperate. I left notes for weeks. He was here. The destruction of everything my parents held dear was proof of that. . . as was their growing distance from me. I begged, pleaded, and eventually, he gave in. He wrote in the book, and he never stopped”
I read for minutes. For hours, eyes roving over the slight smudges draped around Woodrow’s words—something many lefties’ writing harbored.
When I turned to Woody’s notes, I took my time to understand his wording. Though he didn’t have the smudges, making it appear that he wrote with his right hand.
Woodrow struggled to keep his eyes open throughout, tiredness claiming him as I turned a page.
I came to a different cursive. No name on the top. No scribbles. No personality or innocence, the lefty smudge back again. My fingers traced the harsh lines where a pen had marked the pages.
“Is this him?” I asked, my eyes roaming to find Woodrow silent, sleeping. And I let him sleep, leaning forward to place a kiss on his lips, because I knew that whatever I read on this page, it wouldn’t change a thing.
I’d read for hours, taking in each word. The evidence heavy—dark circles and a red taint stained my eyes and the surrounding area.
I finished the whole book as the clock struck 3 a.m., and I woke while the sun still slept, after only a couple of hours of sleep.
I slipped out of bed quietly, not to disturb Woodrow, who looked lost to peaceful dreams, his mouth open slightly.
Or his parents, for that matter. I didn’t want them to know I’d spent the night, though I doubted they’d care.
But I certainly didn’t want them finding Bonny, now that the door was unlocked.
I returned to leave a glass of chocolate milk on Woodrow’s bedside table; a green marble coaster was the stage for the china mug.
I left a note at the side, written on a sheet ripped from my own diary.
The small pink unicorn in the corner of the page, looked up at my penciled words as if she was reading them.
I read it. . . so much of it, and it changes nothing.
He won’t come between us, nothing will come between us.
I promise.
Love always, Jolie.
I crept in and out of the room with the eyes of a bunny on me—Bonny had jumped into my warmth after I left, feeling safe enough to snuggle close to Woodrow, now that he was alone.
My feet rushed over the grassy ground, hungrily swallowing the distance as I listened to the sound of the early morning—birds fluttering above me, tree branches swaying in sync with slow-moving clouds.
I enjoyed the gentle breeze against my skin as I rushed through the uncut grass that playfully tickled my legs.
I ran often these days, always in the morning.
I’d take a lap around the perimeter, which must have easily been a good three miles.
It was a distraction from the guilt that wrapped its arms around me whenever Woodrow wasn’t near.
I felt so damn guilty that I was settling into a new life, and my dad, was lying in an unmarked grave, that I couldn’t even visit, having no idea where it was.
“I would want you to be safe, princess. I’d want you to be happy.” I could almost hear his voice whispering through the wind.
He motivated me, allowing me to push myself harder. My breathing only started to rasp when the house came into view, the bright sun rising up from behind it, creating a beautiful picture.
I pushed myself harder again, picking up a little more speed, knowing I could make it back to Nessie and our shared room before she would awaken.