Chapter 12 #3
It was the only way I wouldn’t have to suffer any of this again.
The gang left when they were done, my cellmate disappearing with them.
The petty thief stole a blanket from the lower bunk and draped it around me before his exit. It still smelt like the prick I shared a room with, but I didn’t voice my disdain.
I stayed silent, as I had all night. Shame owned my voice now, and it wasn’t ready to give it back.
The thief gave me a sad smile and disappeared through the open cell door, a shadow to the monsters who’d already slipped out.
His compassion would save his life. . . would grant him forgiveness. I wouldn’t pray for his death, as I would the others.
I stayed on the floor, in a puddle of my own misery and blood.
I lay silently for hours. My abuser returned and tucked himself in with the blanket he pulled from my bunk while I remained on the cold hard floor, reflecting on my life and the things I’d done.
I started thinking of Jolie, my beautiful girl who had suffered as I had. Suffered because of me.
And now, God was dishing out karma.
A loud snore—caused by the cunt in the lower bunk’s constantly-blocked nose—caught my attention as he immediately drifted to sleep.
I looked over, confirming his own noises hadn’t disrupted his sleep. I didn’t want him awake. If I had one wish, it would be for him to never wake up again.
I crept into bed, slowly and steadily to avoid the creaking of the dated base. I pulled a sheet of paper from beneath my pillow along with the pencil I’d hidden there. Its flattened nib wouldn’t allow my words the cursive flare I desired, but it would do.
I scribbled a message, another note that would end up ripped into pieces and tossed down the toilet with all its predecessors because I had no address to send them to.
Jolie,
I miss you.
I hope one day I’ll see you again. I hope to apologize for the pain my body caused yours.
You told me you understood that it wasn’t really me, and I know that you do. But I don’t understand how you can still love me when you were hurt in such ways.
One day, I’ll make things right. I’ll make it so you don’t even remember those things.
I just want to say once more that I’m sorry, and I want more than anything to talk to you, as I do each night.
But I want for you to hear me.
Please, hold out for me.
The feelings we shared were real. Our love is real. And I don’t know about you, but it’s the only thing keeping me alive right now.
Love always. W.
Jolie
I shot up in the bed, my heart pounding with fright as I was awoken by Woodrow’s unexpected scream as he woke from his second nightmare. My tired eyes felt like they had only closed a minute earlier.
His skin wasn’t glistening now; he was soaked, through his clothes to skin.
“Fuck!” He rubbed his pounding chest, trying to force pacification on himself.
I wiped away my grogginess with the back of my hand. “What’s wrong?” I asked, in a more nervous tone than I’d intended.
“I’m fine. I’m still me. You’re fine.” It was like he felt I didn’t care about him, so he told me what I wanted to hear. “It was just a nightmare.”
He dropped back, the soft pillow cradling his head from discomfort. He rolled over to face me as I lowered back down, too. His eyes scanned each of my nerves as they sat too close to the surface of my skin and his racing heart pounded inside its cage of bones, his skin pulsing swiftly in sync.
His fingers traced my exposed skin. I’d kicked the blankets away in the night, but as he touched me, I started to feel like sleeping without them was a stupid idea. I should have just let the heat murder me; it would have been a less painful death than if Woodrow were to flip to his alter.
He remained calm, even as I tensed.
He tickled me as his delicate fingers made their way from my wrist to my elbow. His thumbpad moved over a painful reminder of his abuse—a purple bruise—and I twitched.
I blinked back the pain as he rubbed my skin in an appeasing way.
My eyes opened to see his downcast, on my thighs, where more bruises lay in wait for his touch. His hand moved, exploring them all. His fingers dwelled on each stain, fitting perfectly on the prints his hands caused before I woke up in the cage.
He pulled his hand back, glancing between his fingers and my legs while lost in his thoughts.
The bruises on my skin were a perfect fit to his fingers, but he still couldn’t remember inflicting the pain. But reality, something he claimed he wasn't always present in, hit him in the face.
I pulled down the hem of his white t-shirt—one I’d stolen after he’d fallen asleep—ensuring my vagina was out of view because I hadn’t been offered any underpants.
I wasn’t shy, not these days—too used to being naked. And I would have stayed naked, happy to keep his smell and all the confusing feelings it brought away from my senses. But something felt different, more exposing, with him, and that had me reaching for cover.
He took a deep breath and swallowed hard, causing himself to choke on his saliva.
His hand moved quickly to his mouth, preventing any germs he coughed up from hitting me in the face.
“Apparently, he only likes his hands to do that,” my inner voice sneered.
His eyes met mine, “I'm sorry.”
His eyes drifted around my face, once beautiful and happy, now a picture of pure misery. His fingers followed his eyes’ route, tips feathering my scars.
“I. . . I. . .” his hand pressed into my cheek, gentle and loving.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, my fingers moving to his.
I wasn’t sure why I responded that way, but something about seeing the pain in his eyes had me wanting to take it away.
“It’s not, Moonlight,” he mouthed the words, squeezing my fingers in his. “It’s really not.”
I edged closer, scars to the pillow, my hand in his.
“I missed you. I missed you so much.” He closed his eyes, hiding the depth of his feelings, fearing they wouldn’t be appreciated.
“I know.” I stalled. “I missed you, too. I still miss you.”
“I’m right here,” he said, with his eyes still closed.
“And yet there’s more distance than ever.”
A tear rolled from his closed eyes. The shaking in his body vibrated me forward until my lips touched his. I held my position as I talked. “I’m sorry for what I said.” Yesterday.
I really was sorry for what I said yesterday.
I could be sorry to Woodrow and feel totally different things—fueled by hate and resentment—for Hell.
“I’m sorry for all he’s done. . . for all your pain. It’s not meant to come from me, but I hope it still means something. I’m sorry for taking so long to come for you.”
Ten years. Ten very long years.
“I have a headache. There’s tension. I’m going to take a shower.” His reactions were sluggish as his hand broke away from mine and he created a distance between us. His lips left mine without an attempt of stealing a kiss, and I felt a strange feeling of rejection seeping from somewhere inside me.
“I have to go. I have to go now.”
And he did. He launched to his feet and disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
He needed to be alone.
But I needed the opposite, with confusion poisoning my blood.
I waited for him to return, listening for the shower to go off as I watched the dials move around the face of his watch. It had been almost an hour, and he was still in the bathroom, shower raining down.
I pulled my hair forward, needing the extra security; it was much harder to do, now that Hell shaved off my fringe.
I moved off towards the closed door, something pulling me in Woodrow’s direction; a magnetic force, ignoring the voice in my head, still saying to leave.
I was always the kind of girl to listen to my heart over my head. . . and so many pieces of my broken heart, still belonged to him.
“Woodrow?” I called, falsifying my serenity. “Woodrow?” I called a little louder this time.
“Come back to bed!” I shouted this time. “You’re fine. I’m fine,” I repeated his words from earlier. “Let’s talk.”
But he never heard me.
Because he was already gone.