Chapter 30
Jolie–present day
The house felt different. It was no longer the beautiful, pristine home built for a blissful future. The downstairs felt as empty as the promise of my future. We lived in the bedroom now, where the smell of vomit lived on the walls, thicker than the satin paint.
It had been four weeks since my dance with Hell.
And three of them had been awful, where his body had been practically glued to this bed.
I sat with my back against the headboard, the padded velvet comforting my spine. My satin pajamas stuck to my legs below the many sheets I sat beneath.
Cartoons played on the big screen. His favorite.
I stared at the TV, watching the visual story of a cowboy and an astronaut setting out on an adventure, not taking any of it in.
The boy at my side—the child in a man's body—stared with an animated look on his face. He was propped up on pillows, a few unhealthy snacks lay spread out at his side, lining the edge of the bed. But no chocolate had crossed his lips. None of the soft candies had been swallowed.
Woody snuggled into me, looking up at my face to see how I was enjoying his movie choice.
I tried to keep my tears from falling. To force the false look of wonder on my face to stay put.
Woody's hand landed on mine, his fingers skinny. As Hell, he'd lost his wedding ring. It had fallen down the toilet as he hugged the rim, vomiting something black and tar-like down into the bowl, and it bothered him to the point he went digging through upchuck to find it. But it no longer fit.
My head orbited to the left, where the ring now sat, shining under the artificial light of a bright nightlight, side by side, with an untouched glass of water with a biodegradable straw.
Woody hadn't drunk all day. The fear of anything coming back up prevented him from eating or drinking, at all.
He'd been with me for the last three days, and Hell was with me before that. Woodrow hid from his problems, forcing the others to face them alone. Forcing me to do that, too.
I hated that.
But I loved him. . .
And I missed him so much.
I was angry and hurt that he hid away, and I was tired of being a facade of happiness for Woody. . . because the reality was, their illness was fucking killing me, too. I needed to scream, to shout, to let out my pain, and I couldn’t frighten Woody by doing it with him around.
And keeping it inside was getting harder.
I couldn’t handle it.
I could handle the constant vomiting and everything else more odious that left their shared body.
But I couldn't handle the idea of Woodrow never speaking to me again.
Of never hearing the tone, of which, only he would speak.
Gentle and raspy and beautiful. Never again hearing his laugh when my hair aroused his senses by tickling his ears.
And I couldn't understand why he wouldn't spend this time with me, if he knew it was running out.
“Jolie. . .?” Woody whispered, his tone husky but quiet.
My eyes settled on the boy here with me, and without trying, he brought a sad smile to my lips.
“I love you. I really love you. You're my best friend.”
“And you're mine. I love you, too, sweetie.”
He dropped off to sleep, comforted by my arm around his shoulder and half a dozen blankets around his body.
When night fell, I still couldn't sleep.
The movie had finished hours ago, the feature screen and music played in the background as sinister daydreams came to my mind.
I pulled the solo blanket I lay under up over my head, and I stared at it, seeing something totally different to the pink sheet.
Seeing a whole new reality. My lips moved, rapidly whispering words.
My face contorted with each painful expression.
This wasn't a nice reverie—my real-life pain was seeping in, promising to steal the man of my dreams, who still looked so healthy in my mind's eye.
Days trickled away from me. My desire to do anything left with them.
I hadn't eaten properly since Woody stopped five days ago. He barely woke up these days. His eyelids peeled back once a day, only to see if I was still at his side. Those few seconds were the only time I'd be able to coax a sip of water down his throat.
The watch Woodrow usually wore, sat on the table at my side. The big face told me the afternoon was approaching.
I forced myself out of bed, only because I had a growing cat to feed. And his demanding orange face was telling me now was the time for that.
I followed Bushy downstairs. His happy feet moved so differently to mine that dragged behind him.
After I dished out his food, I made something for myself. A sandwich that tasted nothing like the ones Woodrow used to make for me.
Swallowing the third bite of my unappealing lunch, I decided I'd had enough. My foot squashed the pedal to the ground, opening the trash can in the corner of the room. I watched the black sack swallow more of the sandwich than I did. And I shifted through the house like a lost soul.
A ghost, wandering through the vast manor. A photo caught my eye, a blurry pixilated memory, snapped on a dodgy webcam. The image was bound to the wall, surrounded by hundreds of tiny glass hearts—all shattered, like mine.
I stared in awe, fascinated by the portrait and astounded that I hadn't noticed it until now.
I brushed the faded color of the image, the mousy hair on Woodrow's head that should have been chocolate, like the milk he loved.
I tried to diminish the ache in my chest as my fingers stroked over my cracked heart, my finger pads catching on old scars.
I headed back into the kitchen, and I poured some chocolate milk, filling a small cup, thinking it would be easier for Woody to hold with his strength and muscle withering away.
Woody was still asleep, his bony chest rising and falling as he gifted my ears with the painful sound of his struggles. I entered the room, moving to the beat of his croaky lungs.
I hated him suffering, and that's all he was doing now. But I selfishly wanted to keep him alive.
And I wished for another day every damn day.
I prayed to God for a miracle, and every day, he let me down.
I placed the cup on the bedside table and a kiss on Woody's head as I dropped into bed with him.
“I love you, Woodrow.” I breathed a warm breath against his icy skin. “If I could have one wish, it would be for you. I know I can't save you, but it would be to feel your touch just one more time.” Even though it would never be enough.
He didn't stir, he didn't move for hours, and it left me lonely, desperate to avoid my cruel thoughts. I climbed from the bed, moving through the room in nothing but Woodrow's t-shirt. I actually liked the band on this one. The gray fabric hugged along my buttocks as it rose while I walked.
I picked up Woodrow's phone. The battery was running low, but there was enough for me to do what I needed.
I opened the balcony doors, freeing the smell of cancer symptoms from the room. I gazed over the immense yard; over the swing-set, the baby's cross, the stream. Over the trees where Bonny used to play. . . where we spent our first date.
The butterflies he gave me that day were somehow still alive.
I fingered the wooden guardrail, plumping myself down in one of two wicker chairs.
The cushion was soft and welcoming, hugging around my body while I broke down and cried.
I didn't wait for the tears to pass. I clicked some buttons on Woodrow's phone, opening a folder of secrets he'd already let me be privy to.
I started a fresh note, marking it with my name.
Dear diary.
I don't know where to start. My heart is destroyed. . . and somehow still breaking.
He's leaving me. Permanently. He came into my life just to leave me again. He's going to die, and I can't save him. And I've never felt anything so painful.
I'm hurting, and I'm so angry that he's leaving me. I just want to die with him, because I'll never survive without him.
I wish it was me. I wish we'd never met. I wish for none of this to be happening. I wish he could live. I just fucking wish—
My entry was broken off by the sound of vomiting.
The chair opposite me finally had something sitting on it, as I threw the cell over the little glass-topped table between us.
I rushed into the room, seeing, who I assumed was Hell, due to his rigid posture, leaning over a bowl we kept at his bedside. Black liquid filled the bowl, now on his lap. The walls of the round container splashed with the tar-like substance.
His bloodshot eyes found me as he tried to adjust his position, struggling to move the puffy pillows behind him.
My fingers were helping before I knew it. His eyes sneered at me for the assistance I gave.
“I don't need help.” His lungs wheezed as he pushed out each painful word, his fingers tightening on the bowl until his tips blanched.
“Well, I'm giving it. You can kick my ass for it later.”
“If I had the energy to do anything to your ass, I can assure you, I wouldn't be kicking it.”
I rolled my eyes, wondering how he could even think about sex right now. But I didn’t comment on his silly joke. I knew deep down, thanks to his more recent notes, he hated the anal thing, only doing it because of the prison experience and the blame he’d wrongly placed on me.
I pulled the bowl from his lap and carried it to the bathroom, where I'd wash it out like I did a dozen times every day.
When I returned, Hell was slumped on his pillows, his eyes losing battle as they fought to stay open.
His body was cold, but as I attempted to shut the balcony doors, he ordered me not to. His less authoritative voice didn't change the outcome, and I found myself doing exactly what he asked.
He wanted fresh air. His lungs needed it.
“I got you some chocolate milk.” I lifted the cup, revealing the full offering from the bedside table as I joined him beneath the sheets, my body moving close so I could help keep him warm.