Chapter 30 #2
I watched a puff of smoke leave his lips before more painful words. “I don't like chocolate. I don't like milk.”
I stared at the cup, looking at the drink inside like it was poison. I'd messed up, not realizing he could hate the taste of something his body buddies loved.
“I'll get some water instead.”
“No. I'm not thirsty. Just stay here with me for a while.”
It wasn't a question, but it felt less like an order. It was a request, because even if he wouldn't admit it, he was scared of what came next.
I placed down the cup with a trembling hand, spilling the overly full drink onto the glossy white table, making it sticky.
I nodded, tucking myself in close. I wrapped my arm around him and just lay there, lost in my thoughts—of the great memories of Woody, the better ones with his frontman, and all the painful ones I shared with Hell ...until recently.
I didn't hate him anymore for any of the things he did to me.
I didn't understand everything, but I knew his father had created a monster, nurturing and feeding what lived inside his darkness.
But. . . it was only darkness that would allow you to see someone's light.
And I could see the light inside him, flickering with all the sweeter things he did for me. Like learning to dance, writing my book, loving me, in his own messed-up, uncouth, possessive way.
And I loved him, too.
My Hell. My husband. My owner. My shattered future.
Another agonizing breath had him closing his eyes and sinking deeper into the ease of his pillows. . . and sleep called him instantly, with bad dreams following behind his hypersomnia.
My sleepy eyes peeled back, seeing nothing but darkness. I sucked in a breath, hating that I'd closed my eyes for even a second, and I drew the pale pink sheet to the suction of my nostrils.
I pushed back, arms flapping and head shaking until the blanket rolled from its position above my head.
I heard a raspy laugh, and I knew my wish came true. Woodrow was back, and my hair was tickling his ear.
“Hey, darling,” he whispered, sounding not exactly like himself. “Were you daydreaming before you went to sleep?”
The moonlight shone onto him from the open doors, the bright beam highlighting the smile he plastered on his face for me.
“I guess I was.” I definitely was—that was the only reason for the blanket being over my head. “How are you feeling?"
I cuddled back into his waiting arm, stretched under the blanket that tried to suffocate me. I relaxed in his embrace, my head close to the crook of his neck, my hair tickling his ear again.
“I'm okay. Well, I feel like shit. I smell worse than shit. I dread to think what I look like.” His smile faltered, slowly disappearing from his face.
“You're still the most handsome thing I’ve ever seen.” My smile replaced his, bringing light to our conversation.
“You were never a good liar.”
Maybe I wasn't. But I was always good at making him smile, and as the corner of his lips lifted until dimples popped, that was what I focused on.
On his beautiful smile. . . not his ghostly tone, his sunken cheeks, not even the purple staining beneath his eyes, complementing the pink surrounding his pupils.
“You never told me what happened to you when you were there.”
He didn't exactly give an address or say where there was, but I knew he meant my captivity. And my body going from warm and cuddly to sweaty and rigidly stiff, told him that.
“A story for another time,” I rehashed the words I'd already said to him.
“We're running out of time, Moonlight.”
“I read your notes, Woodrow. All the stuff from the prison. I know that's why Hell wanted to hurt me. Wanted revenge. I know how bad it was for you. You don’t need to know how bad it was for me.”
He stared at the smooth ceiling, taking in my words and nothing more. I stared at him, making memories that would last for my very short forever. The way his long dark eyelashes fanned his cheeks as he slowly blinked. The direction his tears ran, escaping from the most beautiful eyes.
“I'm glad you made peace with each other. You and Hell. He loves you.”
I watched another tear. . . watched as it decided not to follow its leader.
I nodded. “I learned it too late.”
“We're sorry.”
“Don't be, baby.” My hand cupped his cheek, my palm wet with his sadness, my face wet with my own. “Don't be sorry for anything.”
“So many bad things—”
“And they aren’t your fault. The blame is on your parents. Because of neglect and abuse. The past can’t be changed. I forgive you. I forgive Hell.”
Tiny feet indented the bedsheets, a small weight moving up my leg, paddy-pawing at my hip as his meow echoed in the silence between Woodrow and me.
I rolled my eyes, seeing all the tears I had yet to shed.
My hand reached out instinctively, my fingers meeting Woodrow's shaky hand as his did the same. Without pulling back, I held onto him, giving him the strength to pat our furry lodger.
“Hey, buddy. I missed you.”
The kitten instantly left me, climbing all over Woodrow, with his probably-too-heavy body, to deliver cute little head bumps to the person who loved him most.
It was weird to think, but it was almost like Bushy knew Woodrow from his alters, too.
“I guess you missed me, too.” The light in Woodrow's eyes dimmed, but our joined hands continued smoothing over soft ginger fur. “I'm going away soon, but Jolie, here, she's gonna take the best care of you.”
He smiled at me, his eyes moving to my flaring nostrils as he registered the sadness I was struggling to hold back. He squeezed my hand, but I barely felt a difference in the tightness of his grip.
“And I need you to look after her for me, too,” he told Bushy.
“Paint your nails lilac when you do them next. I like lilac.” Those words were for me, given before a kiss to my knuckles. “I love you, so completely.”
“I love you, too. . . but it's not time for goodbyes, not yet.”
“It'll never be goodbye. I'm gonna haunt you.” He almost laughed, then he coughed.
I wiped his lips with a tissue from a pack I kept bedside. The red stain brought further upset as I folded it out of sight.
“I think I have to rest again. I’m tired.”
“Do you need to pee?”
He blinked a single blink.
My lips tightened, knowing he hadn't been since yesterday.
“A drink? I brought your favorite.”
I didn't wait for him to answer. For his refusal. I guided the straw to his lips and propped it between them. He sucked and swallowed once, humoring me. And then he spat out the straw.
Drops of chocolate milk splattered his chest, getting lost in the smudges of his prison tattoos.
My blurry vision didn't catch them, but Bushy didn't have that issue, and he quickly lapped them up before stalking to me for another taste.
I refused, placing the cup on the sticky table, nowhere near the coaster waiting for it.
“Goodnight, Moonlight.”
“Goodnight,” I whispered as I turned back to snuggle at his side, finding that Bushy had taken my place.
“Get some rest. Close your eyes, and meet me in your dreams.”
“Always.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
His hand patted the mattress, searching for mine. Our fingers linked, and together, hand in hand, we moved into a new world.
But I didn't get to stay there.
The urge to pee woke me from my sleep, and I had to break apart our still-joined hands as I rushed to the bathroom. I detoured on the way to collect Woodrow's phone. I wanted to delete yesterday's note before he had a chance to read it. I did that quickly and placed the phone on his bedside table.
I rushed off to the bathroom, wiggling, as I feared I wouldn’t make it in time. I sat on the chilly seat, trying blissfully, like a parent in need of a break, to ignore the calls of my furry toddler, as he screamed for me from the bed.
Gently placing the seat down, I pushed the flush button. It made no sense that I worried about the noise of the toilet seat closing, when the flush sounded through the entire house.
I washed my hands, staring at my drained appearance in the mirrored cabinet. I looked gaunt, more so than ever. Small red spots were pushing through my dull-looking skin and causing discomfort. I washed my face with a scrub I knew to be in the high cabinet, still ignoring the cat call.
“Two minutes, Bush’. I'll get your breakfast.”
As I scrubbed at my eyes, like I could magically wash away the tiredness, tiny nails scraped my leg.
I jumped, my finger jabbing into my eye, the scrub causing them to burn. I gasped, quick to wash it out with cold water.
The scratches came again, and the desire to kick this cat—who was now hanging around my feet—into next week, was harder to fight.
“What?” I impatiently questioned, my burning eyes lowering to the fuzzball.
He rushed from me, and a graceful jump had him on the bed. He sat on Woodrow's chest, pawing at his face.
“Hey, get off him!” I whisper-shouted, storming from the cold bathroom tiles to the cushion-soft carpet.
My legs slowed with each step. My eyes refused to believe what they saw. Bushy was on Woodrow's chest—Woodrow's unmoving chest.
“Woodrow?” I called out. “Woodrow, answer me!”
His eyes were on me, slightly open, like his mouth, frozen as he’d taken his last breath.
His skinny frame, now smaller than mine, was eaten up by the size of the bed and the heavy blankets pushed down around his waist. His Adam's apple and the swelling behind it stood high, like it held some pride to have caused his death. I took a single step closer, and my legs gave way.
I looked up at his face. His cheeks still red from the flushes he’d suffered these last few weeks—that I’d stupidly mistaken for sunburn. He was missing his ethereal glow, his color completely gone. His life was gone. He was fucking gone, and I couldn’t fucking take it.
My pain flooded from my eyes. Tears dropped to the carpet, white like his skin.
A scream tore from inside me, rattling the new and strong foundations of this house. It should have woken the dead. . . but it didn't.
It fucking didn’t.
I crawled to him, my husband, my life, my everything, and the carpet didn't feel so soft beneath my knees.
I took his hand, his skin getting colder with each second. I kneeled higher, brushing the longer strands of his fringe away from his face. Tiny pink scratches covered his face, where Bushy had tried to wake him, too.
“Woodrow, wake up. Please, wake up.” I choked on my own words.
“I'm begging you, please. Wake. Up. I forgave you for everything. But not this. I won't forgive you for this. You can’t leave me.” I squeezed around his knuckles, his big hand feeling smaller than usual. “Please, wake up. I’m begging you, please wake up.”
I placed a dozen kisses on his cheeks and lips. My mouth trembled through it all. I climbed to my feet, sliding onto the edge of the bed. I kissed him again, blowing air into his ruined lungs. Nothing happened.
Bushy jumped away, the hope that I could save his master plastered on his face as he watched me start chest compressions.
I breathed into Woodrow's mouth again, but I knew it was useless. I kept trying. My hands pumped away at his chest until the energy slipped from me, until the arrows on his watch moved from the twelve back to the twelve again, marking a new hour on the worst day of my life.
“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” I collapsed against his chest, his bones embracing me. “Wait for me. I won’t be long, I promise.” I kissed over his silent heart and then his lips once more, and the scent of death kissed me back.
He wasn't my Woodrow anymore. He wasn’t my Hell or Woody.
The vessel I stared down at was empty.
I prayed his soul was somewhere better.
I slumped to the floor, and I took his hand again as his arm dropped from the bed.
I held on tighter than ever, no longer afraid to hurt him, as I leaned into the frame of the bed.
His fingers didn't wrap around mine. He could no longer bring me comfort.
And, in this moment, the few memories we shared throughout our tragic lives didn't, either.
I stayed on the floor, crying until I could barely breathe.
My ears took in the sound of Bushy jumping from the bed, his little feet moving closer.
I didn't pull my eyes from Woodrow's hand, from my hand holding onto all I had left of him.
But my other hand moved to comfort the small animal who shared my pain as he climbed onto my lap.
For a second, while lost in my despondency, I wondered if I should take Bushy with me when I end my life. Woodrow would love to have him with us. . . but he wouldn't approve of the how.
I quickly realized what an awful idea it was.
Bushy could have a good life with someone else. A full life, long and happy. He deserved that.
He meowed a very sad-sounding meow, and his wide orange eyes somehow appeared glossier as he gazed up at me.
I soothed his grief, stroking through his thick fur.
His purr calmed me for a moment. One single moment where I found the strength to reach for Woodrow's phone and type a message to the only other person he trusted—Ollie.
“Do you like cats?” Content with the question I saw staring at me through tear-blurred vision, I clicked send.
“I'll get you a good home, baby,” I promised as Bushy climbed up to my chest and rested on me, giving me one of those gentle head bumps.
And I waited for the reply.
The phone buzzed on the floor at my side. I tapped the screen before returning my hand to Bushy, and there it was, my answer. . . in the form of a picture message of three cats; one, black and white, one tabby, and one with no hair at all, all staring up at me, accompanied by the message that said,
“I guess you could say that.”
I nodded, smoothing Bushy once more as I whispered, “He's going to love you.”