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 becauseI 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 eyesscanned 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.
