In my own way, through my trauma, I was dissociating.
But I knew I couldn't stay in my concocted reality forever. So tonight, I escaped to a new world. Another made-up space. One created from a great mind, not my emotionally challenged braincells.
Earlier today, during one of his food transports, Woodrow suggested I try a book from Nessie’s stack of unread stories. My eyes instantly found a favorite of mine. A love triangle with a grizzly werewolf and a shimmering vampire. . . and one lucky girl trapped between them.
The star-projecting lamp gave me enough light to read, as I settled in bed before the clock struck nine. But I was only on chapter three when this escape was interrupted. . . by Woodrow and my reverie of him, callingme back.
And then that was interrupted. . . by Wynter, singing terribly, clearly high on whatever was left of her pain pills.
I still hadn’t spoken to her or asked if my fears were true. . . was she was involved in Ville’s sordid plan?
Her voice got louder, tarnishing one of my favorite ballads. I closed the book with a thud, tiny dust particles danced in the air from the force.
I slipped from my bed, stepping on the ledge to see if I'd disturbed the sleeping child, who, on the rare occasion, was alone in her own bed. I hadn't.
I slinked through the darkness, guided by the stars twinkling on the ceiling, honored by the nightlight that projected them.
As quietly as possible, I slinked out and closed the door behind me.
I scurried down the hallway on silent feet. I reached for Woodrow's doorknob, but it was jammed by his desk chair. Which meant Woodrow already had a guest.
One he'd no doubt prefer the company of.
I took a step back, ready to retreat to my own domain. I couldn't pat my knuckles against the door, as much as I wanted to. I couldn't risk attracting attention from the opposite door.
I heard a scuffle from inside Woodrow's bedroom, and then I heard the light grind of the chair being pulled back.
Woodrow opened the door, just a crack, just enough to show me the smile gracing his lips.
“I knew it was you. Gentle hands.” His eyes moved down to my gentle hands, before he stepped back and invited me inside, closing the door and securing it behind me.
The bed pulled me towards it with a magnetic force.
“Time isn't working.”
He acknowledged me with a somber expression.
I glanced at the diary, laying open on the bed, taking up most of the space. My eyes roved his admissions. Time hadn't helped him, either.
“You're thinking of ending your life!” I said, louder than intended. My agitation found him on the floor, Bonny nearby.
His eyes—just his eyes—moved to the door for a split second.
“I'm alittle down.”
“Do you feel any better now that I'm here?” I dared to ask.
His eyes lifted from Bonny—digging through the material of his t-shirt, the one she'd inherited as bedding—to mine.
My teeth sank into my lip, awaiting his answer. His response, so slow, it grated against each of my nerves and fears.
Before I knew it, he was off the floor, the diary replacing him there.
“Much.” He pulled me into his chest. I listened to the rhythm of his heart vibrating against his bones.
I looked up at him, and his throat bobbed, swallowing pain. It looked even bigger from this angle.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered, less authentically than all his other apologies. When I looked at him, wonderment on my face as I pondered what exactly he was sorry for, he told me, “I didn't cover.”
