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 façade 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 itwas 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 pedalto 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.
