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 forthe 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.
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.”
