Struggling to see her in the dark, I focused on the arch of her raised eyebrows.
“The boys behind bars were mean to Woodrow. To us. They called us pretty boy. They put their fingers in dirty places. I told the guard, and he protected us. He let us sleep in a different cell. We were safe.”
“We?”
“Woodrow,Hell,” I whispered that name, fearing he’d hear it and float to the surface to suffocate me, so he could take my place. I continued, “...and me. After the guard helped us, we went to a new place. There was a nice lady there. I miss her. She was really nice to me. She gave Woodrow pills and told him they’d help us all. They sent me to sleep. I didn’t feel the pain anymore, and I didn’t hear Woodrow getting upset anymore.” I looked up at Jolie with a smile. “I think he’s stopped taking them. . . but I don’t know why.” My arm moved back to her waist, and I pulled us together, and she let me. But she winced, crouching her body to the place of her pain.
I leaned over her, careful not to cause her more pain, more discomfort, and I turned on the bedside lamp.
That was when I saw it.
A small red stain was spreading slowly beneath the white tee.
I pulled back the material and sat up in the bed. I stared down at the injury that had been bathed and covered with some sort of gauze.
“How did you do that?” I asked, my eyes sparkling with the kind of empathy no one but she ever had for me.
She took a moment, breathing in through her nose. Her face becoming a mirror image of mine, harboring the same emotions of fear and anxiety. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. It was an accident.”
A gentle smile appeared on her lips. It felt forced. False. . . but it was all she was offering right now. I clutched it with both hands, and I wrapped myself around her.
“I missed you, Jolie. I missed you, so much.” I squeezed her a little tighter, nowhere near where she was hurting. I wrapped her in love, and prayed to God above that it would heal her.
That he would heal her if I couldn’t.
Her stomach rumbled, telling me that she hadn’t eaten before bed.
“Are you hungry?”
“A little.” She twisted, placing the e-reader on the bedside table before turning back to me. “Are you?”
“Woodrow might have money. . . he’s usually got cash in his pockets. Don’t tell him, but that’s often how I buy sweets.” I laughed.
“Woody?”
“Hm-mm?”
“Woody. . .” she said again. “Not Woodrow. Not Hell.”
“They’re asleep.”
She shook her head, tears dropping down her round cheeks. “Is Woodrow trying to punish me for something? For leaving?”
“No. . . he loves you. You’re his favorite person too!”
“And what about Hell?”
I went rigid around her. “Don’t say his name so loud.”
“Why does he hate me?” Her fingers brushed my skin, a delicate touch drawing circles on my arm.
“He hates everyone. . . except Woodrow.”
“Why doesHellhate me?” this time, Jolie whispered it, too. It brought me comfortknowing she’d rather have me here than him.
“I told you, he hates everyone. He’s very angry.” My small voice whispered the next part. “I’m scared of him, too.”
“Can you shut him down? Keep him out?”
