“I want you to know me. Us. I’d let you in on all our secrets. I want you to see the darkness and the light. I want you to see all of me. Of Us.” His lips pressed against my forehead. “I want you to still be here with your promises afterwards, but I also want you to know I'll understand if you can't be. . . even if it’ll break my heart.”
His lips left a kiss, and I nodded, my throat too clogged with suffocating emotion to talk. I felt all his pain. And all Iwanted to do was tell him that I’d be here.
I’d always be here.
“And if you’re still here, still happy to stand with me when you're done, seal your promises with another kiss. On my lips.” He let go of me, moving so his skinny arm could reach under the bed.
He pulled a large book through the dust surrounding it, the faint noise causing Bonny to scarper from her close position. She was quickly back on the bed made for her after coming to investigate Woodrow’s movement.
He dropped the book onto the bedsheets, and I sat up to examine it. His eyes were on me as I stared down at the book that looked nothing like a diary and so much like an ancient grimoire.
My eyes flicked to him, keen to gain permission before I flipped the cover and unleashed the demons who were spellbound to the pages.
I started at the beginning, taking in each style of writing, each story he and his alters told.
His eyes stayed low as I read. . . as I turned the first page, now tarnished by aging. The book was old. And heavy. His written words were something he'd been committed to for many years. The top of the second page was titled Woodrow, just like the last and the next.
I read through a few more pages—through a change of perspective. A story of the toys he'd played with, the fun he'd had with his sister. The memoir of a little boy hiding from his emotions, all the while, being trapped inside them. The writing wasn't as easy to read on this page. No name was written atop the page, but letters of different sizes, some back to front, along with a misspelling holding on to each sentence, proved these pages belonged to Woody.
“Woody is Nessie’s age. Is that why they are close?”
Woodrow shrugged, almost unsure how to answer. After a pause, he told me, “I think she likes him because he’s young; I don’t know what will happen as she ages. I don’t think he will. Seven is the age I was when my parents started trying for her. I’ve been blacking out since then.”
“How did you get the others to write in here?” I wondered, taking in the last of Woody's inked words. . .
I carnt wate to playagen tomorowe.
“I asked them to. I asked for Nessie’s help to convince Woody, and he responded quickly. I'd recorded a voice note in one of her toys, asking him to write in the book about his day. . . everyday. And she encouraged him. I told him where to find the diary, and he did it. Probably happy that someone showed interest in him. Though he's aware of me, as I am him. Maybe more so, it’s like he watches from inside me. It's hard to explain. He's like a ghost who haunts me. . . possesses me. He's in the background, and he feels like comfort.”
“And the other one?”
“I call them alters.” He smiled an unauthentic smile, but I was grateful for it, and for his words, because his parents had barely told me anything about his issues.
“He feels the same but different. Like an entity. I don't feel comforted. I feel nervous. He means me no harm. He just hates everyone else.” Woodrow took a heavy breath, he needed it to continue. “It took a little longer to get him to cooperate. I left notes for weeks. He was here. The destruction of everything my parents held dear was proof of that. . . as was their growing distance from me. I begged, pleaded, and eventually, he gave in. He wrote in the book, and he never stopped”
I read for minutes. For hours, eyes roving over the slight smudges draped around Woodrow’s words—something many lefties’ writing harbored.
When I turned to Woody’s notes, I took my time to understand his wording. Though he didn’t have the smudges, making it appear that he wrote with his right hand.
Woodrow struggled to keep his eyes open throughout, tiredness claiming him as I turned a page.
I came to a different cursive. No name on the top. No scribbles. No personality or innocence, the lefty smudge back again. My fingers traced the harsh lines where a pen had marked the pages.
“Is this him?” I asked, my eyes roaming to find Woodrow silent, sleeping. And I let him sleep, leaning forward to place a kiss on his lips, because I knew that whatever I read on this page, it wouldn’t changea thing.
I’d read for hours, taking in each word. The evidence heavy—dark circles and a red taint stained my eyes and the surrounding area.
I finished the whole book as the clock struck 3 a.m., and I woke while the sun still slept, after only a couple of hours of sleep.
I slipped out of bed quietly, not to disturb Woodrow, who looked lost to peaceful dreams, his mouth open slightly. Or his parents, for that matter. I didn’t want them to know I’d spent the night, though I doubted they’d care. But I certainly didn’t want them finding Bonny, now that the door was unlocked.
I returned to leave a glass of chocolate milk on Woodrow’s bedside table; a green marble coaster was the stage for the china mug. I left a note at the side, written on a sheet ripped from my own diary. The small pink unicorn in the corner of the page, looked up at my penciled words as if she was reading them.
I read it. . . so much of it, and it changes nothing.
He won’t come between us, nothing will come between us.
I promise.
