“I’m not saying anything that will put me back in the cage. You know how I feel. About captivity. And about you.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.” Her eyes stayed low.
“You hate me? You really hate me?”
She shook her head, flared nostrils sucking in more of the scent of the food than the oxygen she needed. “I hate that I love you.”
“I don’t understand why you feel that way. You never did before. You told me you could handle it.”
“And it broke me. There isn’t enough sanity in either of us to try to make things right.”
“It’s worth trying.”
“I disagree.”
“I’m sorry, for whatever it is he’s done. I am sorry, but I know you know, me apologizing, it’s meaningless.” I let my eyes search for hers. Her gaze wasn’t hard to find. I figured she’d be looking away, but her stare was attached to me. “If I apologize for things I don’t remember doing, it won’t mean anything to you, will it? I can’t apologize for someone else’s actions, and to me, that’s what he is. Someone else.”
A pregnant pause passed, only the rustling of my jacket sounding through the room.
“Would it bring you peace to know that your heart isn’t the only one breaking every time you find a new bruise? The fingerprints on your body, match my hands, but I’ve got no memory of putting them there.” I stopped, taking a breath. “It’s not easy for me. It’s hell. And I fucking hate it.”
I fed myself a single grain of rice, worrying the weight of any more would have granted her wish and killed me, painfully. But I needed a distraction, a pull from the pain. . . because I could already feel it, hands clutching at my soul, pulling me away from all that hurt me. And I couldn’t let that happen.
“You don’t cover anymore?” She watched as I swallowed.
“I never had to with you, if you remember. And I never wanted to in the first place. That was my parents’ doing, poisoning me into believing I was disgusting to look at.”
It was harder now. Hell was pulling harder.
She dipped her head, feeling my words, because my lovely mother had made her feel the exact same way.
Jolie’s arms, both of them, tightened around the pillow. “Who are you right now, now that you’re telling me things that are close to your heart?”
“You know who I am.” I swallowed again, and it fucking hurt. My fingers rushed to massage my throat, the pain amplifying under the touch that I couldn’t bring myself to pull away. I stood up, striding to the bathroom to splash my face with freezing water.
I stared at my reflection, wondering if I’d see the change—the shift—because I felt like it was going to happen any fucking minute.
“Woodrow. The person who always told you things close to his heart.” I glanced at Jolie in the mirror, watching my every move. My eyes moved to my image. A pink flush covered my cheeks and nose, staining my ivory skin. “I’m Woodrow,” I said to myself more than her, trying to force myself to stay Woodrow.
“Can I talk to Woody?”
My back straightened, so upright thatI thought my head would hit the ceiling. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t work like that,” I said, stepping back into the bedroom.
“It does. I’ve seen movies.”
“It’s not a one size fits all. And movies aren’t the most reliable source of information.”
“Are you diagnosed now?”
“I am.” I moved back to the bed, moving slower than I did to get away from it. “I got my diagnosis, along with my education in prison.”
“How many of you are there?” She looked confused by her own words.
