I tap my foot against his. “Come on, stop faking. I know you’re awake,” I say, aiming for a light tone with a hint of sternness.
His eyes flash wide open, startling me, their glow bright and haunting. For a moment, I freeze, caught off guard by his intimidating gaze. I feel a prickle at the back of my neck, an instinctual reaction to the predator before me. He looks at me like he’s imagining tearing me limb from limb. He looks like a possessed demon with dark skin and glowing white eyes. If he had horns and a tail, I’d be chanting prayers.
For the first time since I pulled Stormy from the wreckage, I realize that I really could die. He could easily kill me. There’s no way I could stop him. I had somehow just optimistically assumed that if I helped him, my assistance would count for something.
The alien lifts his lip at me in a silent snarl. I find myself staring, frozen in fear, into the void of glowing white eyes of a malevolent fiend who looks absolutely murderous. He’s angry and fierce, but there’s something else there too. There’s fear in his reaction, a fear that matches my own. It comforts me in the strangest way. I can only imagine what he’s feeling – waking up as a stranger in a strange place after a crash, injured and vulnerable.
He continues to stare, his gaze neither wavering nor softening. As if he’s waiting for my next move, weighing his odds. I brace for an attack, but he merely watches me, calmly appraising. My heart pounds in my chest, the reality of the situation washing over me.
“Can you understand me? Do you know where you are and what happened? Do you know what I’m saying?” I speak in soft soothing tones, trying to make sure he understands that I am not a threat to be eliminated. I stare expectantly at him, waitingto see what his response is. He stops baring his teeth at me but doesn’t respond further to my words.
With each beat of my heart matching the tick of the clock on the fireplace mantle, we’re locked in a silent face-off. Unless he’s faking, I don’t think he can understand my words.
Taking a deep breath, I push my nervous energy aside and meet the angry stare of the alien lying on the cabin’s rug. His white eyes gleam in the soft flicker of late afternoon sun. “Are you… hungry?” I mime eating with my hands, praying the sign for food transcends our language barrier.
A pause, and then, to my relief, he dips his head in a single nod. Despite the tension threading the room, I can’t help the quick smile that spreads across my face. This is progress. It’s the first sliver of common ground we’ve discovered, and the absurdity of it all strikes me with sudden force.
“I’ll be right back then. Don’t move,” I say, holding up what I hope is the universal sign for ‘hold for a minute’. Judging by what seems like understanding lighting his eyes, it seems to work, and with that, I head towards the kitchen.
I spoon cold chicken noodle soup into a bowl and put it in the microwave. The appliance’s familiar hum is a comforting lullaby against the cabin’s eerie silence.
As the bowl rotates inside the microwave, my gaze keeps straying back to the living room, where the alien remains spread out on the floor. His head is turned in my direction, and he watches my every move, his chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm that belies the wary look on his alien features.
The warmth from the soup wafts out as I open the microwave door. Grabbing a spoon and paper towels, I return to my patient.
Gingerly balancing a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup, I head back to Stormy. I can hear Mango loudly complaining from where I still have him locked up in my bedroom, but I ignore hiscaterwauling. I can’t risk his safety until I figure out if this alien being is dangerous.
“All right, mister, it’s chow time,” I call out cautiously, the scent of broth wafting in the air, making me slightly hungry.
The alien’s gleaming white eyes dart towards the bowl. Curiosity and… interest start to replace the anger and fear on his face. Maybe? A spark of hope flickers in me. After all, a healing person is usually a hungry person. And often a grumpy one.
Setting the bowl on the coffee table, I turn my attention back to the alien. His lustrous eyes never leave the soup, proving that he is indeed hungry. Turning back towards him, I lower my gaze, assessing his form.
“All right, you can’t eat lying down,” I declare softly. I look over at the decorative pillows scattered on the sofa. I grab all the pillows and drop them at the alien’s side.
Stormy watches me the whole time, confusion painted across his strange features. I then tilt my head questioningly towards him. I point at the pile of pillows and then mime the act of sitting up. Oh god, I suck at charades. It’s a stretch, but to my surprise, he dips his chin in a distinctly human nod. How does he understand a nod but not my words? Maybe nodding is a gesture that the entire universe uses?
Despite the undeniable wave of terror coursing through my veins, I force myself to kneel at his side. “Okay, Stormy, I’m going to help you sit up,” I whisper to him. His eyes flick between my eyes and my lips as if he’s trying to figure out my words.
With trembling hands, I carefully lift one of the alien’s arms. He doesn’t flinch, but I get the impression that he is steeling himself against my touch as if waiting for a blow. I keep my movements slow and steady as I lift his arm and place it over my shoulder. Then, I do the same with the other, draping them around my neck. Talk about putting my life in his hands. Stark terror is licking flames up my throat. I’ve put him in the perfectposition to kill me. He could easily squeeze his arms and choke me out or rip my throat out with his teeth. I have survival instincts no better than a moth drawn to a bug zapper.
“Please don’t kill me,” I plea quietly as I thread my arms under his armpits, hooking my hands around his muscular back. With his help, I slowly lift his bulky, alien form until I manage to stuff some pillows behind him.
He doesn’t make a single noise of complaint or pain. And I know for a fact that moving must hurt like hell. It seems I’ve got a hard case on my hands.
With every second, I’m terrified that I’m about to feel his teeth suddenly rip into my throat or his arms will coil around me like a boa constrictor’s, suffocating the life out of me. But nothing of that sort happens, he remains eerily tranquil and silent. I slowly lower him onto the pillows with his assistance until he is reclined.
I lean back and check him over. “Are you okay? Anywhere hurt?”
I carefully examine the two bullet wounds, making sure that I haven’t reopened the injuries, but there is no new blood wetting the bandages. I blow out a relieved breath.
I feel a smile tug at the corner of my lips, my voice shaky but loud in the room’s silence. “I think you’re going to be just fine.”
Thankfully, Mango has stopped his squalling and is probably sleeping on my pillow.
“Okay, let’s get you fed,” I say, my voice vibrating with a mix of trepidation and relief. I present the bowl of soup to him. He studies the steam rising from the broth, his luminescent eyes reflecting its swirls, before shifting his gaze back to me. His features soften slightly, giving me hope.
Slowly, the tension coiled up in my muscles begins to unravel. I scoop up a spoonful of the warm soup, watching him cautiously as I bring it towards his mouth.
