Tierney
He pickedme up from the floor sometime later and undressed me. Put me into a bathtub full of warm water. Achilles then took a sponge and ran it over every inch of my body. He didn’t dare touch my skin with his. Instead, he let the sponge do all the work. His movements were practical and impersonal. I wondered if he knew it was exactly what I needed—to soak myself in hot water and try to wash away the memories.
I stared at the small, dusty window in front of the bathtub, unresponsive.
“I made your favorite cabbage soup.”
I didn’t answer.
“And there’s the rye bread that you love.”
Nothing.
“You’ll get out of this place inside your head,” he said, his voice so sure, so full of conviction, I was almost tempted to believe it. “Just hang in there, Little Flame. I’m coming to get you.” His throat worked with a swallow. “Fuck, baby, I should’ve never left.”
I hated that he was trying to save me, because giving up felt so much easier.
For the next two weeks, he spoon-fed me all my meals, brushed my teeth, did my laundry, and tucked me into bed. He read me my favorite books, and carried me outside to watch the sunrises, and the sunsets, and even the rainbow, once.
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My favorite playlist was played every morning at a low, comforting volume, trying to lure me out of my room. Garbage and the Pretty Reckless and Yeah Yeah Yeahs.
I really wished he wouldn’t try so hard. He gave me soul CPR every minute and every day, only to never find even the faintest of heartbeats.
His failures only made him more determined. They made him try harder.
Some days I wanted to die just to spite him—to be the one and only war he’d lost.
I told myself he’d give up eventually, return to his life, to his family, to his duties.
But it was a lie, and I knew it.
Achilles, like his namesake, would fight until death and beyond.
Especially for the things he loved.
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Three weeks after we’d first arrived at the cottage, I understood the termcabin fever.
I couldn’t stare at these walls anymore. I knew every chip in the paint, every crack, and every smudge. It felt like I was trapped inside my head, inside my body, and now inside an unremarkable, dated house with a man I despised.
I stepped in front of the living room window to find that it was pouring rain outside.
“Where the hell are we?” The words ripped from my mouth like a Band-Aid, and I sucked in a breath. I hadn’t spoken in so long, I hadn’t even been sure I could produce words anymore.
“Maryland,” Achilles’s voice clipped from behind me.
Neither of us had stepped out of the house for these past three weeks. He had our food and toiletries delivered to us twice a week.
I turned around and headed to the door. I was still wearing my pajamas but no shoes. I didn’t even think I had a pair here.
“Where are you going?” he asked from behind me. I didn’t answer. Just slammed the door in his face.
Rain danced across the rotten wooden banister of the front porch, but when I stepped into the storm, I couldn’t feel its cold nor its wetness. I moved down the three steps until my feet touched damp sand, then continued walking.
The ocean was fierce, the waves crashing over the shore. The back of my head felt especially wet, and when I moved a hand over it, I realized there was only peach fuzz between my skin and the rain. I ran my fingers down the back of my head and felt the jagged bone beneath my flesh.
