In Memory (4 page)

But I’m falling asleep just sitting here… jus _t sleep

168 Days, 12 September, Friday

No time to write today. Emergency, I’m at the hospital.

167 Days, 13 September, Saturday

I sighed, rolling over and glancing at the alarm clock with my book
laid
open on my chest.

1
0
:36 P
m

It changed to
1
0
:37
as I looked at it, seeming more significant than usual. That was a whole minute of my life, idly spent reading a book I had read several times before. It brings to mind the quote ‘Live life to the fullest and enjoy every minute.’

D
on’t know who said it, and I probably got the words wrong, but either way, it’s impossible. In order for me to live life to the fullest is to not enjoy every minute. Enjoying every minute takes meaning out of them. In order to truly appreciate the joyous moments in life, we must embrace the painful ones and keep them in memory.

1
0
:43 P
m

I heaved myself out of bed, meandering out of my room and downstairs. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I heard a scuffling sound just outside the door.
Figuring Terra was home and couldn’t get the door open
, (the lock sticks)
I opened it
.

The person standing in front of me was very clearly not my sister.

It was Noah.

H
adn’t seen him for about two weeks (estimation) and yet here he stood, effectively taking the breath right out of me by his appearance. His shoulder-length black hair was matted and tangled, jostled every now and then by his trem
bling shoulders. C
ould see deep cuts on his hands and forearms where his shirt was torn. These same cuts streaked around his chest and –alarmingly- his neck. He wasn’t wearing shoes.

I swallowed, managing a small sound.

This made him look up at me, his immense icy eyes inherently pleading with me in the centre of his damaged face.
His beautiful face.

R
eminded me of a flower, crushed by someone’s boot.

Bruises coloured his otherwise paper white skin, each one seeming to intensify in saturation as my gaze passed over them. They were especially dark around his left eye, the one he’s blind in. Dried blood lined his face in smudged cracking patterns. His lips were plump and swollen, bleeding from a split on the bottom. Shakily, they parted, and his voice slithered through, as if it had been broken as the rest of him.

“I’m sorry, Aerie. But I didn’t know where else I could go.”

W
anted to suggest the hospital, but the words wouldn’t come.

He looked around nervously, swaying on the spot, “May I… May I come in?”

I nodded, stepping back to let him in, my voice still fighting past the initial shock of seeing him.

He stumbled in, tripping over the doorjamb and brushing past me. At his touch, my voice won its battle and I spoke, “What happened?” I asked, guiding him to the chair beside the closet.

He was silent, then, “I can’t say.”

This was almost as unnerving as his appearance. Who could have done this to him that could scare him so much that he wouldn’t reveal their identity? I bit my lip, steadying him on the chair, and he spoke again.

“But you said you wanted to be a nursing aid,
right…?”
His huge eyes drilled into mine, “Would you… help me?”

I’m not sure why but that made me want to cry.

We managed to get to the bathroom (thank goodness there’s one on the first floor). I set him down on the toilet, shuffling
to close the lid beforehand. K
nelt down in front of him, examining the cuts on his hands and forearms.

He still had the bandages from last week around his hand.

Something about a few of the cuts
was
troubling. A few of the shallower ones were angled differently, and had already healed partially. I suspected these ones were self-inflicted.

R
eeled at this, why would he hurt himself
if…?

There was too much dried blood, dirt, and general grime to get a good look at the larger cuts, but it was easy enough to define them as defensive wounds.

G
uess the cuts on his neck and chest would be from the gap in his defence. It’s a wonder he’s alive at all, judging from how close a couple of them are to his arteries.

“Noah…” I said softly, trying out his name, “Who attacked you?”

He shook his head, looking away, tears burning in his eyes.

“You have to tell me.” I took his hands in my own.

He shook his head again, squeezing my hands as if her were trying to communicate to me through them. This contact coaxed a few tears to my eyes, damn my sensitivity.

“How am I supposed to help you if I don’t know what’s wrong?” This applied less to his physical wounds and more the apparent mental trauma he was battling, it seemed.

K
ept shaking his head, closing his eyes tightly. A choked sob broke from his lips; he bowed his head and trembled.

I swear, a part of my heart shattered upon seeing that.

“Okay,” I managed, “Okay, Noah, you don’t have to tell me. Let’s just… get you cleaned up, okay?”

He nodded, sniffed, and squeezed my hands again.

“You should take a shower, and wash yourself off.”

Another silent nod.

R
etrieved a towel from under the sink, placing it on the rim of the sink and motioned to the shower before leaving the bathroom and closing the door behind me.

As the door clicked shut, tears fell from my eyes, completely unrestrained. It must be my overly sensitive empathy. A couple of my mother’s
fortuneteller
friends deemed it to be both my blessing and curse.

My empathy, to feel exactly what any person who has skin contact with me feels.
It happens more strongly for me whenever the person I’m touching is feeling particularly strong emotions.

For Noah, it was pain. Unbearable pain that only
seemed to be assuaged
by crying my heart out. I leaned against the door, listening to the new sound of water hitting the bottom of the bathtub.

O
ccurred to me that it would not be appropriate for him to redress in his dirty clothes, so I hurried to the laundry room, which was across the hallway. Luckily, the dryer had finished a little while ago, so I selected one of my big cotton t-shirts and flannel pajama bottoms. As an afterthought, I also grabbed a clean pair of boxers, absentmindedly wiping my eyes on the stack of clothes a
s I returned to the bathroom. K
nocked on the door, “Noah, I brought you a change of clothes.”

No response.

“Noah?” I knocked again, louder this time.

There was nothing but silence on the other side of the door, save for the spattering of water.

O
pened the door slowly, not wanting to disturb him or startle him (or come off as a pervert)
. L
ooked around, noticing his pants on the floor. I stepped into the room, keeping my eyes away from the bathtub, where I supposed he was.

“I’m just
gonna
put these here.” I said aloud, placing the clothes on the toilet seat. “Okay?”

More silence.

Now I was worried. I looked over at the
bathtub,
all I could see of Noah was the top of his head over the side of the tub
through the transparent shower curtain
. He was lying down in the shower I guess. Or…

“Noah?” I approached the bathtub. “Are you okay?”

His constant silence was getting steadily more worrying. I stood beside the tub, looking down at him. He was still wearing his shirt and boxers, slumped down in the bottom of the tub with the water falling on him like lukewarm rain.

His eyes were shut and his lips were parted slightly, water droplets bouncing off t
hem. M
ight have been sleeping peacefully if not for the horrible wounds all over his face. I bent
down, and touched the back of his neck
gently, a new feeling rushing into me.

I was safe, secure.

At peace.

That must be what he was feeling, and I picked up on it. I smiled, in spite of the situation, and shook him a little, making him open his eyes blearily and turn to me.

“You fell asleep.” I explained in response to his curious look.

“Oh…” he said shortly, scooting a little higher. He began to pull his shirt up, picking up from where he left off before going to sleep, I would assume.

He was struggling, I could tell. Not surprising, considering the depth and severity of some of his wounds.

“Do you need help?” I asked.

He surveyed me for a few seconds, his eyebrow tweaking in a way I recognised as his ‘thinking face’. After a few seconds, he nodded, so I reached forward, tugging the bottom of his once-white shirt up.

“Arms up.” I requested, to which he complied instantly. My eyes took in every detail of his torso as I pulled his shirt off. In retrospect, this was fairly intimate, seeing as I had only really talked to him once.

More bruises, of course, stamped into his skin. He was skinny, unhealthily so, with his ribs jutting out of his bizarrely pale skin. The bruising pounded a trail of tenderness down his front and sides, disappearing underneath the waistband of his boxers and continuing down his legs. More damage was done to his left leg, his kneecap was amassed with purples and reds, and his ankle was pink and swollen.

He watched
me
as I looked him over, with an odd expression on his face, almost apologetic.

S
hook my head to focus, grabbing a smaller towel and placing it over him. He got the hint immediately, arranging the towel over himself and sliding out of his boxers as I busied myself with grabbing the shampoo.

He exhaled deeply as I returned to his side, a tiny smile flickering on his face. His arms lay limply at his sides as I began washing his hair. As I did so, I felt a bizarre sense of comfort and security; he really transmits strong emotions. I raked my hand through his hair, untangling the thick black strands and rinsing away the dirt and blood.
I cleared some of the dirt and blood from his face, revealing pale white skin. Like erasing a marked paper.

Pleasure. He’s radiating it.

(I would like to take this moment to praise whoever invented the showerheads that can detach from the wall and be directed wherever you want. They are AMAZING.)

I rinsed out the last of the shampoo, sitting him up and retrieving a washcloth. I ran over his back with the cloth, gently massaging any areas that weren’t bruised. I did the same for his front, taking extra care around his cuts. Following this, I did a quick check of his legs, making sure there were no cuts before washing them and his feet.

Now I think most people in this situation might think, “Well, wow, I met this guy once, and he’s naked in my bathtub. That’s crazy!” or “How awkward, I’m washing another dude.” Not me. Honestly, after working
in the hospital and just generally being alive,
people’s bodies don’t bother me. Yeah, I’m aware of his anatomy.

It’s pretty fantastic, in my opinion (
heh
), but nothing to feel weird or awkward about. I mean
,
it’s not like I have no clue what’s under his towel.

His eyes were closed, he trusted me totally.

F
olded the cloth, using the corner to clear the
last of the
blood and grime from his face. After I cleaned the dried blood from his eyes, he opened them and looked at me; there was pure gratitude sparkling in the icy blue.

I nodded, wiping his forehead with the cloth, propping him up with my arm. I was kind of wet now too, but I didn’t really mind.

A
llowed the water to fall on us for a couple more minutes, before turning off the shower and draping the huge turquoise towel over him.

He held on to it like a blanket, getting to his feet slowly, with much support from me.

And then there he stood, in my bathroom, covered only by my towel, smiling up at me. Even covered in bruises and cuts… he looked beautiful. It was almost like I wasn’t even seeing the injuries, but I was looking at just him. Beautiful. I’ve never been more attracted to anyone before.

Maybe I’m a little too romantic.

R
etrieved another towel, and indicated the stack of fresh clothing, picking up his dirty clothes and the extra towel and making my exit.

After I finished starting a new load of laundry, I heard the bathroom door open.

Noah limped out, with a towel on his head. He yawned, taking the towel off his head and handing it to me.