I did not have a nightmare. In fact, beneath the sadness I’m feeling is a sharp heat that won’t settle. I fear I’ll either have to lie in bed and masturbate all day or sit out in the cold to find any semblance of relief.
“Quiet,” I reply. “It’s been mostly quiet since Christmas.”
“And you’re feeling alright?” Mother questions.
“I feel like I’m burning up,” I answer honestly. “I think I’ll sit in the back courtyard after breakfast and watch the waves.”
Atticus frowns deeply, and our mother moves to rest her hand on my thigh, only to pull it away at the last second. They both know whatburning upmeans and how their touch will startle me beyond measure.
“I can accompany you,” Atticus offers.
“Do you have a fever?” Abigail asks.
“Yes, my star, I have a fever,” I tell her gently. “And no, Atticus. I’ll be alright, thank you.”
Father enters the dining room, dressed impeccably and grinning ear to ear.
“Good morning, my loves!” he yells joyously, rounding the table to kiss my mother on her head and giving each of us children a loving look.
When his eyes settle on me, his smile dims, and he tilts his head slightly.
“Good morning, dear,” Mother greets.
“Are you alright, Atty? You look flushed,” Father says, settling in his chair.
“He has a fever,” Abigail offers.
Barfred enters with his cart and begins to serve us our breakfast. Today is smoked salmon with eggs, fresh fruit, and an assortment of juices.
“Thank you, Barfred,” I say, and he nods in my direction with a gentle smile as the table repeats my words like a chorus.
Once he leaves, we eat in relative silence, aside from Abigail and Atticus’s occasional chatter.
As I finish my food, I dismiss myself.
I receive a few concerned glances that I ignore as I leave the room. They can do nothing, and their pity only hurts to acknowledge.
Grabbing my coat from the closet by the back door, I make my way through the cold late-December air and stand on the cliff’s edge.
The waves are violent, just as they always are, and I stare out over the blanket of blue as the wind zips by.
Will the cure come today, or potentially on the first day of the new year? If there was ever a time, I guess it would be then.
I think this every New Year, and it never comes.
My hands tremble where they are tucked away in my coat pockets, and a part of me longs for Julian to come and bring me some tea, to comfort me. But today is a Sunday, and he is not working.
“Atty.” Atticus’s voice rings out. It seems he has followed me out here, anyway.
“What is it?” I ask without turning away from the crashing waves.
“What’s troubling you?”
“I told you, I’m burn—”
“It’s more than that,” he interrupts. “I can see it on your face.”
As I say nothing, ignoring his comment, Atticus sighs. He stands beside me, watching the rolling tide.
