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Gwenna
The next morning, I wake up aglow in sunlight and have no idea where I am. Barrett’s there beside me, stroking my hair, his strong arms around my back, his hard, warm chest against my cheek.
“It’s okay…”
I squint and blink up at the rafters.
Ouch. “My head…”
“Open your mouth.”
I do, and I feel three round, slick tablets pushed inside by Barrett’s careful fingers.
“Let’s sit up…” He helps me up and brings a straw to my mouth. “Just Advil.” He’s got one arm around my back. The other hand is at my shoulder, holding, stroking. “How ya doing?”
His face is a mask of sympathy and pain.
I squint at him and wonder why the hell I feel so…dread-filled. Then it hits me: the slam of one domino into the next until I remember.
“Oh my God...”
The hand around my back comes to my other shoulder. His fingers stroke my shoulders as his eyes bore into mine. “You’re safe, Gwen. We’re upstairs at my house. Do you remember coming over here?”
Tears fill my eyes. I shake my head. One falls.
“That’s all right.” He scoots closer and tucks me up against him. “The police came, and a paramedic came inside and checked you over. You didn’t want to go to the hospital, so I told them ‘no.’”
I nod slowly. I do have this hazy memory of a woman in a light blue shirt, saying something about the ER.
“I don’t like the hospital.” My voice sounds small.
Barrett’s body tenses, even as his hand rubs my back. “I know, babe. We don’t have to go.”
I take a deep breath as a feeling— this black feeling rolls through me. It’s like a dark cloud. Tears stream down my cheeks. I start to cry. I can’t help it.
I feel Barrett shift until I’m in his lap, lying between his legs and on his chest. He pulls the covers over us and gently cups my head with his big hand.
“It’s what was in the dart. Those sedatives will throw you off the next day.”
I hold my breath, then sniff softly. “They will?” I look into his gorgeous eyes; hard eyes.
“They will.”
He looks so…mad.
“Barrett—are you mad at me?” I whimper.
“Of course not.” I feel his cool palm on my forehead. “Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Never mad at you, Piglet. You’re my heart,” I think I hear him say. It has an echo, though.
I don’t remember falling asleep. I wake up to dark windows and an eerie sense of stillness in the little attic room.
When I get down off the bed, my knees feel wobbly. A quick look at myself reveals I’m wearing a huge flannel shirt. It’s rolled up nearly to my elbows—neat, square rolls by Barrett’s deft hands. It’s got navy blue, light blue, red, and white in the plaid pattern.
I stand there with one hand on the mattress, listening to the silence. It feels big and heavy. I can feel it in my chest, my hair. I look at my hand on the bed. Over the knuckles, there are red scrapes.
