“Okay,” I rise, grabbing his hands. I run my thumbs over his shaking fingers, trying to calm him. I gaze up into his desperate, wide eyes. I need to do something. Think! “Okay,” I say again, “how about we wash it?” I know that if I try to bring him back to reality, it could cause more damage than going along with the hallucination. And, really, I don’t want to explain his scars to him. I wouldn’t know how.
“Yeah, yeah.” He nods. “That’s good. We’ll wash it off.”
I take his scarred and callous hand into mine and I know he’s out of it because he doesn’t pull away as I guide him to the bathroom. I lean over and turn on the shower. God, I hope this works. I hope he calms down enough to snap him back to reality. I come around, and he’s in front of the mirror digging his fingertips into the mangled flesh on his neck.
“Stop!” I grab his hand.
“It won’t come off,” he says, confusion etched into every beautiful line of his strong face.
“I know, baby.” I choke back a tear, drawing a hand along his chin and neck. “Come on.” I pull him toward the shower, and he doesn’t fight me. Still clothed, we both get in, the warm water cascading over us.
“That feels good,” he says, dropping his head back with a long sigh. I sway to the side and grab a washcloth that’s hanging on the shower rail. I lather it up with some soap, take his hand, and begin to wash his arm. I check on him. His eyes are closed. The water runs down his muscular shoulders and chest. I stop, captured by his primal beauty. He might be fucked-up on the inside but, scars and all, my eyes have never seen a more perfect man. I reach up and gently place my palm against his naked chest. Beneath his wet and warm skin, I feel his strong heartbeat.
What happened to him? How did he get so lost to the drugs? With everything that he’s been through—his parents’ death, Grams’ death, the fire, the burns—he deserves better than this. It’s as though he’s struggling just to keep his head above water. If he doesn’t stop, I fear that he’s going to sink so far down that he won’t be able to pull himself back up for air. And this body, this beautiful heart beating beneath my palm—it needs air to survive.
His head lowers. He looks down at my hand and then grabs my wrist. Holding my arm away from his body, he stares at me for a few seconds. The steam rises between us. He turns to the left, then the right, and comes back to me. And when his eyes darken, his lip curls. “Why are you here?”
“Because you needed me,” I say.
“You gotta stop doing this! You gotta stop popping in my fucking head all the time.” He places his warm palm against my cheek and feathers his thumb gently along my cheek as his glossy eyes move all over my face.
“Slate, I’m not in your head. I’m right here with you, and I’m not leaving.”
“Fuck.” He lightly chuckles. “I wish that you were here, monkey. I wish you were real. ‘Cause right about now, I really do think that I need you.” He shakes his head, dropping his hand from me and moving away as if I’m no longer here. He turns to shut the water off and then goes to step out of the shower, stopping to place his hand against the wall. He clutches his stomach. He stands there in nothing but soaked jeans, slightly bent over, breathing heavy. “Fuck!” On unsteady feet, he makes it to the toilet and throws up.
I rush over and start to rub his back. Between each heave, he pounds his fist on the top of the toilet bowl. Standing up, he swipes the back of his hand over his mouth. His eyes flash to mine. “What the fuck! Would you just get out of my fucking head,” he says in a loud, harsh tone. I grab a towel and hand it to him. He grabs it, looks at it for a second as if he imagined taking it from me. He wipes his face and chest off. Still scowling at me, he tosses the towel to the floor. “Leave! Get the fuck out of here.”
“I packed you some clothes.” I ignore his sneer and the fact that he believes that I’m a figment of his imagination. Shit. What did he take? It wasn’t an opiate. They normally constrict the pupil, not dilate it. Whatever it was, it must’ve been something bad to cause these kind of hallucinations. “I’ll get you something to change into.”
He’s gone from the bathroom when I come back. I look in the bedroom, and he’s standing in the middle of the room, dripping water all over the rug. I walk over, but he doesn’t say anything. He just glares at me from those dark hooded eyes. He’s still confused, not sure of what’s real and what’s not. “Here.” I thrust the clothes out to him, and he takes them. “I’ll go change in the bathroom. Sorry,” I lift a t-shirt, “but I’m going to have to borrow some of your clothes while we’re down here. It was kind of last-minute.” Before he can respond, I turn around and flee the room.