Wishing Well(71)
While Maurice was lying on the couch, not quite sleeping and not quite awake, I spent the next few hours doing my best to clean up the mess he’d made of the room. After finding trash bags, a dustpan and broom in the small kitchen down the hall, I swept up the shattered glass, the blisters of wood and the plaster that had been pummeled into a fine dust over the carpet. Setting the bags near the entryway of the elevator, I returned to the yellow room that now resembled what was left of a hollowed out bomb shelter.
Maurice blinked his eyes every so often, his gaze tracking me in moments where he found some sense of lucidity, and while he continued to lay there from the effects of the drugs, I found a first aid kit in a bathroom and went to work disinfecting and bandaging the cuts and scrapes on his hands.
After finishing, I set the first aid kit aside, sat on the floor next the couch and lay my head on his chest, the motion from his deep, rhythmic breathing reminding me that, even as the world felt like it was closing in, his quiet strength was there.
The silence was too much after a while, so I got up to retrieve a book from his shelf. Not recognizing the title, I sat back down and started reading to him, intentionally keeping my voice soft. The story wasn’t all that great, a tragedy I assumed by the somber tone, but I kept reading regardless, not stopping until I felt his arm move and his hand cup the back of my head. Closing the book, I glanced up to see him looking at me, a sleepy haze over his green eyes, surprise written into the line of his brow.
“Hi,” I whispered, forcing a smile on my face even when I felt like crying.
“Hello,” he answered, his voice gritty and slow.
Not knowing what to say, and not wanting to bring up what he’d done before Vincent knocked him out, I simply stared at him, waiting to see how he would react to my presence. Weaving his fingers through my hair, he watched my face for a while.
“Why are you here?” he asked, confusion mixing with shame.
“I thought I’d help you get to bed when you’re finally strong enough to walk to your room.”
I don’t want you to be alone , I didn’t say. I don’t want you to be sad, or angry, or afraid.
Brows pulling together, he asked again, “Why?”
Shrugging a shoulder, I answered, “That’s what friends do.”
Nodding his head, he pulled his hand from my hair and struggling to push himself up. There wasn’t much I could do to help, Maurice must have been two hundred pounds of pure muscle. But eventually he’d righted himself into a seated position, his wild, dark hair falling down over his face giving him a boyish charm I’d never seen before.
I thought he’d ask me to leave again before heading to bed, but instead he took my hand, his fingers exploring mine. “Will you stay with me?”
“Is it safe?”
His eyes met mine. “I won’t hurt you...and I’d like to know if you can chase away the nightmares.”
Nodding my head, fighting not to let more tears fall, I accepted his offer. “Okay, Maurice, lead the way.”
His fingers squeezed mine, his body unbalanced as he pushed to his feet. For a moment, I worried he’d fall over and take me with him. But somehow we managed to make it out into the hall, and although his shoulder dragged the wall to keep him upright, we made it to his room.
The bed creaked when he crashed down on it. I thought he’d fall asleep with his clothes and shoes on, but he righted himself, pushing up to sit on the edge of the bed, his movements clumsy as he attempted to untie his boots. Moving out from the shadows, I lowered myself to my knees in front of him to untie the laces when he couldn’t. Above me, Maurice silently watched, his fingers running through my hair.
After tugging the boots off - and almost toppling over from the effort - I pushed to my feet and said, now the pants and the shirt. He lifted his arms just barely, the bulge of his biceps defined beneath the short sleeves of his black shirt.
Stripping the shirt off him, I reached for the button of the pants. His hand grabbed mine, drawing my eyes to his in question.
“Please don’t tell me you’re suddenly feeling shy.”
Shaking his head, the motion more uncoordinated than fluid, he attempted to smile suggestively. I rolled my eyes. “You can’t possibly think you have the strength for sex. Let’s sleep tonight, Maurice. Together.”
Uncertainty filtered through his gaze, but he relented, allowing me to strip off his pants and toss them aside. They hadn’t fully hit the floor by the time he was tugging at my clothes. Raising my arms, I let him strip the shirt from my body, and I balanced myself with my hands on his shoulders as he tugged my pants down my legs.
By the time we were cuddled up next to each other, our bodies tucked beneath blankets and our heads resting on pillows, he’d closed his eyes and fallen asleep.
Brushing the hair from his face, I stared at him for a while, finally doing what he wouldn’t allow me to do when he was awake. Pressing my lips to his, I lingered there for a moment, wishing he knew how I cared about him.
Someone had to love this gentle beast of a man. Someone had to see the light that could exist at the end of his dark tunnel and then take him by the hand to show him.
. . .
Weeks passed, each day bringing more of Maurice’s playful side out for me to see. Sure, there were still the fits of anger, the days when he worried I’d reject him and run away. There were days that lifted my spirits high just so they could shatter. But there were other days that started out in Maurice’s arms and built into the most amazing of crescendos.