Page 16 of Grotesque Love

He brings his hand up near his mouth, the white strands of my hair stark against his tanned skin, almost appearing as if they’re woven into his flesh before he inhales with a gentle sigh.

This isn’t real.

Isn’t real.

Isn’t…

It feels like it’s been days since I’ve moved from this bed or even put my feet on the floor. When I curl and flex my toes, my soles no longer hurt, which means enough time has passed for my feet to have healed. So why am I still lying here?

Pushing myself into a sitting position makes my head spin, but I steady myself on shaky hands. Baby steps. Small movements. Something catches my eye, and I find my paddle hairbrush on top of the dressing table, the silver handle beginning to tarnish after years of use. When I was a child, my mother used to brush my hair every morning and each night just before bed. She would carefully divide it into sections, and gently comb through the tangles, humming a soft lullaby as she worked. I would close my eyes and relax, enveloped by the scent of the rose oil we both used. It was like her soothingtouch washed away all the worries of the day as I sat at her feet.

I need to brush my hair. Need to stand and shuffle towards the dressing table. My body protests, not used to the movement, but I manage it.

Undoing my braid, I sit in front of the mirror, out of breath and tired again but I start brushing, clinging to the memories of her.

I should get it cut. But I can’t bear to.

It’s the only thing that makes me feel close to her. The only thing keeping us bound together, without my hair…then she’ll really be gone. I’m not ready to say goodbye, to sever the last tie to her I have.

Closing my eyes, I pretend it’s her brushing. I can almost feel her hands ghosting over my head, but the memory of her touch feels distant, dream-like.

I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror and frown. The face staring back at me looks haunted. Pale blue eyes barely blink, looking empty and glazed over like they belong on a china doll. Pink lips are flat, pulled into a tight line, as if they’ve forgotten how to smile. Is this really me? I’ve lost weight, my cheekbones are more prominent now making me seem older – I look like her more than ever.

I plait my hair again, the end of the braid brushing against the top of my thigh as I pull it over my shoulder. Seeing it tamed into something sleek and beautiful fills me with sadness. If she were here, it wouldn’t be like this. It was all my fault, but still, how could she leave me behind?

As I sit there, lost in my memories, regret taking root, a soft knock on the door startles me from my reverie.

It creaks open, and a figure steps into the room – Carver. It’s always Carver.

“Good morning, Ari,” he says in a voice so gentle it startles me. “How are you feeling today?”

“I think I want to get up today,” I say, catching his gaze in themirror, my voice hoarse and barely audible. When did I last use it? My memory is so hazy.

Carver approaches with cautious steps, his face lined with concern, but it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes. Those look angry. Dark.

But why? I try to think, searching for a reason why he would be angry with me, but I find none. My memory isn’t…reliable these days.

Carver reaches my side, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for something. His hands tremble as he places them on my shoulders, the warmth sinking into my skin like ink bleeding into paper. There’s a faint smell of antiseptic in the air, mingled with a hint of another scent; something metallic.

“Carver,” I say, my voice barely a whisper as I speak more words than I have for…days? Weeks? “Why do you seem so...on edge?”

His nostrils flare, the muscle in his jaw twitching, but his voice is level and calm when he speaks. “I do wish you’d call me Father. After all we’ve been through together…”

He hesitates for a moment, his gaze fixed on a spot on the wall above my head before he finally meets my eyes, his expression pained.

“Ari, there’s something you need to know,” he begins slowly. “You’ve been sick for a long time.”

I swallow down the panic surging through me, rising like the tide.

“This is the first time you’ve been capable of a proper conversation in a while,” Carver continues as he tightens his grip, fingers starting to bite into my skin. “Which is…surprising.”

How is that possible? I’ve been losing track of time, days blending into one another, but it couldn’t have been that long, could it? I don’t evenfeelsick. Just tired, the kind of tired that settles deep into your bones making everything feel like you’re swimming in tar.

Carver’s eyebrow twitches as he says softly, “I’ve been doing everything I can to help you get better.”

His hands slide off my shoulders and down my arms, the rubbing an attempt to reassure me. Something in his tone sends shivers down my spine. There are unspoken truths hanging heavy in the air. Things I should know, but it’s like my mind is throwing up barriers as I try to process his words.

“I feel much better today,” I say quietly, avoiding his gaze, not wanting to anger him. “I’d like to leave this room.”

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