Page 61 of Lost Petal

Chapter 34

Petal

I know right away that something is different this time when she enters my room.

She looks different. She’s still wearing that same black dress and the same black shoes, but her black locks frame her hair in a wild manner that I haven’t seen on her before. She looks exhausted, her eyes red and her face puffy.

She must have been crying.

A day has passed. I can tell by the disappearance of the ray of light. Right after she brought my food and listened to my pathetic ramblings, I went back up on the bench, stretching, breathing, holding my hand up to the light to slowly watch it changing colors. It turned warmer and softer after a while, barely visible on the palm of my hand, until it disappeared completely.

The sun had set—and I felt tired, astonished at the fact that my body still knew how to tell when it was time to rest. I curled up under the covers, drifting off to sleep long enough to find a new ray of light when I climbed up the bench again after waking up.

The light in my room hasn’t changed much, as it is not affected by the little eyeblink of light that sneaks through the crack in the boards during daytime. My room is always dark, only illuminated by a dim light up above. A light to which I have yet to find a switch. It appears it can only be controlled from outside this room, just like the one down in the basement.

I didn’t know what else to do, so I went back to bed, hugging myself in the soft sheets that still smell of him. He spent hours with me, possibly. He lay next to me, holding me as I slowly drifted off to sleep, and he stayed for God knows how long after that. He gave me comfort and solace, and I welcomed it.

It sickens me to say it, but I miss him. I really do.

I don’t know if he has some kind of routine, but I feel that it has been long, too long since he last visited me. Since I fell asleep in his arms. Was it day or night when all of that happened? Or early morning? Did he make me come as the sun was about to rise, causing me to sleep through half the day?

Does it matter?

Now the black haired girl is standing inside my room, her dark eyes locked on me, not carrying a tray with her, but something else. I sit up, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders like a protective cape while my eyes wander down to her right hand, where her fingers are closed around a black object.

A phone.

Oh my God. Did she bring me a phone so I could call for help?

But who would I call? What would I even do with it?

Did she dial the number for me? Is there someone at the other end waiting to speak to me?

Someone on the outside?

My eyes go back and forth between hers and the phone in her hand, trying to make sense of a situation that has no predecessor. I don’t dare speak or move, because that has never led me anywhere when it comes to this mysterious girl. She froze, she listened, once she gave a cryptic reply, once she started crying.

She always ran. She always took flight away from me.

Whatever this is about, she’ll have to be the one to get the ball rolling.

Her fingers tighten around the phone in her hand when she steps forward, slowly approaching the bed in deliberate and small steps, careful, as if she was approaching an untamed animal. The look on her face hardens, and I twitch in surprise when she raises her left hand, holding her index finger up in a warning.

“You have to promise,” she whispers, and my heart skips a beat at the sound of her voice. It’s been so long since I’ve heard it, so long since she ever gave me the gift of hope, as short-lived as it may have been.

“You have to promise you won’t tell.”

She comes to a halt right next to the bed, within arm’s reach. We’ve never been this close to each other. It’s the first time I see her face up close, the first time I’m allowed to look directly at her for long enough to see the details adorning her young face. She has a little scar right above her left eye, and her nose is slightly crooked, but it doesn’t hurt her beauty at all. She’s a pretty girl, looking so different to me with her healthy olive skin and those deep black eyes, locking me in place just as much as his gaze does.

“Promise,” she hisses, now pointing at me. “Promise me you won’t tell him.”

“Tell him what?” I utter helplessly.

“What I’m about to show you.”

She holds up the phone, angling it from side to side as if that would tell me anything.

Show me? She wants to show me something? So she didn’t bring me help, but... what?

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