Page 11 of Creature
He closed the suitcase and set it aside.“You can put these on,” he said, nudging the clothing towardJohn.
John’s eyes widened, but he didn’t budge.“I… put them on?”
“Yeah. We’re going to needto jury-rig a belt somehow, but they’re better thannothing.”
Moving slowly, John reached over to strokethe undershirt. “It’s soft,” he said, voice filled with wonder.
“I guess.”
Harry watched him for a few moments, but itsoon became clear that John lacked the strength to pull himselfupright. He also didn’t seem to have any notion of how to getdressed. After he fumbled the shirt onto the floor, Harry sighedand stepped around to help.
John cowered when Harry neared him. “I’msorry, master.”
Shit. “Master?” That came out more harshlythan Harry intended, so he forced himself to soften his tone. “I’mnot your master. I’m Harry, okay?” He sighed. “Let’s get theseclothes on you.”
Although the outfit was many sizes toolarge, John looked even more human when dressed. How old had hebeen when he died? Harry couldn’t tell. After Harry helped him liedown again, John kept running his fingers reverently over thefabric of his shirt and pants. Something about those smallmovements twisted Harry’s heart.
“Gonna turn in,” heannounced, more loudly than necessary. “Long drive tomorrow.” Hegot ready quickly, then turned out the light in hopes it would makeclimbing in beside John less awkward. It didn’t—although at leasthe didn’t have to face John’s startled gaze.
“You do, uh, sleep,right?” Facing away from John, Harry rearranged the thin pillowinto a more comfortable position.
“Yes.”
Morbid curiosity brought the next question.“Do you dream?”
“No,” John replied after along pause. “I don’t think so.”
Would that be a good thing or bad? Harry hadbeen plagued with nightmares since he was young; sometimes he’dcried out, loud enough to wake his family and cause his father tostomp into the bedroom and yell at him. The man who rented the roomnext to his at the March once complained too. But now and thenHarry dreamed wonderful things—of flying like a bird ortriumphantly slaying dragons. Of dancing in the arms of a man wholoved him.
“Harry?” The whisper camewhen he was almost asleep.
“Yeah?”
“Did I…. Am Ibad?”
At first Harry thought he’d just ignore thequestion. But he could feel John’s presence just inches away, andhe imagined the disquiet on that ruined narrow face. Not to mentionthe shadows in John’s bright blue eyes.
“What do you mean? You didwhat I told you today.”
“Yes. I tried to be good.I won’t…. You don’t have to silence me.”
Shit. “Okay.”
“B-but did I do somethingbad? Before?”
“Before what?”
“Before I was… likethis?”
Harry hadn’t given any thought to John’smemories or sense of self, and it hadn’t occurred to him that Johnmight not know who he’d been before he died. Harry certainly didn’tknow the answer. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask Townsend, who inany case might not have known either. But this wasn’t a line ofexamination that Harry wanted to explore right now. Or possiblyever.
“You weren’t bad,” hesaid, although that might have been a complete lie.
John sighed into the darkness. “Thankyou.”
Chapter Six
John wasn’t certain he was sane. After all,his memories began with a black abyss, and his life had beensteeped in misery. Sometimes in the cell, especially at night, hedoubted his own existence. But he’d been suddenly whisked away andnow faced so many things he’d previously only imagined: The sky andthe stars. A clean body covered in soft clothing. A bed. And a manwho spoke with him—called him by name!—and whose touches neverhurt. Maybe these were the desperate fictions of a tatteredmind.
