Page 43 of The Order of Disorder
I nod, but when I try I stumble into his arms.
He helps me undress, keeping his eyes on my shoulder. His hands are detached and clinical. He carries me into the shower, fully clothed himself, sleeves rolled up.
The water hits me like a punch. I gasp.
He holds me upright, one arm under mine, the other lathering soap through my hair with slow, steady circles. I sob once, sharp and sudden. He doesn’t say a word.
Later, I’m shaking again. Worse this time. My jaw locks, my muscles twitch. He sits on the floor beside me and takes my hand. His palm is warm. His thumb strokes slow lines against my skin.
I close my eyes, praying for escape, but my body won’t let me. My thoughts loop and get nowhere, like a buffering video. I’m not sure what I say out loud anymore, and what are just thoughts.
“Shh,” Wyatt murmurs, hand brushing down my arm. “Just rest.”
“I saw him,” I whisper. “He was bleeding.”
“It’s okay,” he says distantly. “It’s okay.”
The humming of the fan on the dresser is constant, day and night.
At some point, he stands and starts pushing the bed. I blink at him, confused.
“What are you doing?” My voice is hoarse.
“There’s a draft near the window,” he says. “This part of the room’s warmer.”
The bed blocks the closet door and a corner of the entrance. It doesn’t make any sense and it’s not any warmer.
I drift, but never into sleep, just darkness. Sometimes I hear someone coming. Boots. Breathing. The sound of Silas licking his teeth.
“He’s in the walls,” I breathe, terrified.
Wyatt adjusts the fan, turning the dial a little higher.
“You’re safe,” he says quietly.
I try to believe him.
I see him sitting up in the middle of the night, when he should be sleeping, long legs out, head leaned against the wall, eyes closed but awake. He looks like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. I’d do anything to comfort him but I’m paralyzed in bed, nausea rolling through me.
I close my eyes again and let myself drift, and for once, it’s quiet.
I can’t tell the difference between my dreams and hallucinations.
The air is heavy with golden light, and I see Ryder standing in the middle of a field, shirtless and barefoot, blood-soaked from the waist down. His eyes are dark and impassive.
I try to call his name but nothing comes out.
He lifts a hand like a wave stuck halfway.
I step forward and the field stretches. The space between us warps. No matter how far I walk, he doesn’t get closer.
His chest rises and falls, slow and steady.
He’s alive.
He’s dead.
He’s waiting.
