Page 66 of Heart Sick

I quickly race into the bathroom and fill a paper cup with water. My hands are still smeared with blood and flesh, so I scrub them clean. When I re-enter the bedroom, I see Luna resting against the headboard.

I offer her the cup, and when our fingers overlap, a small whimper escapes her.

I wonder how far those motherfuckers went with her. Her bra was exposed, her dress ripped, which is why I undressed her as modestly as I could before putting her to bed.

I hate to think what she suffered under the hands of those vile fuckers.

I don’t know what to do. I want to be near her, to comfort her, but I don’t want to smother her either. So I sit on the edge of the bed.

“Luna,” she says after a long moment of silence. “That’s my name?”

I nod.

“It doesn’t sound familiar,” she confesses. “Were we friends?”

“Yes,” I reply, keeping the sadness at bay. “You don’t remember anything?”

She shakes her head slowly. “Nothing. I get glimmers, but none of it makes sense. Do you know why I was in Parkfields?”

I don’t know how much I should tell her. In a sense, her forgetting the past, the pain, isn’t such a bad thing. So I decide to leave out the details. Her mind and body are fragile. I want to protect her any way I can.

“You told me you lost someone very close to you. To be committed, you would have attempted to take your own life.”

A pained sigh escapes her. “I don’t remember that person. Maybe it’s better that I don’t. What sort of person was I?” she asks, clutching her side as she attempts to sit taller.

“You are brave, strong. You aren’t afraid to take risks. You had an opportunity to leave, but you didn’t.”

“Why didn’t I?”

I measure my breaths as his heart begins to beat faster. “You stayed because of me.”

“Oh,” she finally says, and I’m unable to read her. “Why did you want to stay?”

And that’s the question I ask myself every single day.

“I thought I would discover the answers I needed to figure out what’s wrong with me.”

“And what’s wrong with you?”

“Show her.”

I don’t fail to notice the voice inside me always gets louder and more talkative whenever Luna is around which is why I’m certain she triggers it in some way. I just don’t know why.

So, I do as he says.

Coming to stand in front of her, I reach behind my head and slowly remove my T-shirt by the back of my collar. I drop it to the floor, allowing Luna to see the scar down my chest.

The small lamp provides enough light for her to see it and I expect for her to show horror or disgust. But I don’t see either of those things. Instead, she pushes back the blankets and crawls on hands and knees toward me.

I don’t move a muscle and watch as she comes to rest on her knees on the edge of the bed and gently extends out her hand. The moment her fingers touch over my scar, my skin breaks out into goose bumps.

She seems to be in a trance as her fingers brush over the scar—up and down. Up and down.

I wonder what she sees because it appears like she is looking through me, through to his heart.

“I can hear it,” she whispers, her eyes slipping shut. “Why is it singing to me?”

“I don’t know.” But I understand what she means because I can hear it too.

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