Ch 3 More of Me
A/N: Seriously? Thank you guys for adding me to your author alert list. It warms my heart and makes me feel like a terrible writer when I don't update. So thank you. D I hope this isn't filler chapter, but it's getting to the good stuff. Enjoy.
I truly wanted to apologize, but as I reached out for his retreating form, I realized that I was trapped in a wheelchair. His name died before it even left my throat. I gripped the railing and attempted to rise, but my arms and legs refused to support my weight. I lowered myself, defeated. My arms were taut from the strain and I cursed in my head. "Parental Advisory: Explicit (Brain) Content." I needed a sticker of sorts branded to my forehead.
If I said that there was an "awkward pause" after David left, it would be the understatement of the century. There's no word in the English language that could properly label that palpable moment. Once David slammed his door, or what I assumed was his bedroom door, I remained in my wheelchair at the foot of the stairs. The silence was so audible; it was a paradox in itself. I wished the wheelchair were an elevator into the vestibule of Hell…or perhaps limbo, among the poets. Sans the wasps; I didn't think the wasps would be bearable. But I couldn't stand this. I purposely evaded my mother's apologetic and sympathizing gaze, because really? Enough was enough. I was sick of feeling so hollow. What is a person without a memory? A shell? A vessel? I had to regain my memory back.
Since the accident, all my senses seemed muted. Time seemed mockingly slow as David fled. I lost all sensations in my body. I was numb. Even the door sounded muffled. Food has been bland since I woke up and any scent left me gagging. I needed to live again. I needed to know. I needed someone who would remind me of everything I was. I needed now.
"Hand me the mirror, please."
I turned towards my mother and saw her eyes widened with utmost horror. "Um, Suzie? Are you sure? Don't you want me to put makeup on you so-"
I interrupted her. My patience had reached its limit. I didn't need a gilded façade. I needed to see what I looked like. "Just give me the mirror, Mom." I extended my hand toward her, waiting. I felt my fingers twitch in anticipation. Hah. I could raise my arm for a mirror but not raise my body. I wasn't a vain person.
My mom probably regretted asking David to bring down a mirror. I was surprised that David, amidst all that emotional turmoil, left the mirror on the table. She slowly reached for the mirror, but before she handed it to me, she asked, "Susannah, are you sure you want to see yourself? You've been indoors for a while now, and you've been through so much…that California tan you worked on is gone, and you don't have any makeup on, and…sweetie, I think it's for the best if you wait a little."
I shook my head. "No, Mom. Now. I need to see for myself who I am."
All I seemed to do was make her cry, I mused for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. "You're still the same bullheaded, stubborn girl I raised." The tears, the trembling voice! That was all I ever heard.
I tried to ignore this statement, but it comforted me; I was glad I wasn't a completely different person. Maybe there was hope. I grabbed the ornate handheld mirror and anxiously awaited my reflection.
I was emaciated, like those Holocaust victims I saw on the History Channel. Positively gaunt, yet the notion of sustenance made me sick. There was no way in Hell I was once a vivacious soul. It seemed like a gentle breath from Heathcliff on a wintry moor could blow me over.
The girl in the mirror reached up to touch her face. Hopefully she wasn't a vain person in her past life, because she was long past her glory days. In her sunken face were too-bright emerald eyes, etched in purple, that seemed so fatigued, it was amazing they were even open. Her complexion beneath a garish scar was a sickly jaundice-like hue. Prominent cheekbones, which once may have been the envy of many, protruded out in a garish, Jolly Roger effect. Her lanky hair was in desperate need of attention. There was something familiar about her, but the change was so drastic…there was no recognition on my part. What had happened?
"That photo you were looking at - the one with the girl in white? - is you."
I turned my eyes away from the mirror and stared up at my mother. Eyebrows upturned, she nodded emphatically. "You're so beautiful. Just give it some time and you'll be back to the way before the accident."
Again with that damn accident. Fuck-I mean, damn it all. "I need some time. By myself."
She nodded in understanding. "Of course. You need rest. I-" She opened her mouth but decided against it. Resignedly, she said, "They're giving you time to recuperate, but I hate how Father Dom wants you back in school by next week. They don't want you to remain at home for so long…supposedly you'll go stir crazy. What with me not being home and all…"
I nodded.
"Just give it some time, Suzie. You'll be fine."
Time? I needed more than time. I needed a lifetime, or however long it took for things to return to normal.
My mom made a special place in the family room for me to sleep that night. Or afternoon. But saying 'night' made me sound less like a senile, old decrepit person. The doctors wanted me to stay in the wheelchair another few days, just to keep the strain off my spine and legs. Apparently, my legs were pretty bashed up. From whatever the accident was. I had to go to physical therapy tomorrow.
I tried to kick off my socks when immense pain shot up my legs. It was so painful that I needed Mom to help peel them off.
I thanked my mother for helping me with my socks and positioning me on the sofa and I turned my face towards the cushions. My mother pulled a light blanket over me and she fluffed my pillows until they were giant marshmallows. I tried to remember if I liked my pillows like marshmallows, or if I even liked marshmallows. Did I like the chewy consistency? Their stickiness?
My mom shut the blinds, blocking out the bright daylight. It made me feel less vampiric.
"'Night, Suzie. Sweet dreams."
Though I wanted to pout, I whispered, "Tell David I'm sorry."
"Yes, darling, he knows you are."
"I'm sorry for everything else as well."
Mom was probably looking at me. "It's not your fault for the accident, honey. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
I inwardly smiled. That was the most information I got since I awoke.
He was in my dreams. Only, I didn't know if it was a dream or a memory. We were sitting on the carpeted floor, playing a simple game of cards. I didn't recognize the game; only that it allowed time for questions. I was the last one to put down a grouped pair. "Go fish." He looked up at me with his mesmerizing eyes and I was enthralled. I crossed my legs at the ankles uneasily. It was unnerving how my resolve evaporated every time he turned those eyes on me. I was so plain next to him.
In a husky voice, he asked, "If you were forced to sacrifice a sense, which one would you forgo?"
I put down my cards, face down, and deliberated for a moment. It was his turn. Why wasn't he asking me for a jack or something?
I was so preoccupied with my thoughts that I didn't notice how close he had gotten to me. Before I knew it, he was right in front of my face, on his hands and knees, stroking me from my chin to my ear. I noticed how his legs and hands were trapping my legs.
"I…" his eyes bore into my own. "I know this may be…selfish…but…" my felt my breathing hitch when his large hand moved to the sensitive part of my neck and began twirling minute circles. "I don't want to lose any."
He raised a scarred eyebrow at me ever so slowly. I felt chills climb up my back as he inquired, "Indeed?" his breath hot against my skin. He continued with his slow torture, eventually moving his hand to my lower lip. I felt my lip tremble in anticipation.
Cards abandoned, he inched forward until his body hovered over mine. Heat emanated off his skin. My pulse raced. If he listened closely, I was sure he could hear my heart.
"Why wouldn't you forfeit your sight?" he murmured.
I swallowed. "If I lost my sight, I would never be able to see you again."
His fingers, like teasing butterflies, trailed down from my face…slowly…taunting me…daring me to grab his hand and move it where I wanted it. I inhaled, biting my lip when his hand rested on my heart. His lips upturned into a slow, sensual smile; he must have felt my pounding heart do cartwheels.
"What about your sense of smell?" he asked.
I leisurely pushed off the ground with my arms. "I have so many things in life yet to smell; it would be a shame."
"Quite true, querida, but I must ask; what about your sense of taste?"
I smiled. I've never seen him in this mood before. He had always been the perfect gentleman. I lifted my body. I supposed two could play this game, I thought and I simply replied, "A life without chocolate is no life at all."
A chortle erupted from his throat. "Just swell; remind me to purchase some more Cadbury. I suppose you need to endorphins… and natural aphrodisiac qualities of chocolate. But what about hearing?"
I leaned in and whispered seductively, "What would I be without the sounds of violins and Jesse de Silva?"
His hands moved to the small of my back. He started to massage me. I heard a soft plea escape my lips.
"What about your sense of touch?"
Suddenly, I felt.
I gasped, my eyes shooting open. It was the dead of night, and my alarm glared daggers at me. "One in the morning, you foolish invalid!" I rolled my eyes, then realized that I was, indeed, rolling my eyes at my alarm clock.
Memories of the dream flooded me with embarrassment. I covered my face with a pillow, trying to avoid the stares of all the family portraits. It was only flirty badinage. I had no reason to feel humiliation. Perhaps it was the fact that I was dreaming of a complete chimerical Mr. Darcy―
Hand mid-way through my disarrayed hair, I stopped. Hold the thought…was he so fantastical?
I rummaged around in the dark until my hand collided with my wheelchair. I grimaced in pain. I was going to feel that in the morning. I tried to position myself properly into the chair and, twenty minutes later, I had the lamp turned on. I wheeled myself towards the photographs. Jesse de Silva…querida…a scar…
Liquid brown eyes halted my motion. He wasn't fake. He was real. And in the latest portrait, his arm was around my waist. Jesse? Who are you? Would he know of the accident? Would he tell me?
I slowly made my way back to the sofa. Utterly exhausted, I crawled out of the wheelchair and thumped into bed, fast asleep.
A/N: Again, please review!
