Cherry and Mia thinks its funny you guise have no idea what's going on. My evilness spreads! :D

Chapter Fourteen: Riddles & Reality

Rowdy's face is drawn tightly in pain, but my eyes narrow at his confession.

"Y-you hurt yourself?" I whisper. He starts to answer, but he runs his trembling fingers through the bronzed locks of his hair instead. I'm so astonished I can only concentrate on the bluish veins on his eyelids.

"Every day by breathing." Somehow, even though we're already touching, he leans closer to me and caresses my cheek.

He's not making any sense. Is he suicidal? Does he have depression like old man Willy who lost his wife Betty? Rowdy hadn't lost somebody from back home, did he?

Unless he's lost himself.

I have a million questions running through my mind, but Esme interrupts us by opening the door.

"Rowdy! Honey, I've been looking all over for you!" It's like I'm not even there as she touches his forehead and brushes back his hair. "Do you need to go home? We can leave. You're not looking too good, sweetie."

"I'm fine, Mama." He weakly pushes her away but the just the sight of her makes my blood boil.

"How could you?" I stand up, making sure not to jerk Rowdy as I point an accusing finger towards her. "Rowdy needs help and all you do is offer to take him home? Have you seen the bruises? Do you even care?"

Esme looks shocked by my anger, but she pushes down my finger. "Now you listen here, Cotton. I know you mean well, but we're doing the best we can!"

"The best you…" I can't even allow her lying words to leave my mouth. "Are you serious? He needs to be committed! He hurts himself with tools and yet you do nothing!"

"Cotton-" Esme tries to interrupt me, but I'm not finished.

"You're a horrible mother! I reckon he'll just keep beating himself until he's black and blue and kills himself. Is that what you want?"

"Cotton-" This time it's Rowdy who says my name, but I hush him with a sweep of my hand.

"It's okay, Rowdy. You're getting help today. I'll tell Papa and maybe he can call somebody. He knows everybody from here to Kentucky. He'll find you people that can make you better."

"COTTON!"

When both Esme and Rowdy shout my name, I quit spittin' out the words that roll off of my tongue.

"What?"

"Cottonseed…"

Rowdy reaches out for my hand and holds my gaze. I feel pity for him, the kind that bubbles up from the pit of my stomach. I feel remorse I couldn't have helped him sooner. I feel resentment towards everyone who tried to hide his secret.

"I didn't mean I hurt myself physically. You think I took a hammer to my own body?"

"I don't know what to think anymore. I saw you. You and Carlisle. At the barn. If Carlisle didn't beat you, and you're not doing it to yourself, then who is?"

Rowdy and Esme lock eyes. She looks like she wants to step forward and explain, but Rowdy barely shakes his head.

"Cotton, I didn't lie. I said these bruises were my fault 'cause it's the truth. I reckon God's making me pay for all the bad I've done in my life, but I didn't cause them. Pop and Mama didn't do it either." Rowdy is breathless as he leans forward in his chair. "Mama, help me stand."

I gawk at the two of them as Esme helps Rowdy rise unsteadily. Rowdy carefully rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. Even though it's hot as can be, the thick fabric seems like it's not enough for him. "What do you see Cotton?"

I assess the bruises going up and down each arm. They seem centered at the crease of his forearm and closest to his wrist, but they're there nonetheless.

"Bruises," I answer spitefully.

He nods and Esme helps him turn around. She raises his shirt until I can see the same faded marks are on the lower part of his back. "And here?"

"The same ones. Bruises again."

"You see any others on me?" he asks. I frown as I assess his sides, then his stomach, and even his legs.

"Well … no," I admit. It doesn't mean anything. I don't know why Rowdy would choose to harm himself in only those locations, but when you're suffering like he is, the places don't matter.

"Right." His legs start to shake and Esme helps him sit again. He seems breathless from only that one minute of exerting energy. "So look at my arms again, Cottonseed. Look again real closely. My back is the exact same, but pay attention to what you see."

I don't know why he's making me do this. I've already made up my mind. Still, my fingertips run up and down his arm. I squint my eyes, checking the formation and color of his skin. When I peer close enough I see the tiniest of red dots. In fact, they are so minuscule, they're barely even there.

I can't help myself as I lean him forward in his chair, looking at his back again. The same small red spots are there, just not as many as his arms.

"What are those?"

Rowdy swallows and I get the feeling his next words are going to tear my world apart.

"Needle marks."

"Needle marks?" I repeat. "Why?"

"Cottonseed, I'm sick."

.

.

.

Time has lost all meaning. I don't remember Esme excusing herself so we can talk, or how I became curled up in Rowdy's arms.

I don't know how many seconds or minutes have passed by before I finally speak.

"Is it cancer?"

That's the only illness I can think of that could make someone so weak.

Rowdy chokes on his own laughter. "I wish. I don't think cancer hurts this damn bad."

"So what is it?" I'm learning how to breathe again, how to not inhale air that burns through my lungs. I focus on that instead of his lips that press against my knuckles.

"An auto-immune condition. The docs said I've got Guillain-Barre syndrome."

He told me long ago when we sat underneath the sycamore tree that first night that he'd never been to a doctor.

I get the feeling all the days he went missing in June weren't because of Emmett or his grandma.

"My nervous system is shutting down," he explains before I ask. "Makes my muscles so weak I can barely walk. Sometimes I'm in pain. Other times I'm numb. So I get steroid shots and all this fancy medicine I don't even know the names of. They bruise me like a damn peach."

Something is still bothering me and I have to get to the bottom of it. I need to the hows and whys and the whats and wheres. I need to know everything.

"Carlisle stopped me earlier. Told me I'd get hurt if I didn't mind my business. What did he mean by that?"

Rowdy rolls his eyes at my question. "Pop is so damn dramatic. He probably didn't want you to get hurt by being with me. This sickness ain't easy. I think it takes a toll more on the people around me than my own self."

"Are you dying?" It sounds rude, the way I've said it, but I have to know.

"Shucks, Cottonseed, you trying to get rid of me already?" He laughs when it ain't a laughing matter. When I don't crack a smile, his hands squeeze mine. "I ain't dying. I'll be around as long as you want me."

"I want you," I answer firmly. There's no decisions to make, regardless of what he's got.

"Good." His nose skims the spot just below my ear and I'm trying to convince myself not to flinch at his cold touch.

"What was with the hammer at the barn? I saw you crying and Carlisle had it in his hand. I thought he was beating you."

Rowdy half-smiles at the conclusion I came to in my head. It seems so silly and trivial now. "He was building me something."

I don't like how he's being so vague, evading my question by not giving details. "Something like what?"

Rowdy sighs and glances away as if he's too ashamed to look in my eyes. "I'm getting weaker, Cotton. Every day that passes by I feel myself get sicker. I didn't want to admit it. Maybe that's why I'm so bitter at Pop. He's ready to face reality and I'm trying to hold on to what little hope I've got. He was building a wheelchair in the barn. He was putting one together for when I can't walk anymore. He made me sit in it so he could adjust the seat, but I got so damn frustrated and upset I stormed out."

"You won't be able to walk anymore?"

"Paralysis is common with a sickness like this. It's taking away at me, bit by bit."

I nod, but my mind lingers back to all of the footballs and soccer balls Rowdy had in his room, discarded and covered with dust. "Is that why you don't play sports anymore?"

Rowdy nods, his eyes cast downward. "It's why I can't do a lot anymore. But I'm trying, Cottonseed. I'm going to be strong. I can't lose you over this."

"You won't lose me," I murmur, stroking his arm. "I ain't going nowhere, Rowdy. What could possibly break us apart?"

He once told me that the answer to that question was nothing. But in a split second, we glance out of the window to see Papa and Jacob staring us through the elongated glass.

At the same time, Rowdy's leg jerks and he cries out in agonizing pain.

"Everything," he chokes out.

I never knew how right he was.