Twenty-three
He opened his eyes to sunlight. A beam had escaped the drawn curtain, and aimed its bright ray directly at his face. He blinked, and then allowed his gaze to scan the room. She wasn't there. She had been earlier. In fact he had sensed her presence most of the night. She had drugged him, and he was aware of that fact as well. He understood the reason. She had released him from the pain he'd been suffering. The pain was a real memory. It had hit him suddenly, with the only warning, an aura of pulsating lights that had danced in front of his eyes, before the pain took hold, banging, banging at his skull like a sledgehammer. A twinge returned and he pushed the memory from his mind.
Kitty. He smiled at the thought of her. Everything about her made him smile. Her gentle touch, her kind voice, her laugh that seemed to melt the very of heart of him. Kitty. He sat up in bed, and his head felt heavy, he knew the feeling. It would take conscious effort on his part to fight the effects of the pill. In the past, he hadn't fought the drugged state, finding the security of oblivion a kinder alternative to reality. Not today, no today, he wanted to spend every waking minute in her company. Still, his head was heavy. With elbows on knees, he rested his head in his hands and fought a wave of dizziness. It took a moment for the feeling to pass. When it had, he rose to his feet. He was still dressed in yesterday's clothes. He figured the pants would be fine, but he should put on a clean shirt. She'd like that. He found one hanging on a hook, and with his long lean fingers he manipulated the buttons of the shirt he took off, and the one he put on, with the nimbleness of a six year old. It was an improvement, for once finished, every button and button hole was perfectly aligned.
There was a small washstand and mirror in the corner of his room. He had to bend his knees in order to peer into the looking glass. A towel rested on one side of the basin and a comb on the other. He took the comb and ran it through his unruly, dark wavy hair; the comb did little to tame his cowlick. With both hands he splashed water on his head and tried the comb again. He looked in the mirror and considered his face, staring deep into the blue eyes of the image reflected there. He studied his thick eyebrows, his substantial nose and his hairy cheeks. His coarse whiskers had grown to a heavy beard. He ran the fingers of his hand over the whiskers several times. For the first time in his memory, the facial hair seemed unnatural to him. With the fingers of both hands, he pulled the hair on his cheeks until it stood an inch away from his skin. "No like." He said in a low voice and then with a frown and a conscious effort to improve his grammar, he rephrased his statement. "I not like hair on face." He thought of Kitty, and he wondered how she felt about his beard. He would find out, he decided. Leaning his head over the wash basin, he splashed more water, this time on his face. Picking up the towel, he vigorously dried himself off, causing eyebrows and beard to stand on end. Thus, he left his room, hair slicked but beard and eyebrows in disarray. His feet were bare and he was happy.
He went to the kitchen ready to greet her. "G'monring." But, she wasn't there, nor was Lilly. He looked through the dining room, to the parlor where Lilly slept, and saw her bed had already been put away. A poke of panic gave spasm to his heart. He returned to kitchen, and then to the sun porch. he looked from the windows, before stepping out the back door, visually searching up and down the banks of the river. "Kitty, Kitty." He called. He listened, but there was no answer. He was not used to being alone. He was worried now, frightened for himself and for her. "Kitty …" He called again. Then the thought came to him; maybe she was still asleep. She was still in her room in bed. He relaxed. He smiled. He would wake her up. Inspiration hit, he would kiss her awake like the prince in a fairy tale she'd read to him. Yes, that seemed his best idea yet. On stealthy feet, he approached, and opened the door to her room. The curtains were open and sunlight flooded the empty room. Her bed was not made, the covers lay in a rumple and her pillow at an odd angle. Yesterday's clothes were still in a heap on the floor.
He walked across the room to pick her skirt up from the floor, as he did, something dropped out of the pocket. He turned his head to see what had fallen. Sunlight reflected against a shinny tin object laying in repose against her delicate lacy camisole. He bent, his arm stretched, his fingers reached forward, and he touched the badge, his badge. Time stopped. Time reversed, and like the opening of Pandora's box, he was suddenly and brutally aware of all.