Disclaimer: The SVM/Sookie Stackhouse series belongs to Charlaine Harris.

*Heads up* This story will include portrayals of rape, other violence and sexual situations, medical trauma, and mental illness. Please note it's a tragedy.

Chapter 2

inhabit: 1. live in place 2. be found

My bed is parked by the window. I really do mean that it's parked. It's a substantial bed, with sturdy rails, electric controls, and an attached frame with a suspended handle for pulling myself up. I imagine Eric angled and maneuvered it just so while backing it here into place, with generous space for passage alongside the window. And though the bed has wheels, it isn't going anywhere anytime soon.

If I raise the bed and turn my head, I can see part of Bill's overgrown gardens. A cranky old rose bush, neglected but massive, is still begrudgingly producing a few scruffy, fuchsia-colored roses. A large swath of the rest of the garden, at least that I can see, has given itself over to nandinas.

Nandinas.

I laughed when I saw those nandinas, sprawled out and left unpruned, all straggly and leggy. You might think I hate them—and normally I do—but a lot of things change with a shift in perspective. From my vantage point here in bed, sheltered behind glass and wood and surrounded by hideous yellow wallpaper, those nandinas, with their deep green leaves and newly formed clusters of bright red berries, look like a garden treasure.

I wish I could lie on my side and face them from head to toe. In fact, I'd like to bare myself buck naked to the window, with slats of sun stamped on my body. I'd stretch and wriggle my limbs beneath the gentle, touchless warmth. Indoor tanning au naturel.

Anyway, I can't. Somehow it feels too strange here in The Room. I don't know why. Also, I can't twist and turn my body the way I'd like. Have you ever had to lie on your back for a long amount of time? Go ahead and try it if you'd like. Eventually, you'll feel the urge to shift. Maybe you'll stick it out for a little while longer, but soon enough, you'll flip for the relief.

I can't do that.

It's maddening. For variety, I shift the bed from one angle of incline to another, and then down again. Tara and J.B. came by yesterday afternoon. They helped me stand and move around a bit, which I'm supposed to do, so long as I don't put weight on my bad side.

J.B. thought some hand exercises might help too. He passed me a gripper. "Give it a squeeze."

I tried, but the hard plastic handle pinched into my palm, and a rough edge—the tiniest bit of plastic—chafed my skin. After only a few squeezes, I rested it beside me. "Thanks, J.B.."

"Aw, come on Sookie," J.B. coached. "That's not your best, is it?" He looked disappointed.

I blinked away tears. Near constant pain saps your strength, leaves you listless and ragged, vulnerable and intolerant.

"Next time." I forced a smile. J.B. had only wanted to help.

"Next time I'll bring one of those soft stress balls. Hey, that's some crazy-ass wallpaper you got in here."

"I see a cat," Tara said. "His tail is sticking straight up. And he's wearing a top hat."

J.B. looked quizzically where Tara was pointing. "Huh."

reconnaissance: 1. exploration to gather information 2. preliminary survey

I wish I could see my house. The frustrating thing about being at Bill's house is knowing that it's immediately through the trees, on the other side of the cemetery, but out of sight. So close, but not close enough.

"How's it look, Maxine?"

Maxine was the trusted one I asked to scout out the state of my home with the fire inspector and grab a few items I could use. She is now standing next to my bed, holding a red duffel bag with a cereal logo. It doesn't look very full.

"All right now, sugar," she answers, clearly preparing me for what's to come. "You already know the rear part of the house—the kitchen and porch—are pretty much all gone, right?"

"Yes."

"There's a lot of smoke and water damage down the hall. Some in the living room too. You'll need to repaint. And anything with cloth—curtains, furniture—will probably have to be tossed or reupholstered."

I nod and I think everything is okay until I feel my breath coming in short, ragged bursts, like my lungs can't figure out what to do with air anymore. My side aches from straining against the jarring movement. It's a matter of one part of my body not doing what the other part needs, not working in tandem.

Maxine has pulled a chair up to my bed, and for a moment I worry her big hulking body with all of its structured curves will tackle mine. "Now you listen! What can I do for you? You tell me what I can do!" Her voice is vehement, and full of experience from the far edge of middle age, with still enough strength and impetus to take action. She's so convincing that I come close to telling her everything. The whole story, with the real beginning.

Her lips are drawn in a tight line; when she releases them, I see that crazy shade of pink all the Avon ladies prefer. And then I'm reminded of her email blasts. The warning that microwaved water kills plants. The chain letters extolling the virtues of friendship. The top ten reasons why purple is her favorite color.

"Tea towels," I finally say, desperate for a distraction.

"What?"

"Gran's tea towels. The calendar ones you gave her every year. I keep them in the hall linen closet."

Her rigid posture relaxes a bit. She looks confused for a few moments, but eventually leans in conspiratorially, winking. "I think I can sneak back in, now that I know where it's safe to walk." She nods. "I'll see if I can get them clean."

"Thanks, Maxine." I'm breathing better now. As she opens the red bag, I see she's brought a few nightgowns that look brand new. She puts them in the top drawer of the dresser.

"Well, look at that." She glances up, chuckling. "I see a pig with wings. Cute little guy with a fat belly. He's smiling."

erotica: sexually explicit material

Barbara Beck, the librarian, stops by with a worn brown paper bag.

"They're donated books for our library book sale," she explains. "But I figured since you can't get around yet, you could read them and then re-donate them when you're on your feet again. No rush."

I'm touched by Barbara's kindness and tell her so. It's like opening up a stocking on Christmas day. A Nora Roberts is planted on top. When I hold it up, Barbara smiles. "I figured you'd already read that one, but it's probably worth a re-read."

Underneath, I rummage through a bunch of books by an author I'd never read. "Beulah Langford?"

She shrugs. "She's a local author. Never read her, but one of the other patrons swears by her."

And then near the bottom, I find one called "Sweet Indulgences," depicting a woman in a torn apron holding a whisk in the arms of a shirtless man with bulging muscles. A lot of white frosting has escaped from the bowl next to them.

"Oh!" Barbara laughs. "That's from the Take-a-Man-to-Work series. You've got to try one of those. There's more." She nods toward the bag.

I pull another one out. "Welcome Reception," I read, which I figure needs no explanation. The cover of a third one called "Officer Down!" shows a policewoman who's down, but not especially out of commission.

I thank her again, and we chat some more, reminiscing about Gran and her favorite authors. She tells me about a new library initiative to raise money to repair the gutters. We both wish the whole thing could be leveled and rebuilt.

"Your gran would have been the first one swinging the sledge hammer," she says, which makes both of us laugh.

Before she leaves, she pauses and runs her hand down the wall. "I see two people playing pattycake." She traces the shapes. "Here their palms are flat together."

ritual: 1. established formal behavior 2. performance of formal acts 3. unchanging pattern

Eric lies next to me on my good side. He's careful not to bump or shift too much or make any movements I'm not expecting, which isn't always easy for someone of his size in such a small space. One time he sneezed so suddenly and violently, I wet the bed. It's no joke. Bladder control is nothing to take for granted.

Anyway, this is the plan we've worked out: Eric situates himself in bed with me with his shoulders propped up on an extra set of pillows. It's a tight fit, which means we both need to lie still, our bodies simply pressed side-by-side. Sometimes I'll put my hand on his thigh or stomach, depending on how far up he's scooted, and then he'll rest his hand flat on top of mine. That's all. Maybe it doesn't sound like much, but to us every little bit counts.

We talk too, of course. I don't have a lot to say since I'm stuck here, but I'll share gossip from whoever stopped by that day. Sometimes Eric divulges selective bits of news from the club, such as a problem with the beer delivery or a staffing issue. Of course I know only what he tells me, though what he doesn't tell me speaks volumes too. His silence seems to have only grown since the fire.

At this particular moment, my pain isn't bad, so I ask him to lean in close as I turn my mouth toward him. I can feel my own breath exhaling into the crevice behind his ear. He holds steady, so unflinchingly still that suddenly a spark flares, and I'd like to touch him somewhere else. "May I?" I ask. It's been such a long time. Not since before the fire. I trail my fingers along the waist of his jeans.

"You don't have to," he says, and then we're both laughing quietly at the weirdness between us, but it's okay because we both spot it, and there's something very nice and familiar about that. Knowing each other, I mean. There's something sad about it too, about what we've lost. He shifts to loosen his jeans and pulls them down to his thighs as I push his worn t-shirt up. From here to there, a bit of exposed flesh opens a window of opportunity. He's startlingly soft when I first start to stroke.

"Once or twice you slipped into my shower," I say.

"You were always good with a bar of soap."

"I still am."

"Mmm." His breath hitches the slightest bit.

I can feel myself clicking and realigning, gears gripping and meshing, motion stirring as I remember. "I liked your butt." I'm imagining his skin slipping beneath my fingers. One day it will again.

"Was that all?"

"Oh, no." I stop suddenly to make a point, pulling my hand from another favorite part.

He doesn't move.

He doesn't shift.

Not one iota.

I wait another moment. My own breathing I feel. In and out. And again. His seems to have stopped.

There.

I reach for him once more, stroking in the way I know he likes. I do this for me too—to act in a way that I want to be again. I want to move. To do something. To cause results. To bring pleasure. To enjoy pleasure. To be able to get up a head full of steam and let 'er rip.

It's not the sexiest time we've ever had, for sure, but he comes. For now, that's enough.

pretense: 1. insincere or feigned behavior 2. unwarranted claim 3. make-believe 4. same as pretension

"Well look at you, all situated here in your bed like the Princess and the Pea." Arlene's lively voice echoes in the room, bare of floor coverings. She leans in for a hug, the worst of the touches, jarring and twisting. I don't hesitate to hold my palm out in the universal halting sign.

"You still so sore, sweetie?"

Sore doesn't cut it, but I'm tired of talking about it. "Yes," I simply say.

"Here. I brought you a pick-me-up." She pulls a small square box wrapped in pink polka dot paper from her slouchy brown shoulder bag.

"Thank you!" I smile, genuinely happy. I love presents. I turn it in my hands, admiring the wrapping. It even has a bow.

"Aren't you gonna open it?"

"All right." I realize what it is almost as soon as I tear into it. "It's a new…"

"…Word-of-the-Day calendar!" Arlene supplies. "Maxine said your old one probably didn't—you know—make it."

I shake my head, though I haven't spent much time in my head cataloguing the items that did nor did not survive the fire. "Probably not," I agree.

"Oh, it must be terrible being stuck here, not knowing. You must be so worried."

Arlene's got something specific in mind, though what it is exactly, I'm not sure. Maybe she heard some gossip. "What's up, Arlene?" I ask directly, since there's no need to pussyfoot with her. I've cleaned her trailer, taken care of her children, listened to more than one break-up story.

She flicks her flaming red hair and squares her shoulders. "Well, you know. Wasn't the fire suspicious?"

I nod. "Yes, but it's still under investigation."

"I'd feel like a sitting duck out here in the middle of nowhere, at least until I knew I was all clear."

"I'm a sitting duck anywhere I go," I joke, trying to inject a lighthearted tone, though it's true I'm vulnerable. "I'll have someone watching out for you," Eric said, and I left it at that. There are simply too many things I can't do anything about while I'm laid up.

She raises her eyebrows, like I've told her fresh news. "So there is somebody you're worried about."

Her focused interest stops me short. I force the corners of my mouth up and stretch a smile. "No, I mean I'm stuck. Not going for a jog through the woods anytime soon." I wave my hands over my legs. Exhibit A. Technically I'm not lying since not one person, but a whole list would like to take a shot at me.

"Oh," she says in a tone that almost sounds disappointed. She slumps a bit and leans against her chair. "Anyway, not much is left in the year, but when I saw this one marked way down on sale at the bookstore, I knew I had to buy it for you. Plus it has crossword puzzles on the reverse sides. Here, let me show you."

She takes the box from me, opens it, and starts pulling. Huge chunks of the year come off in her hands. And then as she gets into the month of October, she slows down, rifling through page by page. "Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. There you go." She cracks open the plastic stand, sets it on my bed table, and passes me a pile of days gone by.

"Oops! Wait a minute. I went one day too far." She laughs. "Today's not Thursday. Today's Wednesday. Wednesday the 24th. Boy, time is flying, though, isn't it? I still have to buy Lisa a pair of orange and black striped tights for her costume. Gosh, I better do that soon. You know how everything gets picked over on the weekend before Halloween."

As she speaks, she rolls a thick gob of glue strip from the calendar between her fingers. "Well, anyway, these oughta keep you busy, right?" She plucks a single day from the pile. "What's a nine-letter word for 'to submit'?" As she's thinking, she gazes off at the wall. "Hey, I see an upside down house with a chimney."

fruition: 1.a state or point in which something has come to maturity or had a desired outcome
2. enjoyment of intended outcome 3. plant's fruit production

Ready or not, here comes the Bogeyman with his same old song.

In an instant, he knocks me half senseless, shoving my jaw upward with the thick meat of his palm. The world stretches, bows out, falls slack. Like limp curtains on a line, blown by a brief gust of wind. Mama's inching the plastic wash basket with her foot, scraping it across the tired, dry grass. She stoops, stands, and reaches. I'm scratching at a mosquito bite when she holds her hand out for another clothespin. "Sookie!" she snaps. And then the gust hits again. I fall limp and airless. Daddy is telling me to put some starch in my drawers. No, that's not right. It's, "Hot weather really takes the starch out of me." But that's Gran's expression. I strain to focus and form up. I think of Daddy's teeth, brilliant and perfect. I like his smile. The gust hits again. "Buck up," Sookie, Daddy says. Yes, that's what he says. "Don't be a crybaby." And again… "You're easy meat…"

…Meet. Mete.

Ha! He meets the meat I mete.

No. I don't think that's right. Mete. Meat. Meet...He metes...

...Oh!...

It's no joke. (I can feel it happening!) I'm down hard, scrabbling on hardscrabble. Scrabbling hard. His face is too close to mine. I wrench my neck, turn my cheek to flatten it against the rough floor, and stare down a whole row of tires and underbellies, their twisted metal guts exposed. "Hold tight," I repeat to myself in my own voice, and I do. That much I do. But he's taken hold. I hear his beat on my breath. It's vibrating in my bones too, that fucking cadence.

When he is finished—completed!—I am not a flat wisp, but me in relief. No, not relieved. In relief. Drawn out. Palpable. Unmissable.

But the thing about the Bogeyman…his number keeps on playing. He wrenches with his whole body, intending to maim. I scream. And it all starts again. D.C. al fine. Bumpity-bumpity-bumpity-BUMP (repeat).

"Sookie."

"My leg!"

"Sookie, it's time."

"My leg hurts!"

"I got here as soon as I could. It's time."

Eric is standing over me, his palm outstretched. The room is dark, dimly lit by a glow cast from the kitchen. I can see he's fully dressed, even still wearing his jacket. Only when he passes me a glass of water do I understand. With my other hand, I reach for the pills he's offering. I take them all, not one at a time, but all of them on my tongue with a long, steady drink of cold water. I feel the chill in my throat, trickling down to my belly.

He takes the glass from me and gives me some crackers before moving to undress. His motions are efficient and perfunctory. Coat gets hung on chair. Boots go under bed. Jeans fall in a heap. He adds his t-shirt to the pile and then moves toward the bathroom. I hear water running. I wait, trying to ignore the buzz saw vibrations ripping from hip to toes. My stomach is queasy, but I try another cracker, hoping it will help. My head is still clouded. I need to think and make sense of things to banish the bad thoughts, made all too real again by the twist of current pain.

I remind myself that now I'm at Bill's house. It's the middle of the night. Eric is just arriving here from the club. Maybe I doze a bit, because suddenly Eric is standing in front of me. He seems to be waiting.

"Is it time?" I ask, momentarily confused about what he is doing here.

"Do you want to use the bathroom?"

No. Definitely not. Probably should. My hip and leg still hurt, though maybe not as much. When I move to sit up, Eric reaches for the crutches. He stands nearby until it's clear I'm steady on my feet.

"I'm okay," I assure him. Now that I'm up and moving, my short nightgown loose around me, the air feels too cool as it hits my clammy skin. I crawl inside, feeling the stubble on my legs raise. I should change my nightgown and tidy up the braid I've situated at the nape of my neck, but that would do little good, like patching a Band-Aid on a gaping wound. Here I am, like it or not, unwieldy and substantial. More to me than I'd ever wanted. Some days—the bad ones—begin like this.

I make it to the bathroom, where I notice the shiny clean marble tile. I admire its glossy softness, searching for the faint seams. I find them—barely—smooth and reassuring. I decide I'll at least brush my teeth.

When I get back to The Room, Eric is already under the covers of his twin bed, located on the wall adjacent to mine, right inside the doorway.

"All set?" he asks, and I understand he's not merely talking about my damn crutches. He'd never be the first to say Mickey's name out loud. Not like this, anyway. Mickey's still out there, though, by the Word of Victor.

"I'm all right." I wait a minute for my eyes to adjust to the relative darkness. The light is on in the kitchen, but for now it will have to stay that way.

I think I hear Eric whispering.

"I'm sorry?" I say.

"Hmm?" he grunts.

"Did you say something? It sounded like…"

"Huh-uh," he grunts again, scarcely awake.

I swear I hear the whisper once more, but decide it's only the swish of the foam on my crutches. I set them aside, gingerly work my way into bed, and try to settle into Eric's reassuring soft snore. Nighttime is always the hardest, when nothing seems to make sense under the disorienting spin of darkness and sleep mixed with pain. I worry about closing my eyes and losing control to it all. That's the terrible thing, really—knowing it will all come back.

From the kitchen, enough light shines into The Room to show the collection of odd shapes gathering on my walls. The rooster with two toes. Tara's cat. Maxine's pig. Arlene's house. Barbara's people playing pattycake.

In case you're wondering, by the way, I've found no repeats. Tonight, as I search for another bald man smoking, I see something new…

Lemons.

They're all over the place.