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

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

Chapter 3

disconcert: 1. cause to feel uneasy 2. thwart plans

The shifting shadows are clouds passing swiftly overhead. Gusts of wind shake the house—shake it by its very shoulders—rattling the windows in their tracks like loose teeth knocked silly. I think maybe one day, this house will give up and spit its teeth out on the lawn, flashing one proud, gummy smile before Bill descends with the replacements, white vinyl double-hung affairs that tilt in for easy care.

I think maybe I've been awake forever and not at all. That's the sense I have, or maybe the lack of sense. I don't know what to call it. Awake. Asleep. Sometimes they meld.

No, not now. Now I know I'm awake, of course. I see the evidence of my awake day on the tray in front of me. Cheese sandwich and apple for lunch. One failed attempt at a crossword puzzle. (What in the devil is a four-letter word meaning 'combination?') One half-hearted go at a Nora Roberts novel, read to page twelve. One go at pornography packaged up nice and pretty as Sweet Indulgences. The TV was on now and then too, but I can't stand the noise. It's all annoying, really. All of it. I don't know how to say it better than it's like nails down a chalkboard. It's so easy to feel overloaded when pain already fills you to the brim. Too easy.

And I can't—for the life of me—figure out this wallpaper. Today I watch it shift and blink in the alternating light. They're peering out, all those lemons, bulging…

…I'm awake. Don't go anywhere. I was telling you about those lemon eyes. Do you know what I mean by lemon eyes? They swell outward and come to a point at one end, which makes them look cross, as though I've done something to offend. Or sometimes devious, like they're coming up with a tricky plan. I've come up with a word to describe the color, definitely not a cheerful lemon yellow. I won't say it though because it will make you sick.

Anyway, now that I know they're there, I can't seem to make them fade. The chimney on Arlene's upside down house sometimes becomes a present underneath a palm tree. I can turn one into the other with a slight shift of the eyes. My eyes. But those eyes, those lemon eyes…they don't ever recede. Watching.

deceit: 1. dishonest practice 2. something done to mislead

Bill calls. "Sweetheart," he says, and I imagine him patting me on the head. It's always driven me nuts, but today somehow it's reassuring, maybe because he's in Peru and can't really touch me." In case we get cut off, let me give you the name of that electrician first. You have something to write with?"

"Sure." I grab for a crossword puzzle slip on which I've managed one clue—"nun," as in "cloistered one."

He gives me the contact information and then apologizes for my inconvenience, after which I do the same—apologize to him for the inconvenience. "I don't know what happened," I say, though I suspect some kind of rodent got in the walls and chewed on wires. "Eric checked the circuit breaker, and it doesn't look like the whole circuit's bad. It's only the outlets along one wall. Two of them."

They are an inconvenient two, which I don't say to Bill, of course. When the outlets went on the fritz suddenly, I lost my clock and bedside table lamp. And bed. Plus every so often, I swear I hear a swishing and rustling noise in the wall behind me. Creepy.

After some back-and-forth arguing over whether Bill will reimburse me for the service bill, he asks a simple, "How are you?"

The intensity of his question takes me aback; he's ready to listen from far, far away, and I can try on a new fit.

"I'm great," I say, "Getting better every day."

"That's wonderful news, sweetheart."

I try to picture how I might look in his mind. Fresh and alert, with a clean, unrumpled nightgown. Smooth legs. Oh, gosh, that would be nice. A clear head. A positive mood. A real smile.

No pain.

We talk for a while about how wonderful my recovery is and other social niceties, such as how grateful I am to be able to use his house, and how grateful he is that I can housesit for him. Then he asks about my own home renovations.

"They're stalled. They think it's suspicious and haven't given me the go ahead yet."

Bill pauses. "They're taking forever. Want me to talk to anyone?"

"Thank you, but Eric's on it." In his own way.

He pauses again. "All right, but you let me know."

We end the call. I realize as soon as I hang up that I've forgotten to ask about the wallpaper. I try out my smile for a little while longer for my own benefit, and end up feeling foolish. It's no use pretending, anyway. It doesn't really change anything, and now I'm tired from the effort.

I close my eyes to shut out everything around me, but inside isn't always better. Where do you look when you don't want to see? My eyes ache from looking askance, from pulling and twisting in their sockets. Sometimes I wish I could simply be. Lately it's been such an effort.

All right, all right—I'll stop the pity party. I'm clear-headed enough at the moment to recognize I'm on a downslide that I need to brace against. But the pain is climbing, as it always does, wrapping and winding delicately before tightening its garroting band. I seem to have lost track of the time, too, so I'm not sure when to take my pain medication again. I decide to wait until I can't stand it anymore. I can do that. I can hold out longer. Yes, I can do that.

furrow: a low or negative point, especially a temporary one

I think I ought to finally pull the page. Arlene said to pull it today, I think.

Now's the time. Awake and alert, I'm not having any of my crazy dreams. The meds are doing their best to keep up, blunting the sharp thrust of pain. Out in the garden, wide open sunshine is polishing the nandina leaves to a glossy sheen. Inside, its pure squares of light, untouched by sickly wallpaper glow, are landing straight on top of me in bed…

…So…hel-lo Sweet Indulgences. The well-worn book that Barbara Beck brought falls open easily to the spicy passages. I skip around, quickly figuring out that the pastry chef is making a go of her own "cupcakery" she calls Babycakes. She has a lot of time on her hands, apparently, and not a whole lot of concern about a surprise visit from the health department.

Most impressively, she can come at the slightest touch of her honeyed, parted flesh. Standing. Sitting. Lying down. Against subway tile. On the marble slab island. I'm no slouch in bed, and Lord knows Eric has enough creative energy to go around, but now I see I was an underachiever even on my good days. Plus I'm pretty sure I never tasted so good.

But now…now I am numb.

Truly numb. So numb there's nothingness between my legs. It's such a strange thing feeling numbness bumped up against so much pain.

I guess it's too soon. That's what I tell myself, anyway. I'm still mending. I try to distract myself with another crossword puzzle and grab for no particular slip in the pile. I'm quickly angered when I can't figure out a single dumb clue.

So I force myself to get up and walk around. I do my circuit, down the long open hallway to the parlor, where I do a mini loop. I don't dare venture too far into this room, arranged with area rugs and tables full of knick-knacks. There's not a space to wedge myself and two crutches amongst the carved furniture feet. I think it's silly that the feet are really feet, complete with curved knuckles and toenails. Or claws. Whatever the hell they are.

I have the sudden urge to take a crutch and swipe underneath them all—delicate tables on tiptoes, rigid armchairs on braced alert, and a curved and twisted davenport that looks like it stretched the wrong way one time and got stuck. I think about how gratifying it would be to upset the arranged order of this room, to see it all tumble in a heap. I'm about to grab at the silky, fringed cloth atop one of the tables when I notice it's probably an antique.

Better not.

Upending all of this tipsy furniture would be poor sportsmanship, like shooting a tethered turkey at the annual Monroe gun club Thanksgiving event. "That ain't real hunting," Jason explained the first time he'd shot a doe and hung her by her hind legs in the garage from the same hooks that used to hold our bicycles.

I leave it all be and turn away from it.

Except that there's no turning away from it. This sameness is driving me nuts. Same surroundings day in and day out with nothing new to look at. Physical therapy hasn't started yet. Not many people are dropping by anymore. I wish I could climb the walls. That would be really cool. Next time Eric comes—I don't care if it's in the middle of the night—I'll have him take me outside, down the tricky front steps. Pain be damned. I will do it, I vow, even if it hurts the whole fucking time.

I'm working my way toward the kitchen—maddeningly slowly—when it hits me hard.

Happy endings are one of life's special treats, you know? Not dime store candy.

The thought makes me sad to the core. I skip the kitchen and return to The Room. It's an ugly place to cry and somehow ends up feeling wrong and awkward. I feel no relief. Only more discomfort.

Listen, this numbness that I feel has to go away sooner or later, I'm sure of it. Yes, definitely. It's not a result of anything permanent. I'm sure it's fixable. I just have to give it some more time and try again. It matters to me too, after all. Most of all, to me.

But I've gone about this all wrong, haven't I? Eric should be here. Yes, next time.

credibility: 1. believability 2. willingness to believe

Something is moving out in the yard.

I see it from the kitchen sink as I'm rinsing out my cereal bowl and adding it to the pile. A branch is swinging. Maybe just the wind, I tell myself.

Still, I turn the overhead light off and tug on the absurdly thin, ruffled fabric of café curtains awkwardly. A back door next to the sink has blinds that have already been pulled. I peek out through the edge.

It wasn't anything, was it? The memory sneaks back, revealing perhaps a flash of black leather and denim. But was it real? Or something I imagined? Maybe my fear got the better of me. I might be able to convince myself it was just my imagination if it weren't for what I know, that there really are things that go bump and grind in the night.

I start to move to the phone. I'm working around the kitchen table when I hear an unusual noise—a dull thump—from the other side of the house, maybe in the garden outside The Room. Definitely not my imagination.

Someone is here.

Run! Every nerve cell in my body is screaming. Get out of the house!

But I'm stuck. I'm facing about ten feet between me and the phone. Ten lousy feet. I move quickly without thinking, drawing on that hardened part of me. I don't remember the steps. By the time I reach the phone, I'm sweating and shaking—dammit!—and I fumble as I press the numbers to Jason's cell phone.

He answers on one ring. "No, I still haven't gotten in touch with my electrician friend," he snaps in greeting.

"Jason!" So relieved he answered, I feel myself softening. It's risky. Too risky. "I need you to come. Someone's outside."

"Who?"

"I don't know! I saw some motion and heard a noise."

"Shit," he says, not out of concern, but annoyance and resignation.

"Hurry!" I say, but he's already hung up.

Now I'm left here waiting, trapped in a house that might not ever give me up. I must have made a wrong move on my way to the phone because one whole side of me has been pulped and routed. I'm jangled. My head throbs. My stomach is twisting.

Only a couple steps would get me to a chair at the kitchen table, but I wait here, frozen, pressed against the wall near the phone. It's my only defense—remaining motionless—like the pieces of braced furniture in Bill's parlor. I wonder how long they've postured protectively, praying to be passed over.

Minutes pass. The refrigerator kicks on with a quiet shudder and then settles. I listen for other movement, will it to come out of the woodwork and present itself, at the same time wishing it magically gone. Each swish and creak becomes a footstep swept away.

I start to shake, my rigid muscles reaching exhaustion. I wonder what comes next, what happens when I falter. Maybe I should just move and be done with it. Give myself up. Get it over with...

No...No.

There's more in me. I don't know how much, but there's more. I allow myself to shift a bit to tame the pain. A buzzing, steady tone has started in my ears. I draw quaking breaths in and out that rattle.

Time crawls. I give myself more pep talks, struggling to make sense. The image of Sam unloading bags of compost and grass seed and black nursery pots of boxwoods from his truck replays in my head. He spent one whole fall afternoon digging up a little square of dirt in front of his trailer to make a lawn.

Next thing, Jason and Hoyt are entering the front of the house. I hear their boisterous voices right away. "Sookie!" They call, moving quickly, their bodies jostling, brushing against walls, thumping on the floor carelessly. They're laughing, which must mean everything is okay. It's Hoyt who finds me first, still in the kitchen.

"Hey!" He says. "Look at you getting around the house. I thought you were stuck in bed. Good to see you!"

"Hi, Hoyt." I force a smile. "Thanks for coming."

Jason pops his head over Hoyt's shoulder. "Come and see," he says. "In your room."

Reluctantly, I start to move. It's so slow going that Jason darts ahead and returns several times to check on me. Nearly gagging, I move straight for the bed.

"Can you see it from there?"

"See what?"

He pulls the curtains to the side. Atop the wrought iron table, pulled close to my window, a glowing jack-'o-lantern grins at me, google-eyed.

Trick or treat.

"That's all it was, sis. Just a prank. Ain't nothin' else out there."

Hoyt is laughing. "My mother was right." He walks over to the wall opposite my bed. "There's the pig with wings."

Jason is now looking too, sniggering and elbowing Hoyt. "That ain't all." He points, and then Hoyt is laughing again. "Oh, yeah," he says, elbowing Jason back.

"All right, all right," I cut them off. I thank them both for coming. They leave, jostling down the hall again, as young and bumbling and blithe as they were when they came.

I turn my head toward the jack-'o-lantern and its unfaltering grin. Out of the corner of my eye, I see more slinking in the paper, too, bodies drawn to the edges of the lemon grove. Here and there, I catch a glimpse of flesh, a bare arm or a leg that reveals itself before disappearing. They slip behind the lemons, peer out through them.

Wide-eyed. Only occasionally blinking.

respite: 1. brief interval of rest and recovery between periods of exertion or after something disagreeable
2. a temporary delay 3. a temporary stay of execution of a criminal.

Sam stops by with dinner.

"Looking good, cher," he teases. I stick my tongue out at him and imagine tousling his halo of shaggy red-gold hair, which could sorely use a trim. Myself, I'm wan and bedraggled—even though I gave myself a go at it—but Sam picked a good time to rib. Either he was lucky or somehow he knew.

When he pulls dinner out of the brown paper bag, I think I might've died and gone to heaven. "Oh! Is that Perdita's chicken fried steak?"

He nods, his Newman-blue eyes shining.

I'm moved to near tears. "Is there bread pudding too?"

He nods again, smugly.

"I thought you'd bring chicken strips and cheesy bacon fries."

"Naw, you can get those any old day." He pulls another white foam container from the bag as the playful banter between us suddenly falls flat. "Hey! Chin up! Brighter days are just around the corner," he says, pushing the limits of my platitude tolerance.

"You know it." I try to focus on the thoughtful, delicious meal he's set out for us and work hard to banish any concerns I won't heal enough to be on my feet for hours every day. What would I do if I had to give up my job at the diner?

"Tell me the news," I prod, hoping to switch to a different channel.

He pauses for a moment. "Catfish said his crew would be working on the parish road out past the Baptist church starting next week."

"Finally!"

"I know. About time."

"That reminds me I need to call Jason." Thank him again for helping me out.

"Haven't seen him at the bar in a few days."

I give Sam a knowing look. "You know what that means."

Sam nods, taking a bite of dinner roll. "I don't know who it is this time."

I sigh, find I can't seem to work up the usual disgust I feel about Jason's proclivities and the way women seem to always fall for him.

"Arlene went out on a few dates with Dennis Pettibone," Sam adds.

"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow at this news.

"It seems to have died down. Or at least I don't hear her talking about him anymore."

As I'm thinking over this bit of news, I don't have anything to say other than, "Hmm…"

"Oh! And we had a brawl brewing the other night between Mark Duffy and Jeff LaBeff."

"Again?"

"Something about the Saints' defensive lineup."

I can't help but roll my eyes.

"Naw, it was bad," Sam insists. "They got to shoving and yelling so loudly, I reached for my baseball bat, but then just like that, Charlsie was in the middle of it."

I laugh, fully able to imagine Charlsie stepping in between those two.

"Yeah, she put her arms around both of them. Told them if she had her way, she'd lock 'em up in the same room until they were best friends."

I shake my head. I don't get it, but I've seen Charlsie in action like that before, disarming people with a smile and an easygoing joke. I can't imagine the same working for anyone but her.

We're digging into the bread pudding when Sam suddenly declares, "I see a lion. He has a big mane and he's got a wolf by the neck. See?" He waves his fork toward the wall. "Her limp paws are dangling down right there." He doesn't drop his fork until I've looked and nodded knowingly.

I'm able to keep my dinner down until he leaves. Barely. As he's gathering up the trash and leftovers from our meal, I see something close to pity in his eyes, something I can't stand, and maybe it's my pure anger that gives me the determination to hold it all in.

But eventually, it does all come up.

acquiesce: to agree or comply with something in a passive or reserved way.

"Victor is starting to ask more questions."

"Like what?"

"How long until you start physical therapy? When will you be able to handle nights on your own? Is there anyone else who can cover?"

"Oh," I say simply.

Eric is at the foot of the bed, where there's a small table with two chairs pushed against the wall. He's leaning forward with his knees spread, elbows resting on them. From this position, he has to crane his neck to face me, but he does, in fact, look at me directly. "We knew this would happen sooner or later."

"Right," I answer. I'm too tired to explain that I consider this sooner rather than later. That Eric barely disrupted his work schedule while I was in the hospital, just so he might have a little extra consideration now when we'd need it more. Neither Eric nor I ever trusted Victor, so I don't know why we ever thought any accommodations we made would have made any difference.

"I wouldn't bring this up if I thought there was a way around it."

"All right." I'm not even sure what I'm agreeing to. It doesn't matter. It's clear it's already been decided.

"You could still come to my place."

It's a non offer, really, and one that stings. We both already agreed it wouldn't be practical. I'd be too far away from other friends who could help. Too far from physical therapy once it started. Too far from doctor visits. Too far from my own home and the fire inspector and general contractor. One day I will be able to re-build my home, after all.

I don't even respond. I hate what's happened to me, and I'm scared. I can feel that empty, deflated space where I once enjoyed self-reliance, drawn, pressed, and squeezed out of me. It's wilted out of my grasp now, undefined. And at the moment, I don't have the wherewithal to shape it into something sturdy and meaningful.

I'm sorry. I know I'm no fun this way. Please come back again later.