"Feel, my skin is rough,
But it can be cleansed."
"Poppy, go talk to him."
"I don't want to."
"Please, sweetheart-"
"You told me he was bad," Poppy interjected. She scrunched her brow and folded her arms tightly over her chest. "He's scary."
"I know what I said," Molly sighed. "But people change sometimes." Poppy fell backwards over her bed and stretched her arms over her head. Molly followed suit, aligning her body with Poppy's.
"You know, sometimes, grown-ups can be wrong about things." She raised her eyebrows at Poppy.
"No, they can't," she protested, but did not seem convinced. "Do they?"
"Yeah." Molly rolled onto her side and pinched Poppy's nose. "I know that I said he's bad, but he isn't. He's really sick right now, and he needs help. Why don't you go talk to him?"
Poppy nodded. Molly pulled her close for a hug. "Whenever you're ready, ok?" Poppy nodded into Molly's shoulder.
Molly licked the salty remains of her crisps from the tips of her fingers and strolled lazily into her bedroom. The empty bag still clutched in her hand, she approached her shelf of books and considered the volumes thoughtfully. The Princess Bride, Bridget Jones, and a smattering of Nicholas Sparks novels faced her, but none caught her attention. She had read them all before, experienced the happy endings and romances years ago. Finally, she gripped the spine of Jane Eyre and pulled it from between the other Brontë works. Mr. Rochester, she thought, amused. Sounds good.
"There was no possibility of taking a walk that day." Hardly through the first paragraph, Molly heard a muffled voice from the living room. She recognized Jim's deeper tones instantly. Who's he talking to? She tucked her book under her arm and tiptoed towards the sound.
She peeked around the corner and her mouth dropped open in disbelief; Jim, perched at one end of the couch, was reading aloud from the book in his hands, a battered and worn copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales. At the other end, her legs tucked up to her chest, was Poppy. She stared at Jim, listening attentively as he spoke. After listening for a moment, Molly recognized the story as Hansel & Gretel. Jim paused and regarded Poppy thoughtfully.
"Do you like this story?"
Poppy nodded. "Yeah."
"Why?"
"'Dunno," she shrugged. "I'd like a house made of sweets." This made Jim laugh and Poppy responded with a small smile.
"Don't we all?" His brow furrowed and his jaw grew tense. He was masking his pain, Molly was certain, hiding it from Poppy. She seemed to take no notice. She twiddled her fingers together and wiggled her toes within her mismatched socks. Jim watched her, his eyebrows raised. After a moment, he shifted his weight and continued reading.
Molly's heart swelled almost to bursting. She stole back to her room and wrapped herself in her duvet. The words slipped away from her, drowned out by Jim's soft voice, his Irish accent peeking through to compliment the interjections of his daughter's Scottish tones.
"Rapunzel?"
"No."
"Cinderella?"
"No princesses."
"If you insist." The pages dragged against his thumb, producing a high-pitched hum and ruffling his hair slightly from the tiny breeze. Poppy pursed her lips impatiently. From her perch on the chair across the room, Molly pretended to be engrossed in her own book. She peeked up at Jim and had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at his frustration.
"What kind of story do you want then?"
Poppy wiggled her toes and shrugged. Jim flipped a few more pages and stopped.
"What about queens?"
Poppy nodded quickly. Molly could not help staring at them. This exchange had become routine in the past few days; every night before bed, Poppy asked him politely to read to her, and he agreed. She kept herself contained to the opposite end of the couch, and he respected her distance.
When he finished reading, Poppy whispered a thank you and scuttled to her bedroom, shutting herself away with her private thoughts. Molly thumped her book closed and waited for Jim to speak.
He didn't meet her eye, but the corners of his lips lifted slightly.
"So," he said, stretching his arms.
"So," Molly replied. She drummed her fingers against the cover of her book. She couldn't help staring at his arms, watching the tiny hairs stick up from the cold.
"Do you want to sleep in the bed tonight?" Molly's brow furrowed with concern.
Jim shook his head. "I'll stay here," he answered. He rubbed his head slowly, as if willing the pain in his head to subside. "So you can sleep."
Molly nodded and left the room. She hoped he could not see her eyes. Neither of them could make it through the night.
A wave of nausea racked Jim's body. His shirt clung to him, but he stubbornly refused to take it off. He jammed his head into the pillow, gritting his teeth. He didn't have to look to know that the shadows were there, patiently waiting for his attention. One tall and lean, hands raised to its chin as if in prayer, the other shorter, barley taller than a child.
Fucking Carl Powers. Jim could almost laugh. Another wave of sickness prevented him from doing just that. He sat up suddenly and looked around.
Where am I? The darkness hid any identifying features of the room. His memories slipped from his grasp, but danced just out of reach, taunting him. Where's Molly?
The taller shadow stepped towards him, bent down, and peered into his face. Jim threw himself away, jamming his back against the hard arm of the couch. He clutched his head with his hands.
"You're not here," he said aloud. "You're not." His voice wavered. The shadow's head tilted skeptically. Behind it, the smaller one began to shake. Tremors shook its body, convulsing and retching, until it finally collapsed to the floor. A pity, that eczema.
"That's what you get," Jim sneered through his pain. Carl Powers, child's play.
"Jim?"
His heart seized with fear. They'd never spoken before. "Stop," he demanded. He looked around wildly. He felt a hand on his arm and jerked away. "Stop it!"
"Jim, it's me!"
Her face swam in front of him.
"Molly," he said flatly. "What's-" he choked on his words. "I can't tell what's real."
She was in front of him then, her hands pressing against his chest. "I'm real," she whispered. "Look at me."
Jim could not tear his eyes away from the shadow behind her. It drifted towards Molly, its long hand rising towards her shoulder and resting there. Jim's face grew hot, and his heart pounded within his chest like a caged animal.
"Jim," Molly was saying, "You need to breathe slowly." The ghostly hand slid from her shoulder, inching down her back. The other hand draped over Molly's cheek. She did not react.
"Can't you feel it?" Jim croaked. "How can you not see it?"
"Just focus on me," she said. A long finger traced her lip. Jim tried to lean forward to push it away, but Molly forced him back. "You're dehydrated, drink some water." She pressed a glass against his lips. He accepted it without protest, his eyes still locked on the apparition. As Molly poured the cold water through his lips, the shadow knelt beside her. A stray lock of hair fell from her loose ponytail. The ghostly hand lifted to brush it back, its head curving to meet hers…
"Molly." He leaned forward and some water spilled down his chin. "Molly, look." Fear shook through his voice.
Her brow knitted in confusion. "What?" She brushed the loose hair back behind her ear. The moment her hand met the shadow's, it vanished. The long ghost-like limbs stretching thin like the tendrils of smoke from a dying fire until there was nothing left. Jim's jaw fell. Just like that?
"What's wrong?"
"I…" He looked back and forth from Molly to the vacant space next her. It made sense. "No, its ok," he said. He looked into Molly's eyes. "I'll be ok."
Molly raised an eyebrow. She shifted her weight away from him and he panicked. "Wait," he grabbed her arm weakly. "Stay with me."
Molly nodded and set the glass on the floor. "Yeah. Ok, I will." He made room for her and she sat beside him, her legs tucked beneath her.
"Can't sleep either?" Jim looked at his hands.
"No," Molly admitted. He looked up at her. He didn't smile, offer her advice, or express pity. She didn't want it. Instead, he took her took her pale hand his and rubbed his thumb over her smooth skin. Molly watched it peacefully, struggling to keep her eyelids from drooping closed.
"Please tell me you're going to be ok."
"As long as you're here," he said. "You and Poppy, you're the only things keeping me from putting a bullet in my mouth."
"I understand."
Jim pushed away and frowned at her. Molly shrugged, her face set in resigned acceptance.
"You're not the only one who thought about it."