~ Fairytale ~

by

Therese Kinkaide

Caroline’s eyes are still closed when she senses she is not alone in the room. She lies quietly, hoping that whoever is in the room with her does not notice her body stiffen with alarm when she sensed another presence. She lies with her back to the door, the one that was dead-bolted from the outside. Slits open her left eye, the one half buried in her pillow. Searches, without moving, the room bathed in pale moonlight and streetlight together.

Miles? Miles is standing at the window, his back to her. She can see maybe a quarter of his face as he stares through the glass to the night beyond and sees something Caroline can only wonder about. Without a sound or movement, she studies him, his slumped shoulders and the sliver of his face that is visible to her. His body says defeat; his face is a mask she can’t quite recognize. It’s not innocence. There’re too many lines carved in his aging skin to call his expression one of innocence or even innocence lost.

Sorrow. Spotlighted in moonlight, in her dark room, he is a black and white still life that she would entitle Sorrow. She wonders if this, if her accident, has caused him this much grief and aged him and branded him a haunted man. If they are husband and wife, it seems an accident, injuries of this magnitude could definitely sock him in the gut and take his zest for life away. It’s not so much that she can’t remember him or their life together that makes her question the pain he wears at the moment. It’s simply that she doesn’t understand why she is spending her recovery locked away in a prison he has tried to disguise as a simple, harmless bedroom.

Suddenly consumed with the possibility that he has spent more than one night standing in her room, staring out her window or watching her sleep, she pushes herself to sit up. To let him know that she is awake. Even though she wears knit boxers and a simple t-shirt that covers every curve on her rather angular, scrawny body—she couldn’t have been this thin before, has to be the result of the accident and injuries and stress—she is careful to keep the sheet and comforter pulled up to her waist.

“What’re you doing?” Her hoarse whisper doesn’t jolt him. He stands still as time in that perfect, horrible moment just before tragedy steps in and nails your ass to the wall.

“Thinking.” His voice is a little gruff, a little quiet. He turns toward her, leans a shoulder on the window trim and stares at her. He still wears the pants he wore earlier this evening. Dark and casual. His dark colored shirt is untucked, the top three buttons open to reveal a t-shirt beneath it.

“What about?”

Something, tonight, is different. She doesn’t know if it’s the moonlight that sucks the color out of the room and renders it neutral. Or if it’s the uncharacteristic stubble that darkens Miles’ jaw, in an already darkened room. Or, if it’s the weariness he wears as if he carries the world on his shoulders and is simply exhausted. At the moment, she does not see a man who holds her captive in a strange room. He’s just a man who’s seen better days.

In the absence of color and light and sound, she feels as if they are equals. Maybe they were once lovers. Husband and wife. She shifts, uncomfortable with her thoughts rather than the way he is watching her.

“About you,” he finally says. The deep breath he sucks in and blows out is tinged with frustration and sadness.

“What about me?” Of course she wonders. What the hell is he thinking about, about her? She’d like to think about it too; she’d sure as hell like to remember more than the flashes she’s gotten that go so fast she ends up with only sensations—pain, fear, dread—instead of memories.

Hands in his pockets, he lowers his head as if to rest his chin on his chest. The silence is long and lengthy and sits beside her on her bed, like a date trying to charm his way under the sheets. When he finally raises his chin, he turns back to the window, takes a deep breath, and shrugs, as if he is talking to himself and answering himself with a ‘why not?’

“Do you wanna take a walk?” He turns back to her.

“Do I…? What?” She glances around, wondering what time it is. There are no clocks in her room. Not sure what clocks could have to do with memories that might harm her—unless she used to repair watches and iced a guy with a watch tool or was crushed beneath a grandfather clock and lost her memories as time weighed her down—she wonders why the hell Miles can’t at least give her a simple alarm clock. Or a watch, for God’s sake. “What time is it, Miles? Jesus, I don’t even have a clock in here…”

Her voice rose steadily, the familiar fear and anger growing inside of her. Miles holds his hands up in surrender and steps toward the bed. “It’s twenty after two. And I’ll get you a clock.” He stops, still a few feet from her bed and swallows hard and repeats, “I’ll get you a clock, Caroline.”

Not sure how to take his gesture, his sudden move to placate her, she looks away from his probing eyes. Licks her lips and wishes for ChapStick. Figuring it’s risky to ask for two things in one night, she instead focuses on his asking her if she wanted to take a walk.

“You want to go on a walk? At two-thirty in the morning?”

“Why not?” He shrugs. “Dawn’s here. In the room next door to Max.”

“Why…” Again the anger seethes, front and center. Again, Miles steps toward her, a look of apology on his face.

“Please,” he says softly. He’s never sounded so real as he does here tonight. “Could we just walk for awhile? And not fight?”

She curls her fingers into tight fists, to keep them from reaching out to him. They’d wanted badly to reach out and stroke his jaw. Feel the rough stubble and the softness of his lips.

“Did we fight a lot?” Her voice is husky, thick with memories that don’t quite reach her heart or her mind.

“Not in the beginning.” He reaches to rub the back of his neck, a pained look on his face. He doesn’t like that they fought. Or he doesn’t like admitting it.

“But.” She doesn’t know why she’s pushing this. Why push this one little thing, because, his answer isn’t going to shed any miraculous light on anything. Why not get up and get dressed and go for a walk? She wonders absently if she could smell the honeysuckle outside, if she were to go out now and walk in the moonlight.

“But.” He sighs and nods.

“In the end…”

“We did.” He purses his lips and looks down at her and raises an eyebrow in question. “Walk with me?”