CHAPTER THREE: HIS TOUCH AGAINST MY SKIN
1183 Words
Melissa's POV
I led him upstairs to his bedroom. It was slightly bigger than Alison's. The bedroom had a blue aesthetic, blue bedsheets on the king-sized bed, blue curtains and blue vases in the room.
I left him in his bed after I helped him climb it.
The bedroom was freezing, so I quickly moved to a switch on the wall and turned off the air container.
I then moved to the bathroom and came out a few minutes later with a wet towel in my hand.
I folded it nearly and placed it on his head. “I'll call a doctor sir,” I said.
“He doesn't come at night…,” his voice was barely a whisper.
I froze, of course, it was 1:30 am, there was no way the doctor would come.
“Of course, sir…” I stood by the side of the bed and thought for a second, an idea struck me: I could make him brown soup.
I rushed out of the bedroom and thirty minutes later I arrived with a bowl of soup. I placed it on the table beside him, “Sir?”
He groaned, “You should drink this.”
He shook his head, his eyes were shut, and he parted his lips to breathe, “I feel better with the towel on my head,” he said.
I grabbed his arm, the veins poked against it, how could a person be so fit?
I shook my head, he is a sick man and my sister's husband, what is wrong with me?
“Sir?” I tugged on his arm. “Just a few sips, please.”
He finally opened his eyes, they were grey, he looked at me, as if studying my appearance. “Has Alison left to see my parents?”
I nodded.
He grunted as he sat up, the towel on his head fell, and I picked it up and placed it aside.
He grabbed the spoon and began to draw the soup into his mouth. After eight spoons, he placed it back in the bowl and slid back down.
He was shivering.
I grabbed the bedsheet and covered him up with it. After placing the towel back on his forehead, I grabbed the bowl and turned to leave.
“Are you going?” he asked.
I turned back, “Did you want something else sir?”
“Please…stay,” he begged.
Oh…if the intercom wasn't working, then I had to stay with him. I moved back to him and placed the bowl on a table, dragging a chair close to him.
I sat beside him, I shrugged with discomfort as I noticed him staring at me.
“What happened to your hand?” he asked.
I looked at the bandaged hand as if I hadn't already seen it before, “Uh…I poured hot tea on it by accident,” I lied.
I couldn't tell him that his wife was an abusive person. I didn't want to ruin his marriage.
He looked back up at the ceiling, “What is your name?”
“Melissa,” I said.
He said nothing else. I looked closely and saw that he had fallen asleep. I wonder if he even heard my name.
The next morning,
I didn't recall falling asleep that morning. I had placed my head on the bed to help my strained back, but I had dozed off.
I felt a hand on my shoulder, more like a finger brushing against my skin and my head snapped up, sleep cleared from my eyes instantly.
Mr Blackwood was already awake.
The sun peered into the bedroom through windows that were wide open, a few of it reflected on his grey eyes.
I quickly stood up, “You are awake.”
The sweat had disappeared from his body, I reached for his forehead placing my palm on it, I placed my free palm on my own head to check the temperature, I smiled, he was completely fine.
The medication the doctor had given probably needed a few more hours to work. “You are better.”
“Did somebody hit you?” he asked, his voice was raspy.
My smile failed, “Huh?”
He sat up on the bed and slid off it. I took a step back as his towering figure moved closer to me.
“Did somebody hit you?” he asked again.
“What? No.”
My back pressed against the cold wall, and he stood in front of, only a few inches of space between us. His eyes fell to my shoulder, my breath hitched as he touched it.
“Here, these almost look like a person's finger dug into it,”
I quickly pushed his hand off me and raised my shirt to cover it, “It's nothing,”
“Melissa…”
“It's nothing!,” I shouted.
His brows furrowed, and my hands flung to my mouth.
“I'm sorry sir, I didn't mean to speak to you like that,”
He turned and headed back to his bed,
“Dismiss the maids when they get here, I want some peace and quiet,” he said without looking up at me.
“Y..yes sir,”
My knees trembled as I walked to the door, “Make me breakfast,” he finally said.
Italian pasta. I'd prefer to eat in the dining area today,” he said, his gaze fixed on a laptop he had just picked up.
"Yes, sir,” I answered and walked out.
When I got downstairs, the maids all lingered in the living room; some moved to the kitchen while the others shared work amongst themselves.
“Hello,” I said, but they couldn't hear over the loud chatter. "Hey! "I shouted; this time they all turned to look at me.
“Uh… Mr. Blackwood wants everybody out of the house,” I said calmly.
They exchanged shocked glances.
“He didn't go to work?"
I shook my head.
One of the girls around my age put her hand over her mouth. "Really?"
"What is it?"
"Mr. Blackwood is a workaholic; he would never skip work even though he is sick,” the girl explained.
"Well, that is none of our business,” an older maid said. “Let's go."
They all turned and walked out of the place; as the door shut, I moved to the kitchen to cook.
Minutes later, I finished and placed the food on the dining table; before I could go up to call him, I saw him descending the stairs.
He had changed into a pair of black sweatpants and a black T-shirt, short sleeves, which revealed his veiny arms. I swallowed as I looked at it. His black hair bounced against his forehead as he walked down.
He glanced at me before he pulled out a seat and sat on it.
“I'll leave now, sir,” I said and turned to leave.
His hands suddenly grabbed mine. I gasped and looked at him in shock. "S…sir?"
Did he want something?
Had I done something wrong?
- Writer
