Maybe, Baby

Nineteen

It's too warm. I have no clue where this comforted came out or how my mattress turned out to be so comfortable. I can't move or open my eyes, and I don't want to. My limbs are heavy, and my eyes refuse to help me see much. I must not have slept a lot. I'm thirsty and weak, and my mouth tastes so bitter. With a lot of effort, I finally will my body roll over on my back, and with my hands, I scan the surface of the softest sheets in the world. I need to pee badly, but I also can't find the edge of the bed, which is weird because I have one person bed. Also, my hair is damp. I'm whimpering, I have a massive headache, and I'm pretty sure I emptied everything on my bathroom floor, and I will have to clean it if I ever get out of this damn bed. Where the hell is the end of this mattress?

But how did I get to my bed? Is this my bed? I still can't find the edge of the bed. I can move my whole body now, but somehow I'm still unable to see my surroundings. Everything is so dark. The smell is different, definitely not vomit. I groan as I push myself into a seating position, and that's when I see it. Well, that's when I saw him. It just shadows and shapes at first, but the longer I stare, the clearer the image becomes. It's him. I mean, I could recognize him everywhere.

He has been sitting right beside me this whole time; while I slept.

Next to the bed is Mr. Westbrook sleeping soundly on a not so comfortable-looking chair. His head is resting on what looks like an uncomfortable position. His arms crossed over his chest. I'm squinting my eyes; it can't be true. I don't know this bed or this room, but I do know him, his shape, and the scent of him.

I have to get out of here. That's all I'm thinking as I crawl slowly to the end of the bed, wincing at every rustle and squeak. I looked twice over my shoulder to check if he was still sleeping and see if he was still in that same uncomfortable position. The floor was cold, but once I could hold myself straight, I moved slowly to where I thought the door was.

"Where do you think you are going?"

I jumped at the rough tone of his voice, and in the process, my hand hits the door handle making a loud metallic noise. I felt like it was bleeding on the inside. Still, also I felt him lifting me off the floor, where I had lowered myself as an instant reaction to protect my hand from the aching pain running through it.

"Are you ok?"

"Ye-yes I'm fine," but I was not. I was not, I felt dizzy and tired, and now this bump on my hand added to the things that weren't ok with my life. It was from bad to worse. I tried to move away from him. I barely did since any harsh move made my head throb.

He sat me slowly on the made, careful like I was some china doll. Light filled the room, making me cover my face with my hands, my eyes watered, and the headache turned sharper. He whispered something; I couldn't quite catch it. As soon as the inaudible words were spoken, he took my hand carefully in his and started examining it. I felt how his long handsome fingers brush my open hand, making me shiver on the spot. Even when he wasn't doing anything, it felt like a lover's caress.

"Is not broken but," he stopped placing my hand on my lap. "There's going to be some bruising. Your skin is too translucent, it should hurt for a few days but is nothing time can't cure." I couldn't see his face nor wanted to. With my hand still shielding my face, I nodded and sat still. I pulled my hand out slowly and looked away. I'm too embarrassed by this whole situation, mainly the scene in my bedroom and now thinking of how he found me soiled in my vomit. I wanted to die.

"I would like to go to my room." My voice is weak and barely audible, but he can hear enough to say no since he's so close.

"After I left to find some painkillers and water for you found you in bed completely soaked in vomit."

I immediately looked down at what I was wearing; a dress shirt, obviously his. I then felt my n***d behind on the soft sheets.

"Did you undress me?" I'm pulling tightly on the collar, bringing it close as possible around my neck.

"Yes." This time, I do turn to face him. There's nothing there—no shame or anything related to the word. I guess I'm nothing but a child to him. Is it also expected that he would have done that and for the look of things and how damp my hair feels, he washed me too? I'm glad for that blank space in my memories. I'm happy that I don't remember his hands on my skin, that I don't know anything that happened while I was passed out in his arms—one less thing to forget about him.

I nod slowly and feel entirely n***d. He had seen it all.

"Your room needs cleaning so I brought you here."

"Your room?" I asked, curious.

"You needed someone to watch over you." His bed, shirt, and probable scent on me were his soap and shampoo, too personal. I wanted to get away. I had drunk myself to this current state with the hope of forgetting, and it had worked opposite to my goal by bringing me closer than ever. "You also need rest, is only two hours since I put you to bed," as he spoke, his fingers wrapped around my arms, lifting me to my feet. Slowly, he said as he pushed me back to the stop, I had previously occupied.