Sunshine (10 page)

Chapter 10
No One’s Normal
“Now our world's colliding, and I feel walls.”-The Red Paintings

My back hurts from falling asleep in the bathtub, and I can barely keep my eyes open, so I let them shut again.
“Sophie,” says a calm whisper. I can’t make out whose voice it is, or if I’m really hearing it at all, so I try to go back to sleep.
I’m so tired.
“Sophie, can you hear me?” Right in my ear, right next to me.
Left thigh feels tight. Why does my leg feel so tight?
My eyes bolt open to see the bottom of the porcelain tub I’m sitting in. And it isn’t white anymore.
It’s dark red.
Light red you can get away with. A paper cut. A scratch.
But dark red is always bad.
Instantly I start hyperventilating. Somewhere in my mind I know I’m not dreaming. I know that the voice I heard was a person talking to me, trying to wake me up. I can’t bring myself to look at anything but the dark red stain growing in the bottom of the tub.
There’s something cold on my face and again I’m reminded that I’m not alone. What if it’s Jade or Stevie? They already worry way too much about me as it is. This little stunt won’t exactly help convince them that I’m okay.
I want to run into my room and crawl under the blankets and sleep for days. I want to do anything but be here in a bathtub filling up with my own blood with some person who wasn’t supposed to know this about me knowing this about me and trying to help me because they feel bad for me.
“Look at me,” they say quietly.
I don’t want to, but they’re holding my head in their hands and forcing me to face them. It’s either do as they say, or fall asleep and not have any control over this situation whatsoever.
I slowly look up at the person who is in the bathroom with me.
It’s the man who always seems to be in the right place at the right time. Myles.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
“It’s okay,” he lets go of my face. “I’m going to help you.”
I don’t want to have to process what’s going on right now. I don’t want him here. His hands are moving almost too fast for me to see. Rolling up my pajama bottoms. “Don’t!” I say a little too loud.
“I have to. You’re bleeding,” he says very matter-of-factly.
Why am I bleeding anyway?
I remember the razor. Then nothing. I fell asleep. Passed out is more like it. I look at my hands. The shiny metal now stained dark red in my right hand.
This has only happened to me once before. I remember a dream I’ve had. A memory I’ve had.
I was ten years old.
It flashes to me walking into piano lessons.
Flashes forward to after the lesson. I feel sad and sick and I don’t know why. So I go to the bathroom and sit on top of the toilet seat. There’s a little white rabbit on the red fabric of my t-shirt. I take a bobby pin out of my hair and stare at it. I’m chewing the little rubber part off.
Then there’s a blank spot.
Flash.
The word “stupid” is etched red in my shoulder.

“God,” is all I can say. I search my shoulder to find the mark now, but it’s long gone. Covered by tattoos and time. Seeming to notice that I’ve just realized what’s going on, Myles takes the razor out of my open palm and chucks it into the trashcan across the room.
My leg is throbbing because Myles is putting something on it that burns. I can smell it. Rubbing alcohol. I pull away again.
“It’s alright,” Myles says just above a whisper.
I stare up at the ceiling and try not to think about what happened when I was ten. Or that Myles is in here, trying to stop blood from gushing everywhere.
Something is being wrapped around my leg pretty tightly. “This should help stop it,” he explains quietly. I feel really dizzy, and it takes me a second to recognize that it’s because I’m still breathing in and out a little too fast.
My pajama leg is gently rolled down again. Glancing down proves there's really no point in that, there's a jagged, bloody hole in the material. He wipes his hands on the dark purple towel hanging off the edge of the tub, then they’re on either side of my face again. He’s looking directly into my eyes now. They’re so blue that all I see is my horrified expression staring back at me.
“Sophie,” he says. “Close your eyes.”
That’s just about the last thing I want to do alone in my bathroom in the middle of the night with a guy. I violently shake my head back and forth, no.
“Please,” he whispers.
I close my eyes.
Myles keeps one hand on my face and then he reaches around my back and rubs it up and down. He tells me to take deep breaths. He tells me it’s okay. I don’t believe him, but eventually I manage to breathe normally.
And it’s very quiet.
Myles only looks at my leg which is now wrapped in thick gauze under my pajamas. “It’s not that deep,” he says finally. “But you lost a lot of blood.” I look around and notice that too. The tub is completely covered in it, mainly where I’m sitting. “I should take you to the hospital.”
A wave of horror washes over me. There is no way I can go to the hospital. Hospitals send bills. People other than me could find those bills. And then there would be questions. “No,” I say.
“I think you need stitches,” he says.
“No,” I say more firmly. “I’ll be fine.”
Now it’s quiet again. His eyes move around like he’s thinking of an alternative. “How about this,” he starts. “If it’s still bleeding in the morning, will you let me take you to see my mom?”
I’m about to say no again, but he’s not done talking.
“She’s a nurse at the hospital, I’m sure she’d help. And she won’t tell anyone if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Maybe,” I barely answer just so he’ll stop.
“Do you think you can walk?”
I try to look like I’m thinking about it, but I’m not. I know I can’t walk, but I don’t want him to catch on. “Maybe,” I repeat.
I lean my right hand against the shower wall and try to pull myself up, while only using my right leg to stand on. And also trying not to look at the dark red tub or slip in it.
I manage to get to a standing position.
“You okay?” Myles’ arms are stretched toward me in case I fall, I’m guessing.
“So far.”
I figure if I only stand on my left leg for a short second, it won’t hurt, and I’ll be able to walk, but pain shoots through my entire leg and I feel blood start to seep into the gauze.
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” Myles says.
“I’m fine,” I shoot back.
Myles is laying a towel on the linoleum. I wonder why he’s doing that until I look down to see that my socks have blood on then and if he doesn’t put something down, I’ll track it all over the place.
Now all I have to do is hop to the edge of the tub. He can help me get out and I can probably walk the rest of the way.
But Myles has other plans.
He reaches over and wraps an arm half way around my waist. My left side is the closest, and I concentrate on not leaning my whole weight onto him.
“It’s okay, just use your right leg to move,” he says.
I want to do it my own way, but I can’t think of any better option to get out. He helps me over the edge and onto the towel on the floor. I try to lean away from him as I take off my socks. Then we slowly start walking to my room. Every movement hurts.
“Maybe I should carry you?” Myles asks.
“No way,” I whisper. This is as close to Myles as I can handle right now.
Myles takes a towel and lays it down on my sheets. I sit in the middle of it, and Myles rolls up another towel underneath my knee. I guess he thinks this will help.
It kind of does.
I lie back as Myles covers my legs with one of my blankets. I hadn’t noticed until just now that I’m shaking. He sits in my desk chair, looking at my leg underneath the blanket.
We’re quiet again.
He asks inevitable question: “What happened?”
I don’t want to tell him anything.
“I just want to know.”
“Why does it matter?”
He shrugs, still looking at my leg. “I guess it doesn’t.”
I gulp hard. “I don’t know.”
He stares at me. “How do you not know?” his voice is gentle.
“I don’t know,” I say like an idiot. I shrug. “How did you get into my bathroom? The door was locked.” The question pops into my head out of nowhere, and then before I can think it through it leaves my mouth.
He doesn’t say anything, but I can see his face tighten slightly. Something’s going on here, and I need to figure it out. “And how the hell do you always know where I am?” I blurt out. “The beach, the woods, and now…how do you do that?” I sound like I’m accusing him more than just asking him a question.
“You’re tired,” he says, directing his attention back to my leg under the blanket again. “Maybe now isn’t the best time.”
“I want to know some things too,” I shoot back at him.
It’s only fair, damn it.
He sighs. “It’s complicated.”
Then silence.
I’m about to give up, but he takes a deep breath. “What would you like to know first?”
“Explain the whole beach thing, you couldn’t have seen where I was going.” I try to ignore the dull throbbing in my leg.
“I’m not exactly…normal,” he says.
I nod, waiting for him to go on.
“I can hear and see things from people.” He looks at me for a second, then away again.
“What does that even mean?” I’m already confused.
“Images. Memories. Thoughts once in a while. I get feelings about certain things,” he pauses. “Uhm.” He starts thinking again. “Sometimes I can see things that will happen. I can always feel what people are feeling though.” His eyes settle on my leg again. “It hurts a lot, but not a sharp pain, kind of like a throbbing,” he says it like he’s trying to prove it.
I gulp.
“So when you ran from your house last night to the beach, I could feel you were upset. But not because of what was going on. I think maybe your mom said something to you.”
I nod, because she did.
“I could feel how far away you were,” he says.
I gulp again. I have to admit, this is not what I was expecting, but hey, it could be worse. “So,” I continue the conversation. “Tonight, when I went on my walk, was it the same thing?” I ask cautiously.
“Yes. Only instead of following how upset you were, I followed something else.”
I have a feeling in the pit of my stomach that if he’s lying, he wouldn’t be so nervous telling me, but I just have to make sure. “What did you follow?”
“I can’t really explain. It felt like there was something underneath my skin, moving around. Like spiders or something.” He’s staring at his hands, but he’s not lying.
“And just now? The same thing?” I have to force myself to ask.
“That feeling wouldn’t go away. It felt less intense when I was further away from you, but then it suddenly got stronger, and then my leg started hurting,” he says, looking back at me.
I swallow before I speak again. “But I blacked out, I didn’t feel my leg hurting until you woke me up,” I say, somewhat desperately trying to catch him making something up.
“I know that,” he says. “But I can feel pain coming from anyone, even if that person’s mind has not felt the pain coming from their body yet.” He pauses, then continues. “I wanted to make sure you were alright. Your pulse was getting weaker.”
“Wait, you can feel that too?” I interrupt.
He nods, looking away from me again. Another secret given away. “I saw the light in your bathroom was on.”
“And my door was locked,” I remind him.
He sighs. “No, it wasn’t.”
Now he’s lying. Not only is he not looking at me anymore, his voice sounds less confident. His eyes are searching for something to stare at.
“Yes. It was,” I say. “Trust me. I don’t go and do something like that if I’m not going to lock the door.”
Those iceberg eyes stare right through me. “It’s late. Do you think we could talk about this some other time?”
I think about what he’s told me. Seeing things, hearing things, feeling what people feel. I can't help the thought from seeping into my head that he heard or saw or felt something when we saw Jack tonight. But I force it away. I tell myself that he didn't. I'm safe.
With that out of the way, I think about these abilities in general. It’s weird, but not totally impossible. However, I think I’ve had enough bizarre things for the night. I nod.
“So you don’t think I’m strange?” he asks after a while.
Suddenly remembering why we’re in this situation, I snort to show him that I’m in no mood for a serious conversation. “No.
I’m
the strange one.”
“No. You’re not,” he’s serious and looking straight at me. “I think you’re unhappy and don’t know how to handle it.”
I blink a few times, not sure if he actually just said that to me.
We’re quiet again, but not for long. “You should sleep,” Myles suggests.
My alarm says it’s almost three am. “Yeah.” I lie all the way down, trying to ignore the dull throbbing in my leg. I shut my eyes. It’s better than talking.
When I open my eyes it’s morning. And Myles is still here.
He’s sitting in my computer chair in the corner of my room, wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday. I try not to notice a brown stain on his left knee.
“You were here all night?” My voice is hoarse.
He looks a little surprised. “You wanted me to leave?”
Under any other circumstance I would say yes, but I remind myself that Myles is the reason I most likely didn’t bleed to death in my bathtub last night.
“No, I guess not,” I say. “It’s just…didn’t you sleep last night?” I’d hate to think he just sat there all night staring at me while I slept. I shake off a shiver I feel coming on.
“A little.” He shrugs.
“Oh.”
He’s staring at his lap. “So, how’s your leg?”
It hurts a lot. Burns. Throbs. “Fine.”
His mouth twitches. “No, it isn’t.”
This is going to suck, not being able to lie. I pull my sheets and comforter off of my legs. My thigh feels heavy for some reason. I roll up my pajamas and see why.
The layers and layers of gauze are on the verge of being soaked with my own blood in one spot. I think it’s pretty awesome how not afraid of blood I am. I mean most people would feel sick at the sight of their own body bleeding so much; get nauseous and junk. But I am kind of getting worried. I’ve never bled this much before.
“I’ll call my mom,” Myles says.
I open my mouth to say no, then tell myself I’m being stupid. My leg has been bleeding all night. I can’t afford to be stupid for a while. “Okay,” I answer instead. I swing my legs over the edge of my bed. That hurts a lot.
Myles is getting up with his cell phone in his hand. “Just don’t try to walk until I come back, okay?”
“Okay,” I repeat.
He leaves and I hear him go upstairs. I glance at the clock. Seven am. I start thinking of what I should do next. I need to change, but I can’t get up. My eyes scan around for any clothes that might be on the floor, and I find a pair of sweatpants wrinkled and half under my bed. Scooting myself over to them, I listen to hear if Myles is coming back down the stairs yet. He’s not.
As fast as I can, I shake off the pajama bottoms and pull on the dark blue sweatpants. It’s easier than I thought it would be, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell.
Myles comes back a few minutes later as I’m still thinking about the things I need to do to hide what happened last night from everyone who wasn’t there.
I don’t notice I’m thinking out loud.
“I need to throw out these towels and my clothes. I have to clean up the bathroom,” I say.
Myles sits down next to me, but not too close. “Don’t worry about that. I cleaned everything up while you were sleeping. And we can throw this stuff in the trash outside on our way out,” he says.
No one has ever cleaned up one of my messes for me before, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. He says everything so calmly; like this isn’t the first time he’s had to do this. I find myself staring at him.
“Something wrong?” he asks as he’s bawling up my clothes and the towels like he’s doing spring cleaning.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “But you seem awfully calm about all of this. I mean, you don’t have to help me,” I start babbling. “It’s my problem. It shouldn’t be added to the ones you have already,” I add on, suddenly thinking about why Myles most likely slept here last night.
How his problems are not created by himself and himself alone.
“You’re my friend,” he says like I’m supposed to know this. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.” He shrugs. “You did the same for me.”
“Oh,” is all I can say to that.
“My mom says we can come over whenever we’re ready,” he says after a few minutes.
I try to fake a smile, but I figure it wouldn’t matter, knowing what I now know about Myles. We don’t say anything to each other for the longest moment.
“I think we should go,” he suggests.
I try to push myself up from my bed, but my arms are all wobbly and I can’t.
“I think I should probably carry you upstairs anyway,” Myles tells me. Before I can even think about saying no, I’m interrupted. “I’ll just carry you upstairs, and then you can try to walk the rest of the way.” When I don’t say anything back, he adds on, “You’ll end up hurting yourself more if you try to do it by yourself.”
I sigh, “Fine.”
I don’t know how I’m going to manage to not get all uncomfortable and sick as I throw my arms around his neck and he helps me up, but it’s easy to ignore when my leg is on fire. “Wait,” I say, and he stops lifting me for a second as a new idea occurs to me. “Why don’t we take the door attached to my apartment?”
“It’s too far to the driveway,” he says like I know, which I kind of do. “I know you want to walk as much as you can because you don’t like me touching you.”
I can’t really deny that, now can I?
As we’re about to leave my living room and Myles is opening the door to the stairs, a real scary thought occurs to me: what if Stevie and Jade see Myles carrying me out of my apartment?