Page 23 of Juniper Unraveling

Oh, God.

I toss the pillow from my face and kick back to a sitting position, with the wall behind me pressing into my spine. Shame has me tugging up my knees, pulling them together, as it usually does the few times my hands have wandered there, and I will myself to stamp out the dirty thoughts inside my head.

About a year ago, I nabbed a book from the library, unaware that it was erotic in nature. Once the shock wore off, I became immersed in the explicit sexual scenes, almost enthralled, fantasizing about them during chores and before I fell asleep. The curiosity drove me to seek out more of those books, opening my eyes to things I never thought about much. How a man could bring pleasure to a woman. How she could crave his touch, obsessively, in some cases. I eventually learned the way my fingers could recreate those sensations, and in moments when Papa wasn’t home, or had fallen asleep, I indulged in the visuals locked inside my head.

It wasn’t until Papa stumbled upon one of my books, and acted embarrassed to have seen it, that I felt any level of humiliation afterward. From that point on, they became a true guilty pleasure. One I kept to myself.

Like Six.

There’s something about him that draws me in—a duality that captivates me. He needs someone to care about him, to touch him gently and soothe his pain. At the same time, there’s a darkness about him that warns me to stay away.

I can’t help it, though. The wounded boy has consumed my thoughts.

I have four hours to finish my chores and head out. The north side is a two- hour hike, and I’m damn well going back today.

Promise, or not, I have to see Six again.

* * *

This joy of seeing another human being is indescribable. I’m around others all day long. At home, at the market—hell, I passed at least two dozen others on the way to these woods. But for some reason, the sight of Six’s back as he faces away from me makes me feel like I’ve been stranded on another planet for years, and he’s the first of my species that I’ve stumbled upon.

“Psst!” I whisper with a smile, but when he turns to face me, the joy fades into pangs of disgust.

His lip is split, bleeding from a center cut. A knot, the color of a ripe plumb, sits at his cheekbone, beneath his eye that has filled with blood, making him look as inhuman as the Ragers who pace behind him. The soft blue of his iris is hidden behind an oversized pupil, and I gasp.

“Six? What happened to you?” The tremble in my voice comes as a surprise, even to me. Living with a physician, exposed to patients wandering in and complaining of a random wound, or ailment, has made me somewhat desensitized to the suffering of others. Six’s inflictions tug at my heart so strongly, I curl my hands into fists at the sight of him. “Did they do that to you?”

He gives a subtle, almost half-nod and turns away from me, and I know he doesn’t want me to ask any more questions.

“I brought you some soup. And bread.”

His shoulders slouch, as if he’s reluctant to give in to his hunger, but that’s the thing about starvation. It’s hard to ignore. Even where pride is concerned.

I open the bread wrapped in cheesecloth and pass it to him through the hole.

Our hands touch when he accepts it, and he recoils.

I don’t move, the proffered bread still in my palm, and he reaches for it again, allowing his fingers to brush my skin. With my forehead pressed into the wall, I close my eyes, focusing on his touch, until it disappears. The phantom stroke of his finger tickles my palm as I reach into my pack for the cup of soup that I’ve stored in one of the many empty pickle jars Papa keeps in the pantry. Nothing is discarded if it can be used.

The glass jar just fits through the hole that’s about six inches from the ground, and again, Six steals the opportunity to touch me. As he accepts the soup with one hand, another gently holds my fingers, tugging my hand through the hole, until I’m elbow deep and pressed against the concrete. Unable to see his ministrations, I allow him to explore my fingers, taking in the heat of his breath against my knuckles as he drags his mouth and nose over my skin. The sensation dies away as he releases me, and I pull my arm back through, rubbing the place where he touched me, before I kneel down to watch him eat.

He gulps back the broth with a moan that almost sounds like Mmmm. He finishes it off faster than I expected and pushes the jar back through to me, this time without touching my hand.

As his jaw works the bread, my eyes are drawn to another scar below his collar that disappears beneath his shirt.

“Can I see your scar?” I ask, hopeful that the question doesn’t scare him off. “The one at your neck.”

He pulls the collar of his shirt away, tipping his head to show me yet another grisly cut that extends across the base of his throat, just above a silver band there.

I try to imagine a reason for the wound, but the careless pattern of his stitches tells me there is none, and the knots twisting in my stomach are the first pangs of fear that these are the marks of sadism. That whoever has done this isn’t truly a doctor, because doctors don’t leave careless marks like that. Doctors aren’t supposed to hurt patients.

Rolling onto my back, I twist away, to keep him from seeing the agony of my intrusive stare and the tears welling in my eyes at the sight of his pain. How could I possibly cry for a stranger, when I hardly cry for those I know well? Just last week, Papa told me Mrs. Sanders passed away. The older woman was ill for many years, a regular patient of Papa’s who often stopped in for some of his herbal teas.

Yet, I felt nothing and silently chided my coldness.

The emotions that Six brings out in me almost don’t feel real. Like I’m tricking my brain, somehow, and this is a test to see if I still have a heart. That I’ve not become so detached from humankind.

It is real, though. His suffering breaks my heart.