Page 25 of Juniper Unraveling

Reaching out a hand, he glides his fingertips down the brick, holds his palm there, and drops to his knees to look through the hole, as if he can’t believe he’s on this side of it. There’s a sense of wonderment and curiosity that seems to guide his every move.

He turns to look at me again, and even in the dim flashlight, I can see his eyes tracking up and down, staring back at me as though I’m completely foreign.

It takes a bit of effort, squinting my eyes, but I break from my momentary trance, anxious to get back home, and kneel down to my pack.

I don’t notice at first that Six has moved in closer, until he kneels down across from me with his nose lifted in the air, as if smelling me. In some ways, he reminds me of an animal, and when he lifts my hands to his face, inhaling, I feel like prey at the mercy of a formidable predator.

It’s in that moment that I realize how little I actually know of him. And now that I’ve seen the full size of him, and felt his strength, a small tremble of fear runs parallel to that vein of excitement from earlier.

“I, um …. I brought you some different clothes.” I swallow a harsh gulp, watching him release my hand and set his gaze on me. The blood in his eye from earlier still gives him a frightening appearance, but certainly doesn’t detract from his chiseled features.

Tugging the shirt from the pack, I hold it up, estimating that it might be a bit snug on him. Perhaps the pants, as well, but I’d much prefer to be seen sneaking about with a half-dressed adolescent boy over an escaped patient.

His gaze falls to the shirt and back to me. Crossing his arms over one another, he lifts the baggy shirt of his uniform over his head, and my next breath catches in my throat.

His skin is marred with all kinds of scars—some long, some short, some sewn, and others that look as if they were left open to heal wrong. What I mistook as frail was nothing more than an illusion beneath the oversized shirt. Muscles far too big for him, far too developed for as hungry as he seemed, poke through his skin. Tight cords that seem so out of place and unnatural. His body is chiseled and lean. I expected a bag of bones, but as my eyes wander, lumps of muscle shadow any evidence of starvation.

It doesn’t even occur to me that I’ve reached out for him, until my fingertips make contact with one particularly gnarly scar, and he flinches.

“I’m sorry.” I retract my hand, stuffing it into my pants pocket, and wait as he slips the borrowed T-shirt over his head. A welcomed diversion, because the sight of his scars is too much, coupled with the other tangle of emotions going on inside of me.

I hand him the lounge pants and twist away, giving him the privacy to change out of his worn and dirty pants. When I turn to face him again, he’s fully dressed, catching me off guard in his normal clothes. Before, he looked like a prisoner over a patient, and now he looks like one of the boys on this side of the wall, save for his scars and bloody eye.

After I’ve stuffed the discarded clothes and the rope into my pack, we hustle through the woods.

“Follow me, and stay close.” I speak softly and take his hand, a gesture that guides his eyes down to our clasped fingers.

His movements, so fluid and full of wonder, make him look like he’s in a dream or something, trying to make sense of the world he’s slipped inside.

Six trips twice before catching himself, and we finally reach the electric fence. I step through first, and hold the wire to accommodate his significantly taller frame. Sticking to the shadows, I don’t say a word, as I lead him along the path, back home.

It must be after midnight when we reach the long gravel driveway, and for the first time, I breathe easy. Six trails my steps, his eyes wandering the surroundings, as if in awe.

“You’ll be safe here,” I say over my shoulder.

We arrive at the front door, and I turn the knob slowly, opening the door a crack, to peer into the dark foyer. Even though Papa’s a pretty sound sleeper, I’m not taking any chances. Finger pressed to my closed lips, I signal Six to move quietly, and as he steps into the house, I close the door behind him.

He lifts his head, his gaze skimming everything as we climb the stairs to the second story.

A thud halts my steps, and I freeze.

At no further sound, I keep on, leading Six to my bedroom.

Once inside, I close the door behind Six and rest my head against the panels.

Breathe.

The entire walk was riddled with the terrifying prospect of getting caught, up until this very moment, when the line of tension squeezing my neck finally softens with relief.

When I spin away from the door, Six is holding my pillow to his face, his chest filling with deep breaths, as if he can’t get enough of my smell. Face still buried in the fabric, his head tracks left then right.

Specks of blood sprinkle the floor, and I follow them to where he stands, scanning him for the source. Blood trickles from his hand and I hold it out, noticing small dots of red on my pillowcase. A long gash sits in his palm, I’m guessing a scratch from climbing, but the severity of it makes me think he might’ve opened an existing wound there.

I lead him to the bathroom, where I already filled the sink with water earlier, before the electricity shut down. Nabbing a washcloth from the closet, I dip it into the chilled liquid and dab his wound, revealing what is definitely an existing gash. I clean it and place gauze over top, securing it with tape.

Dipping the cloth a second time, I squeeze the bloody water into the bathtub, then soak it again, before scrubbing away the dirt on his arms.

Head tipped, with his arms stretched out in front of him, he watches me as I wash away the grime. His scent reminds me of grinding gears and the spark of metal on metal. A slight body odor emanates from beneath the hard iron smell of his skin, and I add a bit of lavender soap to the rag, cleaning his arms and feet as best I can for now. Tomorrow, I’ll help him shower, but tonight, I simply want to wash away some of the grime and dirt. When I rinse away the soap from his arms, he lifts them to his face, sniffing his own skin. He grabs my hands, cupping them to his nose, and closes his eyes, as if lost for a moment.