Savior

The Boy and the Umbrella

I dream of Louis.

These dreams, though, are not the nightmares of my past. These dreams are much worse.

They do not feature Louis as a red-faced monster with slung words and clenched fists –those images I am used to, those memories I can handle. The Louis that stars in these new dreams is kind and reassuring, the Louis of days long past. He takes me on picnics and brushes my hair, holds me during horror movies, and comforts me when I cry.

This is the 'Before' Louis. The Louis that emanated love and hope. The 'After 'Louis ate this version of himself, devoured him whole and let a monster take his place.

These dreams are the graveyard of treasured memories past. Where the Louis who gave me a family and showed me love slowly withered and died away.

I would rather feel his fists on my skin than feel his hand caressing my cheek. It would hurt less, make the recovery easier.

These dreams are much worse.

When the memories become too much I wake with a jolt and a cry of pain as the stitches pull across the wounds on my abdomen and back. For just the briefest of seconds after waking I do not recall anything; the grogginess of sleep and confusion of being pulled from my dreams leaves me with a brief ignorance. In these few short seconds Louis is not dead and all is right with the world.

I revel in this short period of time before my mind catches up to my body and reality sets in. A cold sweat chills my bones and rattles my teeth –the guilt seeping deep into my heart and slowly rotting it.

But, Harry is there each time to pull me back from the edge.

His spindly fingers are gentle as they caress my back, his words hushed and sad as he reminds me that I am alive and that Louis is dead.

That I killed him.

But, that I had to kill him.

Each time, a great wave of nausea wracks my body and, like clockwork, Harry is holding up a bedpan for me to release what little bit of food I have in my stomach. I purge everything inside of me until this turns into empty wretches, until Harry's hands cease their strokes and he wipes my lips with a nearby napkin.

He will ask me if I want to talk about, though he already knows the answer.

This is how I wake up the third time I had managed to doze off in the last two days since waking.

Since awaking from –what I was told- was a two-week long coma, I have been afraid to fall asleep. Afraid that the blackness will swallow me up again and I won't be able to pull myself out this time.

That I will be trapped inside my own body all over again. A prisoner inside a lifeless skeleton, an unresponsive brain.

Trying and trying to crawl out of the black, but never seeing the light. Never reaching salvation no matter how fierce my determination, how tired I grow. Stuck inside these memories, stuck inside this body.

Aware, but not aware. Awake, but not awake.

"You were only out for two hours," Harry's voice sounds just as tired as he looks, "You should try to sleep again."

I am shaking my head before the sentence is even fully out of his mouth. Since waking up yesterday I have only managed to doze off for about two-four hours at a time. This drowsiness, of course, being a result of the drugs still being pumped through my veins.

If I had the choice, I would never sleep again.

Harry's hands guide me up to a comfortable position, but I still hiss at the pain that licks up my back and my stomach at the small adjustment.