Don't Look Down

thirty-two: don't say you're in love

I simultaneously feel and hear the rustle of the sheets as he shifts again. "No, because it's a bed." The whisper of his breath on my face signifies he's facing me.

I'm relieved by his admission. He's not uncomfortable because of me. It's the bed. Which explains something.

"Is that why you always sleep on the couch? Because you have a weird issue with beds?"

He chuckles, sending wisps of hair fluttering against my cheek. His ease makes me smile.

"Partially, yes. They're what I'm used to," he says. "I've jumped from lots of places growing up and unlike spare beds, there was always a couch."

My heart twinges at the thought of him jumping from home to home, not only as a child but as an adult. I resist the urge to sweep him into my embrace, offering him a place he can stay permanently. "And the other reasons?"

"I like the television. It breaks up the silence and gives me something to do when I can't sleep."

I remember his soft confession the night after we first had sex. I hadn't been brave enough to ask then, but I am now. "You've said that before; that you can never sleep. Why?"

"What's with the sudden caring and sharing session?"

Because I'm in love with you and there's still so much about you I don't know.

"What's with the deflection?"

He doesn't answer. I listen to the breath he pulls into his lungs, but once it's released, silence is all that remains. Just a quiet, black silence. It's unbearable. I suddenly understand why he hates it so much.

I reach onto the nightstand and grab the remote to flip on the TV across the room. The screen flickers to life, illuminating us in an oceanic glow a few seconds before the low sounds ease the quiet.

Hoping his appreciation of the television loosens him up, I settle back against my pillow and answer his question. "Fine, I'm nosy."

His eyes intently study me, working over my face, pensive and apprehensive. It has me realizing whatever reason he has for not sleeping is personal and private.

Seth rolls onto his back, focusing on the ceiling. I'm certain he's shutting down like he has in the past, locking me out of the precious vault containing his secrets, and then, "Nightmares."

I blink, feeling the significance of his confession and the choice he's made to share it with me. I can only imagine what his nightmares hold after everything he's done. Visuals of tattered faces, bloody limbs, and agonizing pain filter through. I decide not to push him further. Reliving them once is enough. I don't want him to feel that hurt again.

But then he says, "The crimes never bothered me. It was all just a game, taking from another rich family in the organization so mine could gain power. We all did it." I figured as much, but don't utter a word as I hang onto his next. "It's the faces I can't erase, the ones on the outside who had no idea who they'd stumbled into business with. The one's who couldn't pay. I see their misery, hear the crack of bone and their screams. I feel their blood on my hands."

He lifts his right hand above him, rubbing his thumb and index finger together. He's transfixed. "It's warm and thick and suffocates the fuck out of me."

The room pulsates with his sorrow and he goes quiet. He's retreated into the dark again, but this time, he's tugging me along, welcoming me in. It's why I don't intrude. This is his moment, not mine, and I'll follow him anywhere.

"You asked me once if I'd go back if I wasn't tired of Calvin's bullshit and lies." He's still watching his fingers, revolving them in slow circles as he unloads his confessions. The entire time I only watch him.