Mila Wilson; hopeful architect, coffee addict, and college freshman. Her life is simple. Go to school, come home, sleep, start again. She likes it that way, a stable environment and a place that lets her creative thoughts flow. But when she ends up...
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A week goes by too quickly. As though I had blinked and time had sped up. Most of the time I was in and out of sleep, a concussion does that to you, a limitation that isn't particularly helpful when time is running out. John kept his distance after the first day, I wasn't sure if it was because my reaction had affected him or because he wanted to give me space to heal. Whatever it was, it sucked. The contract he had signed sitting heavily within my mind, reminding me each moment we were apart was precious time we were losing.
The fleeting moments that I was awake, and not buzzed up on pain killers, gave me time to think about everything. I had done a lot of so called 'thinking' over the last few months, at this point it was all just becoming one big mushy lump that I could barely decipher. A roller coaster of emotions, events that had changed my life, and knowledge of a functioning international criminal underworld - of which I was relatedto, wasn't exactly a light hearted thing to contemplate.
The doctor rarely visited, and when he did it was only to see how I was getting along with walking. The stint I pulled by getting out of bed and running after John had only further damaged the nerves around the wound, leaving me mainly bed ridden. He had supplied me with a pair of crutches which disgruntled me, refusing to use them each time he asked me to stand up, landing me right back in pain. My reasoning was silly, the fact that John could walk around easily having been shot multiple times on multiple occasions, and then me, not able to walk after one simple and professionally angled shot. I didn't want to be associated with weakness anymore.
And today was my way of showing it. I had been nervous to talk to John again, the separation beginning to make me edgy. So going against what the doctor had done his best nailing into me, I sat myself up and reached for the crutches. I didn't want to use them but they were my only hope of getting up the stairs unscathed. I wasn't really supposed to know where John was most of the time, but the doctor had let slip that he'd been worried about his absence, always being in his room. So yesterday I committed to having a proper shower, instead of the sponges I was left to use, which is just as gross as it sounds. Feeling fresher then I had all week gave me the confidence to finally see him.
Just like I remembered, the door is the worst part, it's heaviness using up nearly all my strength. The stairs are another story, the sweat that sticks to me as I reach the final landing making me shudder.
The bedroom door was already open, an invitation that I don't think was purposeful. As usual the room is magnificent, his taste for property never lacking. Even in a Victorian style house he had found a way to make it look modern. The walls, which should be a dark brown wood like my room, were instead painted a charcoal colour. On the back wall sat an imposing four poster bed, it's king size being unnecessary even for him.
Connected to the room are two black French doors, one side already open, giving me a glimpse of the view. The balcony attached is covered in a grey tile, the outskirt protected by an intricate black metal railing. The further I walk into the room, the more I can see out onto the balcony, pausing when I glimpse John sitting on a chair. A newspaper is spread out in front of him, along with half eaten toast and a coffee mug. I can hear my heartbeat in my ear as I move closer, I would love nothing more than to run into his arms, but at this moment it didn't seem appropriate.
