Say Something -In Progress Slow Updates

Half-Undone

Dev, Days Later

"No, thank you, Mrs. Lewis, I don't need anything, but it's good to be home, finally," Bridget says woodenly as she stands at the bottom of the stairs in the residence and contemplates climbing. She's already exhausted by the trip from the hospital.

She takes a deep breath. She puts one hand on the stair railing and a hand to her slightly bulging belly.

Mrs. Lewis stares at Bridget's stance and looks at me with crushing empathy.

It is an extremely cruel irony that because of the abdominal cavity surgery, Bridget is a little bloated in the belly. In fact, she looks like a pregnant woman newly beginning to show. I fight back the stab of sorrow and push the thought away as I pat Mrs. Lewis on the shoulder, trying to offer her a little comfort.

I might as well, since Bridget won't let me offer her any. I don't offer to carry her up the stairs. I know she won't let me.

"Elevator?" I suggest.

She shakes her head and mounts slowly. I follow, hands behind my back.

We enter our apartments and are truly alone for the first time since I found her traumatized in the bathtub. At the hospital, there is no privacy. It is the domain of the nurses and doctors. They enter one's room with no more than a courtesy knock, and then the patient is at their will.

But here, we are Lord and Lady. I said no one is to disturb us, and no one will.

She looks at the new, old rug and turns to me with wide eyes a hand over her mouth. "How is Cheddar!?!?" she exclaims.

She forgot, understandably. This is the first time she's asked about him. That's a good sign, though. That she cares about his well-being. I just wish she cared about her own.

"He's completely fine," I tell her. "Back to work."

She frowns. "Already?"

"Light duty," I say, and intentionally change the subject. "Would you like a bath?"

Her face changes, and I could bite through my tongue for recalling her to the bath—the aftermath of her assault.

"I can't take a bath," she says lightly. "Not for six weeks."

"Right. Shall I start a shower for you?"

"Later," she shrugs and moves slowly to the bed, listlessly dragging the covers down. She stares at the white sheets, hesitant.

"They are too clean for me," she says, and drags the jacquard comforter back up and lies down on her side. Away from me.

She doesn't care that she hasn't really had a proper bathing since she's been in the hospital. The nurses offered, but she wouldn't let them give her more than the barest sponging. There is adhesive growing grimy all over her arms. Her hair is greasy and smells like the horse barn. Her legs were treated by the nurses because of her injuries, but I've stared at the tiny creases of her toes caked with mud for many long nights now. And the cuticles of her fingernails, still pink with blood.

I don't care that she can't take care of herself right now, but it breaks my heart that she won't let anyone care for her properly. I can understand why not me. Or why not a stranger.

But she needs her mother and her twin, and she won't let me bring them to her.

I walk around the bed and stand before her, my hands still behind my back. It's where I mostly keep them now, to avoid the temptation of touching her casually and making her wince.

"Please let me call your mother."

"No," she says dully.

"Row, then."