The man from the Woods

Chapter 4

The next morning, I wake up to the realisation of the mysterious man still sleeping in my living room. As I climb out of bed, a sharp pain shoots through my foot, reminding me of the previous night's events. I gasp, falling back onto the bed, and clutch my foot in agony. "Owyhee, owyhee, ooowwwyyhheee!" I think, wincing in pain. A trip to the emergency room is definitely necessary. I carefully place one foot on the ground, keeping the other elevated, and begin to hop toward the door. When I reach it, I lean against the doorframe for support, take a deep breath, and slowly open the door.

I reach the living room, feeling a thrill at the prospect of seeing him again. But my excitement is short-lived, as I'm taken aback by the sight of the blanket draped across his chest. I stand there for a moment, recalling his face from the previous night - the way he looked when he took the flower. My gaze falls upon the blossom on the floor, now missing two petals. I sigh, knowing I need to replace it. With a tired effort, I hop back to my room, get dressed, and prepare for the day. The constant hopping exhausts me, and every breath feels like a chore. As I reach the front door, I glance back at the couch, where the mysterious man remains asleep. I'm puzzled - why am I going to so much trouble for him? It doesn't make sense, but then again, nothing in my life ever has.

As I sit in the ER, my eyes are fixed on the clock, my nervousness grows. But it's not the medical procedures that unsettle me - I've never been afraid of needles or hospitals. My mind wanders to the mysterious man from the woods, still asleep on my sofa. Questions swirl in my head as I watch the minutes tick by. How long will he remain unconscious? What triggered his fainting spell? And, most pressing of all, what if he wakes up while I'm away?

"My horse-loving, accident-prone child, it's been a while since you've graced the ER with your presence," my father says with a hint of amusement, his words overlapping his ( Doctor Dodge's) questioning gaze. "What's the story this time? Did you break something again?" I simply shake my head and lift my foot, showcasing the injury. Doctor Dodge (my father) nods and says, "Alright, come with me." I hop along behind him, my injured foot dictating my walk.

In his office, I perch on the hospital bed, while Doctor Dodge sits in a chair before me, intently unwinding the bandage and my makeshift repair. 'How's the cottage?' he asks abruptly, as he removes the gauze. I respond curtly, trying to minimize small talk: 'It's wonderful.' He presses on, his tone cautious but the words still slightly jarring: 'And are you still happy living on that abandoned land?' I detect a hint of disapproval, and my response comes laced with a subtle venom: 'Yes, ever since I bought it, I've been loving all the space.' My words are tinged with spite, stinging like salt on an open wound.

Here the little petty war begins

I sit staring at my father as he examines the gash in my foot, a faint flicker of resentment burning within me. It's hard to forget the past, especially when it involves his betrayal. A few years ago, he left my mother for his personal assistant, claiming she gave him the attention he needed. But in reality, it was a blessing in disguise for my mother. She's flourished since his departure, finding true happiness with her new husband, Greg. He brings a smile to her face every day, showering her with love and affection - even hand-picking flowers for her daily. A small gesture, but one that speaks volumes about his character. Something my father, now carefully suturing my wound, never managed to do.

"How's your mother and Greg?" he asks, his eyes focused on my foot. I roll my eyes, hoping he doesn't notice. "Mom and Dad are great," I reply, my tone is casual. He looks up, catching the last part of my sentence, and I pretend I'm oblivious, staring blankly at the ceiling. "You still call him dad?" he asks, clearing his throat. I respond, smartly, "Yep, he still treats me like his blood-related daughter." He sighs, finishing the last stitch, and I say, "Thanks, Doctor Dodge," as he begins wrapping new gauze around my foot. "Wait here," he instructs, before walking out of his office. I'm left sitting on the bed, swinging my good foot idly.

He hands me the crutches as he walks back. "You can't ride until the wound has fully healed," he says in his doctor's tone. "And as your doctor, I demand that you clean it daily." He pauses, his expression softening. "But as your father, I want to say... I've missed you. I really wish you could come visit more often." For a second, my heart feels the warmth of his words, and then the sudden realization of what he said hits me. "You want me to get into more accidents?" I ask, attempting a joke while also trying to make him nervous. He looks at me and cracks a small smirk, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Here the war ends.

With a sigh, I look at him, then down at my hands as I nervously rub my thumbs together. "I can't do that to Mom," I say, feeling a pang of guilt. His face falls, and he looks hurt. He just wants his daughter to be his daughter and have a family, but... "She stayed when you left, and I can't hurt her by choosing you after everything. I'm sorry, Dad," I say, feeling my heart heavy with emotion. Even though he did what he did... he's still my father.

"But she's happy now, and she won't even care," he says, sounding like a lovestruck boy trying to convince a girl to choose him over her angry father.

"Usually, it's the things we think won't hurt us that end up causing the most pain, especially when they remain hidden," I reply, taking the crutches and wobbling out of his office. A few meters down the hall, I remember his advice. Wait, did he just say I can't ride? What will Dex think? How disappointed will he be not getting his daily exercise? And then it hits me again - the man from the woods is still at my home, like a hailstorm. I try to hop faster towards the exit sign.

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Hey passionate reader.🫀
I'm so proud of you, still reading this hopeful memory of a book.

I have a small itsy, bitsy favour...t...to...um...ask. Can you maybe, possibly, definitely vote for my book, please and... THANK YOU!!
I LOVE YOU 💞 and I hope it's still good enough for you.

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