Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
╚═══════════════╝
H E R
He was strange.
This strange boy who was maybe-almost-sort-of the Carl I knew, but also someone else relearning a lifetime worth of moments that had taken place in only a couple short years.
Memories returned to him, in bits and pieces. Never a full picture. So he'd question me on the small details. Patrick's laughter. The yellow waves of Beth's hair. The stale smell of the Terminus box car. As if he was trying to paint it all into his mind.
At least things weren't terrible between us. Sure, they could be tense at times but he was still accepting of me and that's what mattered. He was no longer heavily medicated, either. I continued my bedside sitting long after he needed it. As much as I found myself perplexed with him, I still enjoyed his company. Or at least what was left of it. While he could be caustic, there was an undertone of warmth he possessed that had returned.
So while he was strange, he was no longer a stranger.
So, yes, he was Carl. Just a little sadder, quieter, and often confused but easily reminded. I would never even mention the single physical difference, as there was an unspoken agreement that it was something we both would ignore.
I was beside him on the bed, him curled under the covers on his side, and me sitting against the headboard reading towards the middle of The Shining in the lamplight. I wasn't exactly sure if a horror novel was the best thing to attempt entertaining Carl with, but I was set on finishing it as I was heavily intrigued with anything Stephen King had written.
"'And then his daddy had burst out through The Overlook's big double doors, and he was burning like a torch. His clothes were in flames, his skin had acquired a dark and sinister tan that was growing darker by the moment, his hair was a burning bush.'" I continued on in my storyteller voice although I knew Carl had long ago stopped listening. "'Then Danny woke up, his throat tight with fear, his hands clutching at the sheets and blankets. Had he screamed? He looked over at his mother Wendy lay on her side, blankets up to her chin, a sheath of straw-colored hair lying against her cheek. She looked like a child herself. No, he had not screamed.'"
With a glance at Carl, I realized his eye was closed, lashes delicately dusting his cheek. It was hard to determine whether he was genuinely asleep or merely putting on an act. His body was always so stiff now, a rigidity that had become his constant state, even in moments of rest. If this was indeed an act, it was his subtle way of requesting solitude. Respecting his need for space, I sighed softly, closing my book and placing it on the nightstand next to the empty plate of a finished casserole.
