the sitter | lewandowski

twenty three

23 ; some unholy war

When Saoirse woke up a few hours later, it was already morning; the sun was rising and, thanks to the familiar and cozy smell, she realized that Robert had taken her back to their little place.

Robert himself quietly lay across from the seventeen year old, all cried out and so stressed that he was practically paralyzed. Nothing really mattered to him; other than Saoirse, of course. Even Ivana incessantly ringing his phone and his fear of the future couldn't move him from his spot besides her.

"Could you turn that mess off?" Saoirse groaned, as Robert had been playing German pop music in one of his many attempts to wake the seventeen year old up. His other attempts consisted of screaming, putting ice on her face, and pinching her—the Pole even contemplated slapping her, but knew better.

"I knew it'd work." He noted, reaching over her before he turned off the radio. He remembered Saoirse sharing how she couldn't stand most of today's music; it was pitchy and repetitive, and it all sounded the same. "How are you feeling, liebe?"

Saoirse placed her chin on her forearm as she peered over at Robert. "I've felt worse."

Robert sighed. "What happened, Saoirse? When I found you, I thought you were dead. I couldn't stop panicking."

"Kati claims she laced the marijuana with heroin. My poor little body couldn't handle it." Saoirse stated, cynically, as she sat up with an eye-roll. "We have to find her, Robert—Before it's too late."

"No need." He responded, nonchalantly. "That sneaky little friend of yours took the camera with ease. She gave it to me, only after I gave her every euro in my wallet." Robert motioned to the expensive camera that sat on the nightstand. "I haven't looked through it yet, though. I'm too afraid."

Saoirse grabbed it and turned it on, rolling onto her stomach. She handed it to Robert, who did the same, and then positioned herself so that half of her body was comfortably strewn across the back of his, while the other rested on the mattress—in her view was the tip of his shoulder blade, followed by the camera screen as he turned it on.

There were, of course, only stalker-like photos of the couple. Some were of Saoirse alone, others of Robert socializing, but no one was there on the camera roll but the two individuals. Frightened and a little afraid, Saoirse shuddered. "How were you friends with this man?"

Robert sighed and shook his head, wondering the same thing as he flipped through the camera roll. Things only seemed to get worse from that point on—there were photos of Saoirse entering and leaving Robert's office, the one photo of them when they'd gotten stuck in the elevator, and various other creepy photographs—Robert eventually turned it off and frustratedly pushed it away, out of disgust.

"I'm sorry." He spoke, finally. "This could only be my fault. I confided in the wrong person."

"As did I." Saoirse responded, blinking.

Robert smiled one of his effervescent grins; boyish, genuine, and charming. "This is so ridiculous, Saoirse. It's like...we're totally fucked, together and on our own—but I don't really care. I'm happy." He shrugged. "I mean, I don't know. I don't think I've ever loved anyone enough to be able to smile while the world kind of crashes down around me."

Saoirse knew the reason as to why Robert felt so content, and it was a simple one—his expectations were low. But they still had hope. Saoirse whispered the word behind Robert's back and traced it on his skin, endlessly, repeatedly.

She hoped for a future, but to say it wasn't guaranteed was quite the understatement. She hoped for a life filled with Robert and love and laughter, but at the same time, she hoped that she didn't lose herself. She hoped that, in the end, she wasn't hopelessly consumed by him—that way, when things got worse, she couldn't be too greatly devastated.