Ghostwriter

Chapter 33

Sunlight streams into the windows and hits my eyelids. I groan and turn to my side, slamming a pillow over my face.

Wait. A pillow.

Someone chuckles.

The events of last night flood back to me. I bolt up, swiveling my head around. Where am I? This can't be Jason's next safehouse. It's too clean and fancy.

"Afternoon, doll. No nightmares this time?"

Jason. I find him by my side, a heavy book in his lap. No Red Hood gear, no blood and grime. Just him and his leather jacket. A bit of clean white gauze pokes out from beneath his jacket, but that's all the proof.

My shoulders relax; my voice comes out choppy and dry. "Not that I remember. Where are we?"

"The Manor. Bruce's place." Jason leans over to the solid oak bedside table and hands me a water bottle and a pill. "Advil. Should help a little."

I take the pill and sip the water, feeling the liquid slide down the back of my throat. "You grew up here?"

"Yeah. My room is down the hall on the left." He jabs his thumb back.

I wonder what it looked like, back then. Did he hang his favorite book quotes on notecards on the wall like I did? Or was he into movie posters or sport stars? Was his dresser cluttered or neat?

I stare at the man before me.

My soulmate.

My mouth goes dry again. I have a freaking soulmate who's right in front of me. A freaking soulmate. He's not dead. A shiver snakes up my spine at the thought.

"I..." I open and close my mouth as a picture of a very bloody, very not-dead us patching each other up in the dark comes to mind.

I make a glass promise to myself that I will never play the part of damsel in distress again. Hopefully, with a bit of self-defense instruction, my promise will become steel.

"Alfred said that this time when you wake up, you should move around a little. The medicine should be out of your system by now." He holds out his hand and stands up. I take it and push the covers off, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "Don't worry about falling. I'll catch you."

The second I put weight on my bandaged feet, I tumble. As promised, his arm snatches my waist before I hit the ground. He sets me back on my feet and grips my arm.

"Lean on me." Each step feels like a toddler's. "You got it, doll. It's always hard after you've been under for a day or so."

We take a couple laps around the room before I regain enough coordination and blood flow to walk on my own. I gradually become aware of several facts as we pass the mirror:

A) I feel warm and sticky

B) My breath stinks

C) I have quite possibly the worst case of bedhead Gotham's ever witnessed

So, after ushering Jason away, I take a shower.

The skin-tight, knee-high medical socks covering my feet are waterproof, so I don't have to worry about further damaging my feet, or worse, seeing them. The water stings a couple of my cuts, but it's not too bad.

I use the water to wash away more than just the sleep: I pretend the water gets rid of all the fire. I stay under the spray even after I'm done, fully intent of just enjoying the warm water. My muscles relax and I lean my head back, letting the water run down my forehead through my hair and into the drain. Even the stinging cuts, to some extent, feel good. They mean that I'm alive.