Inescapable Game of Tag

Late Question

Sophie

George and Lauren were, of course, infuriated with the entire thing. They kept telling me over and over that I didn't have to bend to Hart's wants, that I just had to take care of myself. Which was pretty confusing, since they were the ones who first asked me to watch after their nephew in their absence.

Even if Blake was put into someone else's care, I still wouldn't be able to sleep. Just covering and locking the doors and windows wouldn't be enough for me. What if my neighbors were killed? What if the rest of my family was killed? My parents hadn't moved, even since the incident, since he was locked up. What if Jasmine and Jeffry were killed? He had to have still been working for them, even with the honeymoon. Hell, what if Juliet and Roger were killed? He was to be in the former's house, and the latter seemed to know about some information about it.

What if Blake killed himself?

No, no, no... He can't do that without me...

A part of me wanted to visit Blake with George and Lauren, but they already did that same day before that disastrous meeting, and they were hashing out the details of their travels today. So, that just left me. I hated how right Juliet was, that girl...

I still had to report an answer to Juliet's office that day. My mind was still in shambles, everything still ached, I wanted more time, even if a few hours.

The typical visiting procedure was given, and there were more people than usual who came to visit their loved ones. The wait for staff to check our belongings and describe the rules and procedures were grueling (there were some new coming visitors). We were all led down the locked up hallways, doors being opened and one by one, them going inside.

Once again, when I was taken to Blake's room, I turned back to the door quick. Waiting in fear, even though I knew who was there. There was a buzz of the television, which really wasn't something that was on whenever I visited.

"... Good... Good evening..." Another rare thing, Blake addressed me first. I turned around slowly and cautiously, and there Blake was. Propped up in bed with a lap table over him, he was holding a cup and a spoon over it. He stared at me, a little startled and confused.

With a small sigh, I slipped off my coat. "Good evening." I set the coat down at the table, dragging a chair over to the bed. He kept watching me as I took the seat and sat down beside his bed. "You're still in bed." I noted already knowing why.

He turned back to the plastic cup, spoon going back in, "I had a bad fever all week."

I sat up more, trying to take a look at what was inside the cup. "Ice cream? I didn't know they added another ice cream day."

He took a spoonful, "It's because I'm sick, they've been giving me a lot of nice stuff." He continued to eat what little remained of the vanilla ice cream that was just now beginning to melt its way down, and I watched him with a tilt of the head. I hadn't visited him since the wedding due to all my work and meetings that piled up, but two weeks did a lot.

No longer having that appearance he did as a wedding photographer, it was normal, but I mean, I wanted more of that fancy but normal look. Wearing that loose casual wear again of a long sleeve shirt, his beard was growing out again, hair much bigger.

I spoke softly, absentmindedly, "When are they gonna give you a haircut? It seems the colder it gets outside the bigger your hair gets."

"That's just the reality of its situation."

Sitting back again, I swept my hair behind my ear, "So..." I hesitated, not sure if he remembered the whole job he did. Talking to him, about him, was always scary territory. Deciding not to risk anything, I went to another topic, "You were sick, huh?" The staff and Pedersen's told me over the course of the week. The morning after the wedding, he caught a bad flu. Seemed it went down to just a small fever. "What happened?"

He was done with the ice cream, setting the cup and spoon down on the lap table. "I don't know, but some of the nurses say it's probably because I was outside with different people, it probably got to me physically, I haven't been outside with so many people for so long..." Ah, so he remembered, okay. "I just woke up feeling like an utter wreck."

"Yeah, they said you had a lot of nosebleeds and you vomited a lot."

A cough was spurted out, and he grabbed at his chest. "You heard that?" He asked, voice getting more hoarse and face redder, and I nodded. "Well, yeah. I mean... The staff definitely had it worse, they hate me now, I'm sure."

"Why?"

"Joanne had to tend to me a lot, so she had to go through my sweaty and picky self. That new guy, uhm... Sean. He checks up on me a lot and when I got up to rush to the bathroom, he came in and I, well, I..."

"You vomited."

"All over his shoes."

"I heard that, too."

He hung his head and ran his hand through his hair. "Why do you already know all this stuff?"

"Because I call to ask how you're doing. I wasn't able to visit because I've been getting settled with my new jobs."

His hand lowered slowly, looking back at me with a squint, "... Jobs?"

"Oh, yeah. I met this guy in the city and got offered to deliver his groceries. It's a relatively easy job to do for a lot of money."

"Ah, my Mom worked to do that, too..."

I went quiet. There was no way of telling if he was actually talking about his dead Mother or his living Aunt, as I've heard, they both worked as that in their teen years.

"Maybe I could do that, too. Oh, wait, no, you're already working for that."

Did he remember? Did he even know? That he'd be out of here for forty-seven days.

"It's so hard to suddenly start photography..."

My heart ached.

"Blake," I finally said, voice soft and eyes in a shroud, "Do you want to kill me?"

Jumping, he looked over at me.

"Or, more accurately, do you love me?"

There was a long wash over of tense silence. "I..." His voice cracked a bit. He hunched over where he sat, bringing his hands up over his head. Eyes narrowing, he shuddered. "I don't - I don't know... I don't remember..." So he remembered that he forgot, at least. Still holding his head, he looked over at me, "Do I want to kill you? Do I love you? You remember..."

"... I don't know, either."

He looked even more confused and distressed, "I... Remember, or know, that you're important to me, but, love... What kind of love are you asking about?"

"I don't know."

"Why is killing you and loving you the same?"

"I don't know."

After a shaking pause, he hugged himself, another shudder erupting from him. "I... Don't remember... I keep forgetting, and... I can't remember, Sophie, not right now. I'm sorry."

"I remember, but I don't understand it. That's why I want you to remember." After a tense sigh, I turned over to face him. That delicate, confused expression, it tore right into me. "You kept saying that you loved me, over and over. Then, later on, you tried to kill me. You said it was for that very same reason." The more I spoke, the more he started to shake. "Do you know why?"

He shook his head.

"Neither do I, other than you learned it from someone, and I'm sorry for that."

Sweat was building off of his stiffening body.

"Even if I were to ask a version of you that remembered... I doubt you'd be able to answer if your answer was genuine. If you were doing it for yourself or for me."

"... I... I don't..."

"... Blake. Right now, I'm talking to you. The you that you are now, at this very moment. I want a yes or a no. I don't care if you don't remember, and if you're not sure, I want the first answer that comes to your head. Are you listening to me?" I always had to make sure. He nodded, and so I continued, "Do you want to kill me?"

He hesitated, "... No."

"Do you love me?"