Blood Relatives

3. Nikita: 23rd Feb 2019

Here he is, the love of my life. He whimpers in the corner and his body convulses as he hears the sound of someone opening the door of his private room. The room is pitch dark, besides the ray of street light falling on his head through a small window on the top, just the way he likes it since the day he has been found. His back is facing towards the door from where I entered, with his arms wrapped around his folded legs, his feet flat on the ground and he is resting his chin on his knees.

"Saw" I whisper, loud enough only for him to pick up from the door as I slowly walk in the room and close the door behind me.

His tense body frees a little by the sound of my voice, while he turns his head a little to catch a glimpse of me through the corner of his right eye over his left shoulder. He remains still, in the same defensive pose.

I walk up to him, sit down with my knees to the floor diagonally behind him and keep my right hand softly on his tensed up left shoulder. He nervously tightens his shoulders and then slowly relaxes them. I softly plant a peck on the back of his shaved head, while I slowly and tentatively trace my index finger lightly on the stitches covering a concussion on the top of his head.

He has his dark brown eyes fixated on the clean white marble floor. His lips constantly keep moving to a silent prayer or something that I could not distinguish or understand by trying to read his plump but dehydrated and chapped lips with a bit of blood outlining a cut, or even catch the infrasonic frequencies he was producing at very very low decibels through my power of hearing. He is practically always speaking to himself in the same way as this, or possibly to an invisible being in thin air, who maybe only he could see and perceive.

"Hi Saw! How do you feel today, baby?" I inquire, as my voice shakes a little, attempting to sound enthusiastic and excited while I check out the dark and heavy bags under his puffed-up and hooded eyes.

I slowly keep my left hand lightly on his right, trying to test the waters, wondering if he would swat it away. Surprisingly, he does not react at all. He had this serene faraway look on his face. He looked calm, though he was still muttering something under his breath, now slower than he used to before. He remains dead still.

"Nikita, Miss Chernov," a double knock on the door accompanied by a muffled familiar voice at the other side of the room's entrance draws me out of the trance that I am in.

"You can come in, Natasha" I call out quietly, but loud enough to be heard from a few metres away to the person behind the door.

It was Saw's doctor, Dr. Natasha Smith, who was personally involved with Sawyer in just about each and every step of the process of his healing.

Natasha walks in with her golden blonde curls reaching up to her chest which bounced each time she walked, with a straight posture, her chest out and shoulders pushed back, with her spine straight. She took bigger strides than most women with her height (of about five feet two inches or so). She was conventionally very attractive, with a symmetrical face and a confident posture of a woman with a successful career.

We had grown quite close, me and Natasha. As it was pretty prominent from our interaction, we are pretty much on first name basis at the moment.

"Did you find out that he slept continuously for about six hours last night?" Dr Natasha asks while she smiles proudly towards me, standing about a foot away from me. "This is the best in his case as yet."

I stand up in surprise and turn my body to face her completely. My lips slowly starting carving into a huge and genuine smile, probably displaying almost all of my ugly and asymmetrical teeth.

The further events that would take place after this, flash before my eyes in the split of a second. How Saw would slowly overcome all this fear, talk to the detectives about what happened, we could finally catch the culprit and give him justice. He would one day come back home; we could live a normal life- get married and have kids.