Nevermore

Chapter 9

I stare guiltily at the cot. Of course, Roshan has insisted once more that I sleep in it. The shame is wearing me down; he's given my his home, his company, and even his own bed. I've taken the place where he dreams. This kills me. 

"Roshan, you should sleep on the bed tonight," I insist.

"No, that wouldn't be right of me," he hurriedly assures.

Of course, there's an alternative. We could both sleep on the straw mattress. 

We both are thinking along the same lines. Crimson warms our cheeks, and we can't quite make eye contact. This is getting ridiculous.

We're both friends, right? Don't friends share?

I know he won't ask me such an awkward question. Clearing my throat, I take a breathy step forward. 

"We could sleep together..." I trail off awkwardly.

Roshan is trying very hard to conceal a grin. His mouth wobbles in hilarious uncertainty. Finally, he turns to look at me. 

"Okay," is all he says.

We both wait for one or the other to take the first step forward. Throats are cleared, feet shuffle in embarrassment, and the air is tense. 

Roshan breaks the tense silence with a scoff. Tiredness wins over stuffy societal norms. He flops down onto the cot. 

His golden eyes glint at me. A lazy smirk tugs at his lips. 

How can he do that; switch back and forth between boyish embarrassment and wolfish smugness? 

I sigh, but roll onto the bed next to him. 

We both stare at the earthen patterns in the ceiling. 

Our conversation is formed by long, deep breaths. Words are exchanged by the openness of eyes, or the thoughts that hang in the air between us. 

Quiet, but not silent.

Roshan rolls over onto his side, facing away from me. 

It stings a little. Though I don't want to admit it, I want him to want me. It's unfair, I know, but I can't help it. I shift so that he and I are back to back. 

I feign sleep, as does he. We stay like that, two pretenders locked up in our wonder about each other. 

I can hold on no longer: pretend becomes reality, and I am swept into sleep.

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Moonlight filters through the window. The diaphanous curtains sway in the night breeze. My room is sweltering hot. The thick quilts are suffocating.

I hate it here. I hate the heavy pillows. I hate the exotic dresser. I hate the gilded gold mirror. 

My skin aches. 

I pant, falling in the nothing-state between consciousness and sleep.

I break out of the strange twilight zone with a gasp. Springing from my bed, I rush into the hallway. I need air.

My hands wring themselves in panic. My breath is coming fast and short. The skin on my body is tight and itchy. I try scratching, but it only adds to the pain. 

All the while, the hallway is thrown into darkness. The only light comes from the widow at the end of the corridor. Moonlight streams through the open windows.

The moon. I need the moon. I rush towards the window, but I trip over my feet. My body hurtles towards the plush Persian rug.

For a while, I am not a human being, but a comet hurtling towards the cruel earth. My flame is snuffed out on impact.

I lay there, allowing my body to feel every thread of the carpet under me. Straight as an arrow, I try to force my body into a linear line, so I can feel everything underneath.  

It's then, with my ear literally pressed to the ground, that I hear the footsteps.

Cautiously, like a scared predator, I look up. 

The journey of my gaze is slow, I am slow. 

This does not stop my eyes, though. Excruciatingly slowly, my gaze meets that of another. 

Another. An other. An ot th er. A n o t h e r. 

.........................................................................................

I wake up with a strangled gasp. My hearts throws itself against my rib cage, like a frantic bird. Eyes darting around the room, I realize where I am. I'm fine. I'm safe. 

I throw my tired body back against the mattress, My hands flutter to my forehead. 

Will they always haunt me, the nightmares? Will he always haunt me? 

A shaky breath slips from the choked throat. 

I can feel a warmth emanating from beside me. It's Roshan. He sleeps peacefully, oblivious to my fear. I study him. 

In his sleep, he's turned himself back towards me. I smirk. His face is less hardened in sleep. Though stubble still sweeps across his jaw, his lips are full and youthful. I notice the way his half-curls-half-waves fall against his brow. Sooty lashes nearly fall against his regally high cheekbones. He could be a prince. I glance down at his naked torso. No, not a prince, a god. 

A soft chuckle escapes my lips. His eyes flutter and I hold my breath. He eases back into dream land. I know I shouldn't, but tentatively I find my hand stretching itself towards his masculine jawline. I let my fingers trace the stubbled skin there. 

How did I come to this? I ask myself. How did I run from such ugliness, to find such beauty?

I watch him a moment more. I let my breaths mimic his, deep and long. 

Relaxed, and filled with beautiful things, I fall asleep.