Medicine Man (Page 34)

I shake my head but I can’t stop my lies from spewing out. “Zoe.”

“Yes. Zoe. Tell me Willow, is Zoe real or did you make her up too?”

A few moments ago, I couldn’t breathe because there was something heavy sitting on my chest. But now, I can’t control the breaths I’m taking. They are wild. Fearful. They are crazy.

Oh God.

“Huh, Willow? Is Zoe real or did you make her up like you did Lee?”

His face is flashing with fury. Heated, scorching. My eyes water. My skin stings. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Simon stays silent, but I feel something. I look down and watch him sliding my book out of my grasp. I want to tell him to stop but I can’t form the words. His knuckles are leached of any color. They look white, almost like the color of the walls surrounding us, this place. This godawful place.

“Interesting shirt,” he murmurs dangerously.

I can’t remember what I’m wearing. Something with a Harry Potter quote, I think. His eyes go through the fabric of my shirt. His intensity is so potent and all I want to do is hide myself.

Always hide myself.

How could I have forgotten that along with being a fighter, I’m a liar, too? I have lied to him so many times. I’ve made up stories, told him things that weren’t true.

I can’t believe it was only last week when I spun the story of my boyfriend calling me a snow princess.

How could I have forgotten that?

“A tip for you: if you want to make things up, don’t take inspiration from something you’re basically an infomercial for. It’s easy for people to figure it out.”

With the book in his hand, he straightens up and throws it at his desk, making me wince.

“You know my secret,” I whisper, tired of this charade.

 “That’s the problem, isn’t it? That it’s a secret.” A vein is popping on his temple. “That you suffer in silence. That no one knows you’re imploding. Not one person knows what you’re going through. Not your mom, not your family. Why’s that?”

“I don’t –”

“Why’s that, Willow? Why’s it so hard to tell the people you love that you’re suffering? That you need help. Do you know how many people just don’t say anything? Do you have any idea how many people keep quiet, never ask for help? Do you know what happens to them?”

He grabs my elbow, bringing me flush to his body, making me gasp with how hard he is. How forceful. How the lines around his mouth and eyes are stretched taut.

“They die,” he spits out. “They fucking die. Because they think no one cares about them. Because they think they don’t matter. That somehow, it’s their fault that they are suffering from a disease, so they should just get it over with. But it doesn’t get over with, does it? Because when they die, they don’t die alone. They kill people by leaving them behind.”

“I’m –”

“You don’t want to leave anyone behind, do you, Willow? But you’re ready to die, aren’t you? You’re so fucking ready for your secrets to kill you one day. Isn’t that right?”

I shake my head, feeling the pinch of his fingers on my arm. “N-no… I…”

“You think it’s your fault. You think your mom should’ve had another daughter. Why? Because you’re ashamed of your illness. You’re ashamed of who you are.” His chuckle is so harsh, it reverberates inside my own body, inside my own soul.

“You’re ashamed that every day you have to fight to stay alive. You’re ashamed that you have to fight at all. So you lie. You lie every chance you get. To your family, to your doctors. To yourself. You lie because you’re a goddamn fighter. And instead of being proud of yourself, you’re fucking ashamed.”

Simon’s hazy. I guess it’s the water leaking from my eyes. It’s like I’m watching him through the rainy window of my room. The window where I write his name at night and watch the letters flow like rivers.

My throat is choked up, and I don’t think I can breathe for a long time. I don’t think I can even stand, my legs are shaking so badly. My entire body is shaking so badly.

He lets me go and steps away from me like he can’t stand to be close to me. Like, he can’t stand to touch me.

“No, Willow. I won’t go out with you. I will not go out with my patient. And that’s what you are. My patient.”

As I stand there, I feel like he sucked all the energy off my body and I have none left. Not even a drop.

But somehow, someway, I find the will to blink my eyes and clear my vision. He’s there, tall, dark and classically handsome, with eyes the color of my favorite clouds.

Formidable and unapproachable.

And thundering.

***

I don’t remember walking out of his room or walking down the hallway. I don’t remember splashing cold water on my face and leaning over the sink. But I’m here. In the bathroom and now, I’m staring at my pale, wet face in the mirror.

Oddly, I’m very numb. I’m thinking about the routine ahead of me. I’m thinking I could either go to the library and help Penny with flash cards, or I could watch TV with the others. There’s also an option to go to the rec room. Maybe I should ask for more ginger tea because suddenly, I feel nauseated.

A knock comes at the bathroom door. It’s a tiny space with black and white retro checkered tiles, and barely any room to stand in.

“Willow, you okay?”

Hunter. I know his sleepy, thick voice.

It must have been close to twenty minutes since I shut myself in here. They probably need to chart my location.

I close the tap and wipe my face and open the door.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

He studies me carefully. People are always doing that, aren’t they? They are always studying me, trying to decide if I’m telling the truth or what?

“You sure? ‘Cause it looks like you’ve been crying.”

Hunter manages to sound both angry and concerned, and I chuckle, surprising myself. I didn’t think I had it in me. Not right now.

“I have been, yes.”

His frown gets bigger. “Did something happen? You want me to tell the docs?”

“No.”

My non-answer answers are messing with his patience; I can see that. “Willow, I’m gonna have to ask you –”

“If I want to harm myself? If it’s a bad day?”

I don’t know why I said that but I did, and it seemed to have surprised him and apparently, me too.

“Well, is it?”

“Yeah. It’s a bad day and I do want to harm myself a little,” I admit truthfully. “But I’m not gonna do anything about it. Not today.”

Days spent on the Inside = 28

Days left to spend on the Inside = 14

Days since The Confession Day = 2

He never touched me.

He could have. But he never did.

The day I hugged him, he didn’t hug me back. He didn’t even move a muscle except to wipe my lone tear off. Even then, he only used his thumb.

When he grabbed my elbow in his office, calling me a liar, it was only to drive his point home. It was in anger, not in desire.

Simon Blackwood never touched me more than necessary. More than what was required.

Touch.

All the other senses can satisfy only so much. You want to touch. With your hands, your mouth, your tongue. It’s like an itch, very similar to my symptoms. You constantly think about him. You constantly think about touching him, his skin, his hands, his hair, the stubble on his jaw, his strong chest, the grooves of his stomach, his tree-trunk thighs.