Carter
It’s been two weeks since the funeral, and each day since then, Valentina seems to draw back further into herself. I sit on her windowsill, looking at her shrunk up form lying on her bed. She just keeps staring at the white wall in front of her, as if it holds all the answers to her sorrows, refusing to ease her pain.
I hear the front door close from downstairs and turn my head to the window to see Logan and Quaid leaving the house. Quaid’s been quiet all throughout this, too. I needed his humor and life to keep the monsters of the past at bay, but he’s just as dead inside as Valentina is. I watch them get into Quaid’s car, Logan taking the driver’s seat since Quaid is in no frame of mind to be behind the wheel. Logan probably used the excuse to go to the grocery store, just to get Quaid out of the house. If he thought that trick would have worked on Valentina too, I’m sure he’d have come upstairs to ask.
But Valentina doesn’t get out of the house, she barely leaves her room. There are plenty of things she doesn’t do anymore. Like talk or eat or laugh. She’s become an eerie version of the walking dead, and even though her heart still beats, it’s too broken to function anymore.
“You need a shower,” I tell her, but she doesn’t reply.
“Did you hear me?”
“I don’t want one,” she whispers, and even though her voice is weak and throaty, I’m still happy that at least she was able to string a full sentence together.
For the first week, she didn’t utter one single word to us. To anyone, for that matter.
We’ve stayed over and watched over her, but it hasn’t brought Valentina the comfort I would have wished.
I remember when my parents died. How I wished I would have died with them. All the troubled thoughts Valentina is struggling with, I had rummage through my mind for years. I know this pain by heart. Lived it and bought the fucking T-shirt. But I never expected to be a bystander and watch the girl I love go through this type of pain. I’m not sure what hurts more—the loss or the helplessness.
Fuck this.
“Get up, Valentina,” I order assertively, but to no avail, since she refuses to move a muscle. “I said get up!”
“No! Just leave me alone, Carter!” she yells back, turning her head to throw a hateful look my way.
“Oh, you’re angry at me? Good! Be angry, but at least taking a fucking shower as you do it.”
“Fuck you!” she yells, and a crack of a sinister smile unleashes from me.
Valentina isn’t prone to cursing. She’s never been. But once in a while, it comes out of her. Either by our influence all these years or by sheer anger. This is the latter. Anger I can deal with. It’s her pain that cripples my soul.
I walk over to her and pull back the covers of her bed in one fast swoop.
“Get up, Valentina.”
She rises up on her knees on the bed, her eyes gleaming with hatred.
“I said no!”
“Well I said yes!” I yell, grabbing her and throwing her over my shoulder.
I feel her fists hit my back as I walk her over to her en suite. She’s still hurling those punches at me as I turn on the showerhead and place her on the floor mat.
“Get in!”
“No!
Another evil smirk tugs on my lips as I pick her up and place us both under the spray of water. Clothes and all.
“I hate you!” she cries.
“Good. Hate me all you want. I don’t care,” I yell, shaking her shoulders.
She huffs, disdain still burning in her amber eyes. But I’ll take that emotion any day of the week and twice on Sunday if it finally destroys the sadness underneath.
Her oversized T-shirt begins to cling to her body from the spray of the water above us. I start to pull at the hem of her shirt, but she grabs my wrists, halting my next move.
“No.”
“I’ve seen you naked before, Valentina.”
“I said no. I can do it,” she replies, her temper simmering down.
“Fine, but I’m not leaving until you shower.”
She throws me another loathsome glare and pulls the large T-shirt off her body. She turns her back to me and puts herself right under the showerhead.
My cock—the fucking asshole—has the indecency to get hard, while my gaze only inflates it by trailing over her olive tone skin, her ass begging for me put my hands on her. But I don’t. I just keep still, getting my own clothes wet and not bothering to take them off.
She bends to grab the soap and starts washing her body. I lean as far away as I can, just watching her. My hands itch for my camera so I can record this image, but my memory will have to do.
After she’s cleaned her whole body, she picks up the shampoo.
“Wash my hair for me,” she asks, no longer a bite to her voice.
She hands me the bottle, spilling some of the shampoo onto my hands. I massage her scalp and watch her body relax. Valentina leans her head against my shoulder as I try to wash her hair to the best of my ability. It’s difficult this way, but the adrenaline that was pumping in her veins a few minutes ago has officially withered down. The way she melts into me shows that she no longer has enough strength to stand on her own.
After I’ve made sure her silky hair is clean, I rinse the shampoo off in quick haste and turn off the faucet. Her body is limp against mine, needing me to help her out of the shower. Wrapping her body in a fluffy towel once I’ve dried it, I pick her up in my arms and walk Valentina back into her room. If she had more energy in her, I’d comb her hair so it wouldn’t be an tangled mess later on, but her lids are already too heavy for her to keep them open.
I pull the duvet up over her shoulders and press a chaste kiss on her temple. Deciding it’s best to let her rest, on padded feet, I walk over to her door, but stop when I hear her voice once more.
“Thank you.”
It’s all she says before sleep takes her under to a place where I can only hope heartache can’t touch her.
Quaid
When Logan and I get back from the supermarket, Carter is sitting on the stairs, waiting for us. His black hair is wet, and he’s wearing one of Val’s dad’s sweatpants. I don’t ask what happened, but go to the kitchen instead with the paper bags I have in my grasp. I put everything away in exactly the spots I know Mr. E would have them. This used to be my home after all.
I take out some lasagna sheets, fresh tomatoes and basil, and a pack of prime minced meat.
“What are you doing?” Logan asks, watching me set everything up.
“Dinner,” I reply.
It’s probably a futile endeavor, since most of us won’t eat anything, but I need to keep myself occupied. By memory, I do everything Val’s dad did when he made his famous lasagna. I’m assaulted with memories of all the times he used to joke with me, saying that when I became a big football star, not to become one of those rich douches who didn’t even know how to boil an egg.
Even with all the memories I will never relive, it gives me some sort of comfort cooking. It reminds me of everything that man taught me. Before he came along, I didn’t know what it felt to be a part of a family. Sure, I had my brothers, Logan and Carter, but it isn’t the same thing. A child should feel a parent’s love. I never have. Until Val’s dad came along.