3:30pm

18: I care

   <Don't stand too close to me, I got PTSD>

•°•°•°•

The sweet aroma of bacon and eggs and the noisy ticking of the hands of the alarm clock on the nightstand beside the bed on which I laid was what woke me up. As I opened my eyes—my left eye had come down considerably—a sizzling noise came to me from somewhere in the house, probably the kitchen.

Once my brain registered the fact that I was not at home but instead in a strange room with dark blue walls, wallpapers of rockstars and tightly shut windows with the curtains drawn, I shot up from the bed immediately.

My coat had been taken off, replaced by a thick, oversized sweater and, although I still had my pants on, my feet were bare.

How did all these happen? When? And where was I?

Gingerly, I raised my hands up to feel my face, realizing the pain was no longer as bad as before; it'd been reduced to a dull throb. On my forehead, where I'd hit it against the coffee table, I felt a thumb-length bandage. Smoothing a shaky finger over it, I wondered how it got there. Who could've . . . wait a minute . . . Stephen?

Gasping, my eyes wide open in shock, mind racing, I swung my legs over and down from the springy bed at once.

It was Stephen! Of course it was him. I had called him and asked for his help earlier.

That meant . . . he knew now. He knew about my secret.

For a second I felt lightheaded, both from relief and anxiety. On one hand, I was glad someone finally knew about what I'd been going through, even if this had to be the reason, and on the other, I was nervous because I was sure that now Stephen knew, he was going to ask questions for which I might not be able to provide tangible answers.

"You're up."

My heart doing a sudden jolt, I looked behind me at once to see Stephen standing at the doorway, dressed in a black tank top and grey drawstring pants, feet bare and a white tray which contained a stack of pancakes, a bottle of maple syrup, bacon, eggs and a glass of orange juice, balanced in his hands.

"I didn't know you were awake," he said, walking past the threshold into the room.

He ambled over to the bed, dropped the tray gently before me and then sat down.

"For you," he gestured, brown eyes holding my gaze, which hadn't left his face since he came into the room.

I'd been trying to read his expression. Make out what he thought now. About me. But I was getting nothing. His face was as neutral as could be.

"All that?" I asked finally, forcing my lips to produce words.

He nodded. "I figured you'd be starving when you woke up."

In my stomach, I felt sharp, painful bites that proved him right; I was starving.

"Thanks," I said, offering a small smile. One that hurt my sore lower lip. "What time is it?"

"It's nine in the morning," he answered.  "Checked before I came over."

Jeez. I've been out for that long?

"Okay," I said silently and reached out for the tray. Pulling it closer to me, I picked up a pancake, squirted maple syrup onto its bumpy surface and folded it before taking a bite. Then I looked up at him, chewing slowly.

He was watching me, a new expression, which I couldn't quite place, on his face, brown eyes intent. I felt squeamish under his gaze. Embarrassed actually, knowing I looked as hideous as could be.