don't get me wrong () prodigal son SLOW UPDATES

Twenty Nine

Chapter Twenty Nine:

Theodora sat on the granite counter tops of Malcolm's kitchen, a box gripped delicately in her hands. She dumped the contents out onto her lap, six tea bags landing oddly across her thighs.

I think my mother's been dosing me. In the chamomile she always makes me.

She shook her head, examining one. His mother must've brought her own bottle of it, then dump it into the tea before she leaves. There was no way to mix in with dry tea leaves, unless she mixed them together and waited for them to dry before playing the leaves into a tea bag. But did Malcolm purchase his tea from the grocery store or did his mother gift him with it every time?

She huffed, jamming the little tea bags back into the box, sliding them onto the counter beside her.

Jessica couldn't be capable of aiding a serial killer... could she?

"No." Theodora shook her head, "Don't think like that."

Theodora wasn't particularly fond of Malcolm's mother, nor was she of Theodora. Yet, she couldn't quite wrap her head around his mother knowing everything and not acting on it. How could you know your husband was killing innocent women, without contacting the cops. Instead, your little boy had to wander into something and put an end to it himself because he knew right away how horrible it was. If she truly did see him open that box, and yelled at him to keep away... letting Martin Whitly continue on like that.

And for Jessica to constantly shut down Malcolm whenever he spoke of the girl in the box, telling him over and over she never existed... was that because it helped her own conscience? Reassuring herself it never happened, that she didn't see what her son had. That it was never an event to begin with—

A crash sounded, and Theodora slipped off the counter, staring at the entry way. Footsteps thundered up the stairs and a disheveled Malcolm rushed in and towards the bathroom.

"Malcolm—"

"I'm fine!" He cursed, the door slamming shut. Theodora's eyes widened, following after him. She nudged the door open to see him standing at the sink, running a hand under water. Blood dripped down onto the white porcelain sink, disappearing down the drain.

"What the hell happened? Where were you?"

"Shrink." He grunted applying pressure, "Gil called, we need to meet him somewhere downtown for a case."

"What happened to your hand?"

He shook his hand, "Nothing, I'm fine."

Theodora watched silently, the running water making him wince. She reached out a hand and turned the faucet off, to which he flicked back on again. His hands were shaking, and his eyes were much to focused on sink. She shoved him out of the way, standing in front of the sink, whacking the facet off once again.

"Malcolm!" She yelled, breaking his gaze, snapping him back into reality. "Look at me!"

His eyes darted everywhere but her face, his breaths were short and panicked. Theodora remembered the last time he was like this, it had been so long ago. It was what made him stop seeing his father, over 10 years ago.

"Look at me!" She snapped, a hand holding his chin, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "Take a deep breath."

His hands continued to shake and she grabbed ahold of one, holding it tightly. His other hand, the bloody one landed on her shoulder, gripping tightly. "One, two, three, four—"

He closed his eyes, "Five, six, seven, eight, nine ten."

"Deep breath." Theodora said again, not breaking eye contact. They stared at each other as she watched some of the panic seep away. "You're doing good, Mal. Think about something else."