Behind Your Walls

13 | drunk

I sometimes feel like sleep is an illusion.

You don't really fall asleep; you just assume that you have. Sleep is a word that walks hand in hand with the need to find rest for a while. You can't think that you have fallen asleep until you want to rest your mind. But the only thing my mind is doing is telling me not to sleep because I don't want rest.

I keep tossing and turning, closing my eyes for a fleeting second and then opening them again when the day's events come flooding back. My heart aches for Mom; I'm worried for her, worried about what Panther might have done to her. I ran away with the hopes that I could get help but it shames me that I have been too caught up with Carter to actually think of Mom.

Our deal is only within the ring — Carter's words are engraved in my head.

I turn around to look at his figure resting on the couch. He is wearing a white full-sleeved T-shirt, the material hugging his body to accentuate the presence of hard features underneath. His head is propped up on one of the arms of the couch while his hands are crossed over his chest. For some reason, the position looks painful.

I drop the blanket off my body as I climb down the bed. I tiptoe towards him to check if he is really asleep. His eyebrows are narrowed together, making it seem like he might still be awake. I kneel quietly when I reach him, to look at him face-to-face. The rise and fall of his chest is steady. The faint glow of the moonlight through the window is the only source to view his face. His cut looks like it has healed and that knowledge sends a small spark of relief through me.

Mom always says I could be a good nurse someday. If only I had an interest in that field.

I lift a finger to touch the cut to check if it will need any further treatment but there is a movement and the next moment, I feel cold fingers circle my wrist and I am pulled down. I gasp as I fall over him.

I close my eyes, waiting for the embarrassing moment to come when he will find me being his midnight stalker but an arm goes around my waist and before I know it, I am being flipped around like a rag doll.

I fall on my back on the couch and open my eyes instantly to find Carter hovering over me. His green eyes are staring at me in perplexity, his hand still around my wrist and the other under my waist. I blink, startled by his self-awareness. He is pressed against me, making it difficult to breathe, both due to his weight and my sensitive awareness of his touch which makes me flush.

"Hey, Carter," I say with an awkward smile.

His eyebrows narrow as he looks at me, not speaking anything. I try to yank my wrist out of his grip but his hold tightens.

"Who're you?" he asks and I freeze under his body.

"It's me...Amaya," I say, fear rising through me.

Does Carter have a short-term memory I don't know about? The thought itself is frightening because that would mean he doesn't even remember offering me a place to stay. It is after a second's doubt that I can register the tone of his voice which is way too sleepy. As I said, sleep is an illusion, and sometimes coming out of it makes us forget half of our existence momentarily.

Carter's eyes widen like I have given an epiphany.

"Fuck!" he curses, pulling himself off me.

He climbs down, making me miss the warmth of his body in the night's coldness. I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. I am wearing my pink bottoms and a cotton T-shirt which doesn't fight the chill. Carter runs his hands through his hair as if to drive the sleep off before looking down at me.