Page 38 of The Wild Man
I clean his face and chest again before I lay back down beside him. All I can do is wait and try to make him as comfortable as possible.
So, that’s what I do.
* * *
For three days, I stay vigilant in caring for Wild Man. Cleaning his wounds, keeping him as cool as I can by frequently running a cloth over most of his body, and dribbling water past his dry and cracked lips. He sleeps, his breathing labored, and his heart racing.
I pray more than I ever have, hoping that by some miracle my efforts aren’t wasted.
I’ve lain beside him and tried to sleep, but each time I drift off, I jolt awake. I’ve become intimately acquainted with fear. It’s what I feel each time I check on Wild Man.
On the fourth night, I don’t know how I manage it, but I must have fallen into a deep sleep. One filled with deadly snakes and wild animals screaming into the night. I’m naked, running in the forest, the rough ground slicing into my feet. I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. I look behind me and see a huge snake, taller than me and the size of a tree trunk, with his mouth wide open. His huge fangs glow a bright white in the moonlight and they drip with bright yellow venom. All around me, I hear the howls of coyotes and the growls of wolves.
Just as the snake strikes forward, my eyes snap open.
At first, I’m disoriented because everything is dark, so dark that it feels like I’m still in my dream. I open my mouth to let out a scream, but immediately snap it shut when something above me moves. Not something, but someone.
Wild Man hovers above me, his face only inches away from mine.
“Wild Man,” I croak.
“Momor.”
His voice sounds weak and scratchy, and I have no idea what he just said.
I lift my hands and lay them on his chest, pushing him back. It doesn’t take much effort to get him to lie back down, which goes to show just how weak he really is.
I get to my knees so I can look at him. I can’t see that well in the dark, but thankfully, there’s enough moonlight that shines through the trees to offer me a glimpse of his face. His cheeks and forehead still glisten with sweat, but not as much as before. I press a hand against his chest and a wave of relief hits when I don’t encounter the heat or a rapid heartbeat.
“How do you feel?” I ask, scooting on my knees closer to him.
His answer really isn’t an answer, just a grunt. I hold the jug of water to his lips and help lift his head so he can take a sip. He swallows and a trickle slides out the corner of his mouth. I set it aside and put my hand back on his chest.
“Are you in pain?”
He places his hand over mine. “Stay.”
My heart knocks around behind my sternum. Does he want me to stay because I’m caring for him and he doesn’t want to die alone, or is it because he simply wants me to stay?
My internal question is stupid. He’s made it his mission to let me know that I belong to him.
The answer doesn’t matter anyway. Regardless of the reason behind his demand. I’m obviously not going anywhere. At least, not until he’s better. If he gets better, my mind whispers.
Of course he’s going to get better. Him being awake and coherent is a good sign, right?
Please let that be true.
“I’ll stay,” I say, not adding the for now part at the end. That’s another day’s problem.
He blinks at me, like he’s unsure whether to believe me or not.
“Sleep,” I tell him. “You need to rest.”
Using his good arm, he reaches up and wraps his fingers around my neck. His grip is surprisingly strong given his weakened state as he pulls me down beside him. He maneuvers my head, so it’s lying on his chest and I’m plastered against his side. I want to protest, afraid of making him uncomfortable, but decide, for once, to let him do what he wants.
I close my eyes and let the sound of his steady heartbeat lull me into sleep.
thirteen