The clock was counting down to midnight, and we were hastily scribbling out our resolutions on strips of paper. Terra urged us to hurry, and was readying the matches.
Something we’ve always done is take our resolutions, write them down, and then
burn
them, allowing the embers to float up into the sky like our own personal fireworks.
We all went out onto the front lawn, where our neighbours already were with their resolutions. Terra’s good friends with them, but I don’t really know them. As the clock struck twelve, the entire block cheered, and we lit up our matches, setting our individual resolutions aflame.
R
emember distinctly the way Noah’s face brightened as the fire engulfed his paper.
Sharp shadows and brilliant highlights.
Beautiful.
Noah edged closer to me as they burned, nudging me to get my attention. “I didn’t make a resolution.” He whispered.
“What did you burn then?”
“A wish. Is that okay?”
I laughed, “Probably! I can’t see anyone challenging that.”
A burned wish.
That’s almost poetic.
“Also… number three.”
“Huh?”
“List item number three: Make snow angels on New Years Eve.”
I grinned, “You’re right.” G
lanced behind me, and then flopped backwards into the snow on the front lawn. He looked at me curiously, until I motioned for him to copy me.
He complied, falling into the soft snow beside me.
“Like this.” D
emonstrated the sweeping arm movements necessary for the wings, “You’ve got to open your wings.”
He began, and his wings ended up blending with mine. After we finished the wings, he grabbed my hand, holding it tightly. Even with mittens on I could feel his contentment.
The fireworks from over by the river were actually visible from here. They exploded in the sky, sending trails of light to descend like liquid stardust. The snow around us glittered with the same lights, reflecting from the nearby house as well.
Terra had
lit some sparklers, and was passing them around to everyone, laughing loudly and cheering as the pops and bangs of the fireworks crackled around us.
She turned around to give each of us one, and saw us in the snow, grinning broadly. Instead of handing them to us, she lit a whole bunch and stuck them in the snow beside us.
“Tiny fireworks!” she exclaimed, and then ran off to the rest of the group.
There was so much laughter and light, and the feeling of Noah’s hand in my own was so comforting.
L
ooked over to him, and realised he was staring at me with wonder.
S
miled, and he inhaled a quick breath. “What?” I asked, squeezing his hand.
“Are you an angel?” he asked breathlessly.
R
olled slightly, and kissed him softly, before rolling back to my spot. “Only yours.”
He sighed through a smile, and then turned his attention to where I had just rolled.
“Your wing is broken.”
“Hm,
so’s
yours a bit.”
We awkwardly fixed the dents in the snow, still holding hands.
D
on’t know how long we laid there until the thought occurred to me.
February is always snowy here.
I’m going to die in the snow.
The final snow angel.
December
/end.
57 Days, 1 January, Thursday
So another thing I’ve noticed during this whole recovery period that I’ve never commented on is the fact that Noah never complains.
H
ave to ask him how he’s feeling for him to actually tell me. You’d think if he
was
in pain, he’d let me know.
It was only when I was reaching past him on the couch and leaned on his leg did he make any noise to warn me that he was in pain.
He sucked in a sharp hiss, flinching away from
the contact I made with him. L
ooked at him with obvious surprise.
“I’m sorry.” He said automatically. “I did not mean to do that.”
“Well, what’s the matter? Your leg-”
“It is rather inflamed and sore. Please excuse me.”
“What? Let me have a look at it, I could put some medicine on it.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble.”
That’s the sentence that summed it up. He hates to be a problem for p
eople. G
uess that’s why he gave up his happiness so readily to stop his curse.
“You’re no trouble to me, please just let me help you.”
He always looks so grateful when I say stuff like that. After adjusting on the couch a bit, he rolled up the leg of his pajama pants, revealing his knee, which was pink and hot with swelling.
“Whoa, what did you do?”
“I fell getting out of bed two mornings ago. We were busy with other things, so I did not inform you.”
“But this looks terrible! Doesn’t it hurt a lot?”
“It does.”
“I don’t like it when you’re hurt.” I mumbled.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t like it when you’re hurt.” I said more clearly, looking up at him while my hands hovered gently over his knee. His face was also flushed red, and he looked kind of shaky. It must really hurt. “I’m
gonna
go get that peppermint stuff, okay? Just sit tight, I’ll be right back.”
He made a noise to say something else, but I held up my hand. “Don’t protest
,
I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
A
jiffy is about a minute and a half, by his timing.
As I was rubbing the peppermint stuff into his knee, he placed his hand over mine. It was cold and clammy. “Aerie, do you wish for me to tell you of every discomfort I have?”
“That would be good, so then I can help you.”
“You are not annoyed by it? I find that complaining about every pain could become wearisome.”
“Isn’t it more wearisome for you if you just sit there in pain and not do anything about it?”
He was silent, but I could detect him nodding. “Then I must tell you about the itch on my back. Is that okay?”
I grinned exasperatedly, “What’s wrong with your back?”
He pivoted on the sofa, lifting the hem of his shirt up and revealing another pink inflamed area around the rough scrape up the length of his back. There were also the telltale signs of infection starting there, crusting around the partially healed wound.
“Ahh, this is infected! You need som
e antibiotics or something!” W
as about to ask him why he didn’t tell me about it again, and then shut my
mouth.
The scrape was burning hot, which mirrored the warm blush that worked across his face.
Oh, that explains why he’s so feverish. As I touched the outside of the scrape,
goosebumps
worked all up his flesh, and he shuddered.
“Cold…” he mumbled. “I’m terribly cold.”
He started shivering, which I kind of suspect he was largely keeping in check before I touched him. It was almost as if the moment he told me what was wrong, he allowed it to truly affect him.
G
rabbed the nearest blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders, and helped him to his bedroom, reciting what I had read in Terra’s medical journals in my head.
Acetaminophen and a juice box, right?
He was
lying
incredibly still in the bed, staring at the ceiling as I approached with the thermometer, a bottle of Tylenol, and a glass of orange juice.
“Hey…” I said softly, “Can you sit up?”
Noah sat up slowly, almost like Frankenstein’s monster rising up off the bed.
He took the acetaminophen without complaint, dr
inking the juice completely. S
ettled him back into bed, and placed the thermometer under his tongue, sitting beside him and watching the matchstick numbers of the digital clock.
A
lmost think he’s getting worse by the minute. Right now, I’m thinking I should call Terra.
After the allotted time had passed, I checked the thermometer at 101.6. Which was decidedly a serious fever. At least I’m pretty sure.
G
ot him to roll onto his stomach so I could get a better look at the scrape all up his back, touchin
g it softly.
It radiated heat,
could feel it before I even touched him.
He swallowed, looking at me with obvious exhaustion. He must be so tired of being injured.
“I think you might need some antibiotics.” I said, placing my fingertips on the blazing wound.
“Does that mean the hospital again?” Noah sighed, burying his face into his pillow.
“Yeah, but it shouldn't take too long. We can get you something for the swelling and pain in your knee, and some penicillin for that infection.”
“I suppose you would know best.”
“Damn right.” I grinned.
C
alled Terra after that, and she said she’d come get us on her break.
By the time she showed up, I was reading in the chair in his room, and Noah was sleeping facedown in his pillow.
Getting to the hospital and getting him the antibiotics
was a rather silent affair. D
on’t think he likes the hospital still.
He did say ‘thank you’ quite a bit though. Murmured softly through his lips like silent prayers.
J
ust hope he gets better before school starts.
Noah has to go home after school the first day. Apparently, the police deemed it to be a safe environment.
It’s stupid. He should be with me.
58 Days, 2 January, Friday
Had a weird dream last night. S
aw that man I remem
ber, the one who was crying. T
hink I only mentioned him once.
His hair was really dark, and he had bandages on his face. His one eye was yellow, and piercing, like he knew everything about you as soon as he looked at you.
S
till don’t know his name, or even if he has one, but the brief meeting we had stuck in my brain.
He was sitting at an incredibly cluttered desk, writing something down and then throwing the paper on top
of the loosely stacked pile. A
pproached him slowly, fearful to move too quickly. Maybe this inherent cautiousness was a good idea, because he seemed to lose it, and buried his face in his hands, letting out a frustrated oath.
“Hey…” I said, sinking into the chair in front of the desk.
He looked up immediately, gasping. Hurriedly, he wiped his face, seeming to gain his composure instantly. “What? Is dinner ready then?”
“Huh?” I then noticed I was wearing a chef’s outfit. A big white coat with buttons all down the front, and crisp white pants. “
Er
… yeah, I guess so.”
He studied me critically for a moment, (which is how I know about his freaky eye) and then stood, turning around and reaching into the filing cabinet behind him.
“
Oh, it’s you again…
” he sighed, rummaging around for a moment.
When he turned, he had two pistols in his hands, and fired both of them, narrowly missing me and hitting the wall on either side of my head.
I froze, alarmed by the proximity of the bullets and the exploding noise that preceded them.
“You’d better run before I remember I’m a perfect shot.” He said quietly, holding the guns shakily before him with his head bowed.
G
ot out as quickly as I could, slamming the door behind me and rushing down the hall as more shots sounded out behind me.
What was that guy’s deal? K
ept running down the dark hallway, finally finding some
stairs and running up them. T
hink I was in a dungeon or something.
Eventually, it got brighter, and I stopped to catch my breath.
“Aerian, you let the
pot
boil over.”
L
ooked up to se
e
who
it was when I woke up. R
eally wish that would stop happening.
Today, Noah seemed in good spirits, no doubt because he wasn’t trying to hide the fact he was in pain anymore. It was comforting, actually.
Noah read poetry aloud today, as well as excerpts from a play we studied together after reading Hamlet. Since we were both familiar with it, we re-enacted a couple scenes of it, he as Rosencrantz, and myself as Guildenstern, naturally.
It was really fun actually. We laughed a lot, which always leaves me feeling as if the day was satisfactory.