Ah, so she’s actually a nice person, but she’s just putting on a tough front because I’m an affront. Apparently, I’m not the first person Silas has tried to thrust onto her, maybe even literally. Moldy pickles and botulism. I wish he would have mentioned that. I wonder if one of those terrible roommates was one of the guys who did the burning Silas mentioned, but I don’t think so. I think that was just him meddling, trying to either fix Esme or fix her up after her terrible experience.
These are going to be the longest six months of my life.
“Okay,” Esme capitulates. Her face is still all soft, and her eyes are shiny and caring. “Just put it back in the room. It’s fine. I don’t need it. Or leave it in the living room, and I’ll deal with it. Uh, yeah. If you could move it, then I could get down the stairs. I have a first aid kit, and I’ll fix up your hand.”
“That’s really not—”
“Yes, it is. It really is. It’s necessary.”
I figure this isn’t a battle I’m going to win, so after Esme disappears with her creepy, huge, terrifying, and nightmare-inducing ‘pet,’ I struggle to move the dang desk back down the stairs and then wait for her to doctor my injured hand.
I hope the next five months and thirty-odd days of this arrangement are easier than today.
CHAPTER 5
Esme
I’m waiting with the first aid kit in the living room when Wilder comes walking in. He’s followed close behind by Connie, who I guess is over her fear of someone new being in the house and has come to investigate. Wilder notices the wild ball of fluff dancing around his feet and starts as soon as he looks full-on at her.
“Oh. That dog only has two legs.”
“Your powers of observation are highly keen. She actually has four legs. The front two are just really small.”
“So that wasn’t completely sarcastic then.”
“Oh no, it was.”
“I see. Well, she’s cute.”
“You don’t really think that. You’re just trying to be nice,” I counter.
“I do think she’s cute. She kind of resembles a little T-rex dog. A curly one.”
“That’s rude.”
“I’m sorry,” Wilder apologizes.
“You probably aren’t that sorry,” I say, knowing he likely wasn’t.
Wilder sighs. “She’s cuter than Hellish Hector.”
Connie skitters back to stand behind me, suddenly a big old scared-y dog. I never know
what I’m going to get with her. She’s wary of people in the house, but she loves to bark a big bark when they ring the doorbell and don’t come inside.
“Well, you had better let me see.”
Wilder sticks his hand out for me to see, and I wince automatically. The skin on the back is all chaffed away while pinpricks of blood dot the surface. It’s not gushing blood or anything, but it does resemble a slightly bad road rash, and it’s probably painful. I don’t know what I was thinking, asking him to carry the stupid desk upstairs. Yes, I was trying to get my revenge on him for coming to this house, unwelcome and probably in league with Pappy S, but I never meant for him to get hurt. I knew the probability of him not getting hurt in that task was low, yet I still asked him to do it, not caring what might happen, and it makes me feel really, really bad. Like a spitty spittoon, actually.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I dig in the first aid kit, looking for some ointment and a bandage.
The kit isn’t very good. I can doctor animals, but apparently, I cheap out when it comes to myself. I guess I like to think I’m too tough for bandages of any sort, though I do keep an antibacterial lotion in the bathroom cupboard for cuts, scrapes, and burns. I happen to have a few cuts and scrapes on my body that scarred quite badly, given that I should have gone for real medical treatment, but I refused. I have a fear of needles, but I also really detest hospitals. Okay, no, hospitals are fine as it’s not the building itself. I guess…I guess it’s just the thought of another person touching me. Sometimes they’ll be caring and careful, but sometimes they won’t. I suppose I don’t like random strangers fixing me up when I can fix myself up just fine. A cut will heal without stitches if you’re careful, and a scar is a scar. It would probably look the same with or without stitches, and I’m fine with a few mars here and there. After all, it doesn’t detract from who I really am.
I know it bothers some people, namely, my ex, who liked to stick his weenus…okay, never mind, you’ve already heard about that. So, Mr. I Won’t Name Because Uttering His Name Even In My Mind Isn’t Worth It had an issue with the scars. Well, there’s always a good reason why an ex becomes an ex. Usually, it’s for multiple reasons, but sometimes, it just takes one good one.