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I wonder if he’s ever tried reaching out to anyone online. A helpline or a support network. Anything. Or is he so scared of talking about certain parts of himself that he wouldn’t even open up to a stranger?
Where the light falls on one of his bookcases, I spot the familiar spines of Brandon Sanderson’s Mistborn trilogy. He has all the books in hardback. I guess he really does like them.
The thought of this tough, moody hockey player being a secret fantasy nerd makes me smile, and I have to go and study the spines on his bookshelves before waking him up.
Next to the Mistborn trilogy is the Stormlight Archive. Then some of the other Cosmere books. Novellas and standalones. The Lord of the Rings Trilogy. The Percy Jackson books. All fantasy. Except…
I recognize Stephen King immediately. Mostly because they usually print his name bigger than the title of the book, but also because it’s the same copy ofThe Shiningthat I have.
The Shiningwas the first horror book I talked to Kelsier38 about. He asked me what was better, the book or the movie. And when I asked him how he knew I liked it, he pointed out my handle – RedRum237. I told him both were great in their own way. Then he told me about Kelsier from the Mistborn books. 38is the character’s age. Not his age, he assured me. He’s a college student in his early 20’s. From Brooklyn. He made fun of me, talked aboutWest Side Story.
I look back at Alexei sleeping in bed. He isn’t wearing a shirt and I can see the silvery scar on his shoulder from an operation. Like the one Kelsier38 has.
There’s just too many coincidences, it couldn’t…
I make my way back around the bed to where Alexei is still snoring gently on the pillow. Dangling from his chest onto the bed are two gold chains. One with a St. Christopher pendant and one with a crucifix. Like the ones Kelsier38 wears.
I stumble back onto my butt.
It can’t be. I don’t get it. How could Alexei be Kelsier38? Does he know it’s me? Has he been messing with me?
The snoring stops and I remember that I’m supposed to be watching someone with a concussion and making sure they don’t die in their sleep. It’s more important than whatever else is going on right now.
I shake Alexei by the good shoulder and it takes him a moment to open his eyes. He looks understandably disoriented and then shy and surprised when he sees me watching him.
“I’m sorry, I have to wake you up, you have a concussion.”
He rubs his eyes and flops onto his back, his chains splaying out across his shoulder.
“It’s okay.”
I just stare at him, trying to make sense of what I’ve just learned. Or what I think I’ve learned.Say something.“Who was the president in 2016?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” He laughs. “Obama.”
I get up to leave and he calls me back. “Wake me up in three hours if you want. But I’ll be okay. I promise.”
I nod. Backing out of the room, I close the door behind me and flop back onto the couch.
This can’t be happening.
After wakingAlexei up a couple more times, it gets light out and he tells me to go to bed. I hear him making coffee, but I’m too tired to check if he should be having that. Surely a hockey player knows more about concussions than I do?
After a fretful sleep – if you can call thrashing around for hours while the light floods in around the drapes sleep – I give up and get out of bed.
Alexei’s sitting on the couch with the fort I made around his head.
“Hi, how are you feeling?”
“Like I got run over by a truck. You?”
“I didn’t get a concussion.”
“Yeah, but you did stay awake all night to make sure I didn’t die.”
“It was nothing.” I shrug, going to pour myself a cup of coffee.
“It wasn’t nothing. Thank you.”