Page 51 of Breaking Isolde

I haul her to the edge of the bed and walk her to the toilet, one arm braced around her waist. She collapses to her knees and vomits until it’s straight bile. I hold her hair back, fingers threading through the tangled auburn mass, and let her ride it out.

When she’s done, she sinks against the wall, eyes closed, breath shallow.

“Don’t touch me,” she mutters,.

I crouch next to her, hands raised in surrender. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

She laughs, weak. “That’s new.”

“People aren’t always what they seem, Isolde.”

She cracks one eye open. “You are.”

The smile I give her is real, and I hate myself for it. “Why can’t I be both man and monster?”

I help her to her feet and half-carry her back to bed. It feels like she’s lost weight, like she’s brittle. I could snap her in half if I wanted to, but I move slow and gentle, as if handling a baby. I tuck her in, pat down the comforter, and brush the hair from her forehead.

There’s a knock at the door. I answer it without hesitation, blocking the entry with my body.

The delivery kid is shorter than me, face mostly hidden by a beanie. He thrusts the plastic bag at me and takes two steps back, like I might rob him. I give him a twenty and close the door in his face, grabbing a bowl on my way back to the room.

Back at her bed, I open the containers and spoon out a bowl. The steam rises, thick with garlic and beef. I sit on the edge of the mattress, balancing the bowl in one hand.

“Eat,” I say.

She turns her head away.

Gripping her chin, I force her to face me. “Eat. Or I’ll feed it to you myself.”

She sneers, but the effort exhausts her. She opens her mouth and lets me spoon in the broth. The first taste makes her gag, but she swallows, and I keep going.

We get through half the bowl before she collapses back, eyes rolling up. I set it down and wipe her mouth with a napkin. Her lips are chapped, split in the center. I want to kiss her, but I don’t.

The next time, she will be in control.

Instead, I sit on the floor beside the bed, back against the wall, and close my eyes.

I listen to the rattle of her breath and count the seconds between each one.

I spend the day doing that, easing into night, alternating between letting her sleep and force feeding her.

At three AM, her fever breaks. I feel the difference before I see it—her skin cools, her breath steadies, the wild nonsense of her dreams turns into ordinary sleep. I take the towel and wipe herdown again, the scent of sweat replaced by something sweeter, almost floral.

I watch her chest rise and fall, the tattoo at her hip just visible above the hem of her shorts. I stare at it until the image burns into my brain.

A tiny bird.

This is what it means to own something, I think. Not to destroy it, but to be responsible for it. To know every flaw, every break, every raw edge and still want to keep it. I empty her puke bucket, wash it and put it back beside the bed.

I stay awake until morning.

When she wakes, she’s lucid but hollowed out, the fever gone but leaving nothing in its place.

She looks at me, blank and tired. “You’re still here.”

“Yep.”

She sits up, rubs her eyes, and looks around the room. “You didn’t take anything?”