1No matter how hard I try, my thoughts keep going back to the man that's sleeping in my attic. This is bad because I'm trying to fry French toast for Collin and I'm starting to get stung by hot butter. Before I'd put Collin to bed, I'd been extremely wary of him, as I rightfully should have been. After all, our first encounter involved finding him huddled up by the remains of what had been Bessie. (Given, I've pretty much hated her ever since she kicked me and broke my arm two years ago.)
And then he has to pop up all sweaty and steaming in nothing but a towel. Holy crap is he handsome: long black hair framing a face that inspires the need to rip one's clothes off, striking light blue eyes, and that body… Omigod, it's like he was carved out of iron instead of flesh.
Another drop of lava hits my hand, and I curse softly. Collin is sitting at the dining room table, navigating a sea of crayons and markers laid out before him. His hair is wet from the bath I made him take, and he's still a little sore at me for it. There is no school today because of last night's storm. Still, that doesn't give him an excuse not to clean himself. Kids…
When the final product is slathered in syrup and dusted in sugar, I place a plate in front of Collin. Instantly all memory of the bath is dissolved by the taste of my famously fluffy French toast. I prepare some for myself, and plop down into a chair beside him. While I'm eating, I glance over at what he's been working on for the last fifteen minutes. It's a crayon drawing of an impressive black dog and a girl standing opposite of it. Above them, he's begun work on the deep indigo of the sky interrupted by simple yet pretty snowflakes. Somehow I already know who the girl is; the black dog is upstairs, probably still asleep.
"Why aren't you in the picture?" I ask Collin.
He makes a face, and looks at me like I'm stupid. "Because I'm not in love with him."
"Collin!" My voice rises unintentionally, and Collin grins.
So far, it's been a nice, peaceful morning. Dad and Viola left earlier to go report Bessie's "murder." Charlotte, my delightfully slutty step-sister, is off at a friend's house. When I'm finished, I take my plate over to the sink and wash it. Taking a clean dish from the cabinet above me, I place two pieces of toast on it.
"Do you want to take this up to our guest?" I inquire, offering the plate to Collin.
He shakes his head vigorously, and runs into the living room. "In Plain Sight is on!" There's something foreboding about an eight-year-old who watches a show about witness protection instead of SpongeBob. I just shrug and decide to take the plate up myself. Right beside the attic door is the main bathroom, and I run in real quick to check my appearance. I put on a little bit of makeup this morning out of habit, and my hair is in an appealing state of disarray.
Holding the food with one hand and unlocking the door with the other, I push it open and step inside. I don't know why, but I had expected the attic to be in shambles. Late morning light ignites the white room in pale yellow, and in a tangled heap of sheets is the man. Walking over to him, I place the plate on the nightstand and sit on the bed opposite him. His brow furrows and he grunts a little, but he's still sleeping. His face is coated in a cold sweat, so I make the mistake of gently shaking his arm to wake him. In a second flat, his hand grips my wrist painfully and then I'm being shoved back onto the bed, pinned beneath his superior build.
We're both breathing heavy, and then I'm so made I can't stand it.
"What the HELL are you doing!?" I yell, using my free hand to pound on his chest.
He looks at me, puzzled, and jumps off of me. "Sorry, I guess I freaked out there." He flashes me a sweetly apologetic smile as I sit up. Oh, why does he have to be so perfect? Just like Collin before, I nearly forget why I was angry in the first place.
"Yeah, I guess you did," I grumble, rubbing my now sore wrist. "I should kick your ass right back out into the snow."
He actually looks worried for a moment, and I feel bad. "Is that for me?" He points at the French toast.
"No, I just thought I'd come up here, and make you watch while I ate it," I say, with obvious sarcasm. He arches an eyebrow. I slap my forehead. "Yes, it's for you."
Thirty seconds go by and the food is gone. He's licking the plate for traces of sugar and syrup, and I pull it away from him.
"That's gross. You weren't raised in a barn," I scold.
He's smiling again. "For all I know, I could have been," he says.
I stare into his eyes, as if I could just pluck the memories out myself and give them back to him. "You can't remember anything?" It's such an amazingly alien concept for me.
"Little things, like minor sights and smells, but nothing useful," he explains.
I nod, trying to understand. "Ok. Well, if you want to you can come downstairs. Everyone's gone except Colin and me, so we can figure out what we're gonna tell them when they get back."
"Tell them?" There's that worry again.
"Well, if you're suffering from amnesia, and I'm sure you are, we can't just turn you lose, right?" He nods. "Right, so I figured you could stay here for the holidays. Meanwhile, we could go into town, walk around, see if anyone recognizes you. Is that ok?"
"Yes! I mean, are you sure I won't be too much trouble?" he asks.
"More trouble than you've already been?"
His face drops, and he says, "I'm so sorry."
I place my hand on his shoulder as I stand up. "Don't worry about. It's a small price to pay to watch Viola suffer."
"Viola?"
"My step-mother. You'll hate her, trust me." I move towards the door. "Come on, let's go downstairs and watch some TV."
"T… V?"
"Jesus Christ…"
"Just kidding," he says, holding up his hands. I glare daggers his way, but he follows me downstairs anyway. When we pass the living room, I catch Collin peaking at us from the couch, and he immediately sinks back down when I look over at him. Mr. Amnesia walks over to my dad's armchair and sits down, eyes instantly locked on the television.
"What's your name?" Collin asks, never looking away from the gun fight on screen.
"I don't know," he honestly answers.
"Really? You look a lot like Marshall," Collin says matter-of-factly. "COREY! Can we name him Marshall?!" Why he always has to yell I'll never know.
"We can't "name" him, Collin. He's not an animal," I tell him.
"I like that name," the man interjects, smiling at me.
"Marshall it is, then." Without further discussion on the topic, I retreat into the kitchen to clean up the mess left over from breakfast. I get a weird feeling while I'm washing the dishes, a twinge of… what? Longing? or Nostalgia? I turn around and I can see "Marshall" watching television with Collin, both of them exclaiming their shared distaste as an on-screen make out ensues. It's like he's always been here, sleeping in the attic, and I just found him.
I remember feeling like this when Viola first moved in. I remember how badly I wanted her to love and accept me like my own mother had, and the pain of when I first realized she had no desire to do so. I try not to get my hopes up about Marshall. He's a complete stranger, unknown and possibly dangerous; so why are we blindly gravitating to him like two lost stars seeking a sun?