Teaching Willow: Session Four

by James, Paige

  In my mind, I’m holding my baby. In the sunshine. Out in the world. I’m smiling. He or she is smiling. There are no doctors, no sterile walls, no chains, invisible or otherwise. There is only me and my baby and happiness.

  The strange thing is, this is the first time I’ve pictured this same scene without Ebon by my side.

  TEN- EBON

  The air conditioning shuts off with a muffled thump, rousing me from a fitful pseudo-sleep. Immediately, the warm, moist Florida air creeps in to chase away the cool.

  I throw off my covers and lie staring at the ceiling. I wonder briefly if I’m awake or asleep, but then I decide that it doesn’t matter. Both are equally miserable places.

  Perspiration beads on my chest as I listen to the hushed sounds of traffic outside my window. I feel exhausted and restless at the same time. With a growl tickling the back of my throat, I slide my hand down my stomach and curl my fingers around my flaccid cock, letting my mind wander…yet again…to Willow.

  I close my eyes and I think of her beautiful face, of staring down into it just seconds before I kiss her. I think of the way her tongue feels like velvet and how the inside of her mouth tastes.

  My dick swells in my hand and I stroke it, pretending Willow is lying beside me. I fantasize about rolling over and taking one plump breast in my hand and guiding a puckered nipple into my mouth. I can almost feel the way she sort of stretches against me, like a cat trying to get closer to the hand that brings it pleasure. I remember nuzzling her with my mouth, the little sounds she makes when something feels good. Listening to her always makes it hard to go slow. The way those innocent lips spill such filthy talk, telling me to fuck her deep and to come inside her, to lick her until she’s raw. God, I could devour her, with no thought to anything but slaking the insatiable hunger I have for her, for her flesh.

  More blood rushes into my cock, turning it to granite in my palm, the vein along the back throbbing almost painfully. I trace it with my fingertips, imaging that it’s Willow’s tongue instead—hot and silky and eager to take all of me down into her throat.

  I roll my thumb over the head, spreading the single drop of moisture there as I stimulate myself. I think of Willow’s incredible wetness, how excited she gets when I touch her. How wild she goes when I eat her.

  The thoughts of driving my tongue into her pussy has me arching my back and straining against my hand. Harder and harder I stroke, faster and faster as I imagine with perfect detail the way her come tastes on my lips, the way her body feels when I ram my cock into it.

  And oh god, that tight little sleeve of hers, squeezing me when she gets off, contracting around me, forcing me to come inside her. I don’t think I could pull out if I had to. She makes me lose control completely. And when I’m deep inside her ass…holy fuck! The fact that she loves it so much, the fact that she comes around my fingers until it drips from my knuckles, it’s almost too much to bear.

  Violently, I jerk up and down on my cock. I want it to hurt. I want it to hurt so good, like it does with Willow.

  Only when my palm is wet with my release and my breathing is labored with my exertion, I still feel cold and empty and alone.

  Miserable without Willow.

  ELEVEN- WILLOW

  The solitude is stifling. I feel my aloneness more than ever. I need so desperately to talk to someone, yet there is no one. No one I can trust. No one who will listen to me without judging me or pronouncing me unstable. No one I can ask for advice. No one to help me. Just no one.

  I want to talk to Ebon. But more than that, I need to talk to him. Only I can’t. Not just because the only phone calls I’m allowed are to those on a pre-approved list, a list which basically consists of my family members, but because I don’t think he would want to hear from me anyway.

  But still, I need to speak with him. I need to tell him that I’m pregnant with his child.

  Even as I imagine that conversation in my head, I realize that it’s not one to have over the phone anyway. No, it’s best that I can’t talk to Ebon. It’s quite likely I’d screw things up even worse.

  So I sit by myself, fingers curled into my scratchy sheets, feet planted firmly on the floor, and I fight off the claustrophobia that threatens.

  I haven’t moved an inch when the thump at the door reveals that Dr. Dowling has come to pay me a visit. I see her sharply-angled face at the window first, peeking inside before she opens the door and walks in. Her springy brown hair is held in check by a headband circa 1960 and her pale skin is matched in pallor only by her pale blue eyes.

  She crosses the room, her arms folded over her chest, her sensible pumps clacking on the tile floor, and she stops in front of the window where she leans one hip against the shelf that rests beneath it. Quietly, she peruses me.

  I say nothing. As anxious as I am, still I hold my tongue. This battle is all about control. And appearances. I need to reinforce my case and my stability at every possible opportunity.

  Finally, she breaks the silence. “So, tell me about your parents,” she says, surprising me.

  “My parents?”

  “Yes. Tell me why they felt you needed to be here.”

  Although I’ve got an earful for her, I pause before I speak. Just like every word I say and every move I make, Dr. Dowling will analyze this very carefully, which means that I need to speak with caution.

  Despite my need to vent some spleen, I go with the safest answer. “None of us can really know another’s thoughts or motives. We can only hypothesize. I imagine you’ll need to speak directly to them to get your answer.”

  She watches me and I hold her gaze, unwavering. After several long seconds, she nods slowly. “You couldn’t be more right. So you can imagine the dilemma of a doctor, given only an individual’s actions and reactions with which to make an assessment of that person’s psyche.”

  I will my eyes not to narrow on her in suspicion. I feel a trap coming on. “I’m sure it’s difficult to say the least.”

  “With a child, even more so. There are other things to consider. History, parental concerns—”

  I cut her off. “Only I’m not a child.”

  “No, but you’ll always be a child to your parents.”

  “That sounds like their problem rather than mine.”

  She raises her eyebrows and nods in silent agreement. “But you understand why their input is valuable.”

  “I do, but I would think mine would be even more so.”

  “And so it is.”

  Is that a glimmer of hope I’m seeing on the horizon? Is it too much to think that maybe, just maybe, someone will listen to me?

  “I think you’ve got some issues you need to work through, Willow. I think you could benefit from some outpatient sessions.” My heart sinks, but then it soars when the word “outpatient” penetrates the anxious cloud I’m floating within. “But I don’t believe you need to be here. Nothing you’ve said or done over the last weeks has indicated you might be a risk to your own safety. Now a risk to your own peace of mind, absolutely. I see some self-defeating behaviors, some ill-conceived decision making…but, that’s nothing that even the most well-adjusted person can’t fall victim to every now and again. We all make mistakes. The key is to learn from them.” She eyes me meaningfully. “Do you understand what I mean, Willow?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do. I’m the first person to admit that I’ve made poor choices, but mistakes aren’t a symptom of mental illness. They’re a symptom of humanity.”

  “I agree, but something this…extreme can give your loved ones cause for concern.”

  “It wouldn’t if they would stay out of my business.”

  Her smile is sardonic. “Now, Willow, you know as well as I that it’s the nature of family to make themselves involved where they see a need.”

  “So it would seem.”

  Dr. Dowling straightens away from the wall and walks toward me, perching on the bed beside me. “What will you do when you leave here?” she asks.

  I know
she means much more than what the simple question implies. “I’ve got an apology to make and some news to deliver.”

  Concern crosses her features. “Do you need to talk about it, sound it out before you jump right into it?”

  I give her offer ample consideration. “No. This is one of those things that has to come from the heart. The more I think on it, the more I rehearse it in my head or aloud, the more likely I am to screw it up. But thank you.”

  Her smile reflects that she is pleased with my answer. “Be well, Willow.”

  “I will, Dr. Dowling. I will.”

  The promise is as much to her and to myself as it is to the little piece of love and life that’s growing in my belly.

  TWELVE- EBON

  I don’t know how long I’ve been flirting with sleep when the firm knock at my door rouses me. I glance over at the bedside clock. 8:20. The room-darkening drapes are drawn, but the s oozing around the edges tell me that it’s just after eight in the morning. Otherwise, I’d never have known. AM and PM have little meaning to me now. Not much does, actually. To say I’m lost would be a tragic understatement.

  I haul my bones out of bed and walk to the door, sparing one quick look at my body to make sure I’m fully clothed. I am, albeit in the same lounge pants and green Henley that I’ve worn for two days now. Or is it three?

  I tug on the hem of my shirt, but when I release it, the wrinkles spring right back. With a snide curl of my lip, I decided I don’t give a fuck and I unlock the door.

  I’ve become far too acquainted with several police officers over the last weeks, but this one is a new face to me. He’s young, probably early twenties, with dark red hair and pale, freckled skin. I imagine him to be the butt of many a joke growing up.

  “Can I help you?” I ask.

  “Noah Snell? AKA Ebon Daniels?”

  One side of my mouth pulls up into a wry grin. These people have an uncanny way of making me even sound like a criminal. The only way they could do better is if they tacked on a “Ebon the Fist” or some such mafia-worthy name to the end of my other names.

  “That would be me,” I reply. “Both of them.”

  “Sir, this is a restraining order stating that you may not legally come within fifty yards of Ms. Willow Masters.”

  What. The. Fuck.

  The boy stands there staring at me, and I at him. I’m stunned. Why in the world would Willow do something like this?

  “I…I don’t…Can you tell me what precipitated this? I’m sorry if I’m a bit confused.”

  “Sir, I don’t know those kinds of details. I’m just here to serve the order.” He looks suddenly uncomfortable, like I might attack him personally. “If you should choose to appeal it, you—”

  “No, I won’t be appealing it,” I assure him.

  With a curt nod, the officer hands me a rolled up, legal-looking piece of paper and walks away, leaving me standing in the doorway, in several-day-old clothes, feeling furious and defeated all at the same time.

  How the hell did I get here?

  THIRTEEN- WILLOW

  A big part of me wants to leave behind everything from my life before now and start anew, including my clothes and belongings that are safely (as far as I know, anyway) ensconced in my closet at the apartment I’ve shared with my sister. But part of proving to myself and to my family that I’m mature and sane and capable is facing things like this. So that’s where I’m going—to face the beast. Well, one of them anyway.

  Thankfully, the sweet orderly, Ben gave me cab fare so that I wouldn’t have to call anyone to come and get me. That tiny independence has bolstered me more than I ever would’ve thought it could.

  I pay the cabbie and get out, feeling conflicted when I see Sage’s car in the lot. It would’ve been nice if I could’ve walked in and been able to take a breath before facing off with her, but…it is what it is.

  I inhale deeply and mount the steps that lead to the front door. Before I get close enough to grab the knob, the door is jerked open. Sage stands there watching me with a carefully blank expression on her face.

  I frown. “Did you hear me come up the steps?” For some reason, I find that highly unlikely, but it seems to be the only logical explanation.

  “No. Mom called.”

  My stomach curls into a knot. “Does she know I’m out?”

  Sage nods.

  Surely I won’t have to face them all within five minutes of being out!

  “How?”

  “Well, when you’re locked up in the nut house, you kinda quit being an adult in a lot of ways. You’re like a kid in school again and the principle called to say you were being sent home,” she offers sarcastically.

  Shit.

  Sage’s lips turn up into a cold smile. “Yeah, they’ve been scrambling around like busy little beavers since they found out you were being released.”

  “Doing what?” My jaw clenches with dread.

  “Oh, you know, trying to get you another doctor who will keep you there, putting in calls to your old therapist, getting restraining orders.”

  She ticks off these troublesome things so casually, the last one takes a few seconds to really register. But then it does. With a thud. Like a big, heavy, steel-toed boot dropping onto a concrete floor.

  “Restraining order?” I feel dazed yet frantic just speaking the words.

  “Mmmm hmmm. They’re determined to save you from yourself. And from everybody else, evidently.”

  I want to scream. And rail. And throw the mother of all tantrums. I want to get violent. And cuss. And run far, far away. But none of those things will serve my purpose, none will help my case, so I hold off panic with shaky fingers and I speak in as level a tone as I can manage.

  “They served Ebon with a restraining order?”

  “Yep. Sure did.”

  That complicates things.

  “H-have you heard from him?”

  She scowls. “Hell no! Why would I?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I just thought…maybe…I mean, I haven’t heard from him either.”

  “Oh, don’t think he would’ve been allowed anywhere near you in there. After the fight he and Dad got into, I’m surprised he didn’t flee the country.”

  I close my eyes. This is not what I had hoped to be released to. Ebon will have even more reasons to hate me now. And he had plenty to begin with.

  “I need to go see him,” I state flatly, dreading it even more now.

  “You can’t be serious,” she spits, her mouth gaping.

  “Sage, I owe him an apology. For god’s sake, I ruined the man’s life! The very least I can do is suck it up and apologize for all the million ways that I wronged him.”

  And tell him that he conceived a baby with the worst person ever to walk the planet.

  “You’re a dumb ass, Willow.” Sage shakes her head like I’m a wayward child who no one understands.

  “I know, Sage. I’m sure common decency such as that eludes you.”

  “Oh, you can drop the self-righteous act, little sister! Don’t forget that I know what you’re capable of.”

  And I know that’s not true. Evidently, not even I know what I’m capable of.

  FOURTEEN- EBON

  A knock wakes me. Again. I roll out of bed and stumble to the door, looking out through the peep hole. I see Detective Arnold standing on the other side. Blearily, I think that too many of my days are starting out with cops at my door.

  I flip the lock and pull open the door. “Detective Arnold,” I say, stopping myself before I add a polite What a nice surprise. Because, of course, that would be an outright lie. If I never see another police officer for the rest of my life, I’d die happy.

  Well, not happy. I’m not sure I’ll ever be happy again, but at least I’d die a little more…satisfied than I am right now.

  “What can I do for you?” I ask. Not that I really want to know.

  “The results from the ME have returned. Your mother’s death was ruled a suicide. The only prints
on the vials found at the scene, as well as the syringe used to administer the fatal dose of Ketamine were her own. The angle of the puncture and the positioning of the needle are consistent with a self-inflicted wound. What that means for you is that you’ve been cleared of suspicion of any wrong doing.”

  “So…I’m…” I prompt, raising my eyebrows.

  “You’re a free man, Mr…Daniels. You can return to your home and your life whenever you like.”

  I’m a free man? That doesn’t sound quite right. I don’t know that I’ve ever been free. Not really.

  When I make no response, Detective Arnold continues. “Well, your house was cleared within twenty-four hours. I just got the impression that you didn’t particularly want to be there.”

  I give him a tight smile. “I’m sure you can imagine why.”

  He wags his head as if to say he can understand it. After a few seconds, he clears his throat. “Just make sure you don’t violate that restraining order and maybe you won’t have to see me again.”

  The restraining order. It’s never far from my mind.

  “I won’t be forgetting about that any time soon.”

  “Good good,” he says, pushing back his sleeve to glance at the watch on his wrist. “Well, I’ll let you get on with your day. Take care, Mr. Daniels.”

  “You, too, Detective.”

  And with that, he’s gone from my life. Hopefully forever. His disappearance from the hallway is one step closer to putting this whole mess behind me.

  But now what?

  I wander back into the bedroom to sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the blank screen of my laptop. It’s fitting, I suppose. My story is finished. Written. Completed. Now it’s time to move on. To move away. There’s nothing for me here now. Without the possibility of Willow, without the hope of seeing her again, there’s nothing keeping me in this area. Nothing at all.