haven ; 𝐛. 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 , 𝟏

016. not so alone

SIXTEEN—NOT SO ALONE
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MY BED WAS all too welcoming when I finally stumbled my way into the dark room, a wet trail of (now cold) tears falling down my cheeks. The room across the hall, occupied by my parents, was—thankfully—silent, a clear reassurance that they were completely clueless to my late night...encounters. 

Rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands, I padded over to the dresser and reached for a tissue to blow my nose. That damn Bucky Barnes, I cursed him in my head, when did he begin to have so much power over me? 

But no. I would not allow that power to tighten its grasp on me. He was a stranger. He had no power over me. 

He's not much of a stranger anymore, El, an annoying, yet clear, voice nagged at me from the back of my mind. 

Deciding I was too tired for such an argument with my inner conscience, I shook my head, threw away the tissues, and practically collapsed on my bed, exhaustion tugging my eyes shut before I could even climb under the covers. 

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As the night dragged along, the moon shone brightly into the young woman's bedroom, the curtains rustling gently from the slight breeze blowing in through the open windows. Crickets chirped in the nearly black forest, oblivious to the goings-on in the house less than one hundred yards away. 

The door to Elda Reid's door was softly opened, the hinges creaking quietly, albeit loud enough to act as a disturbance to the peaceful silence of the room. The sleeping body in the bed inhaled deeply, her chest rising with the new breath, then falling as she released it. Her legs curled up underneath her, she looked like a small child trying to conserve warmth in the dead of winter. 

Footsteps were not heard on the carpet, but a figure crept forward, reaching out. Their fingers grabbed onto the covers, pulling them back and opening the bed. In an elegance unlike any other, they moved the young woman's legs slowly and soundlessly, leading them to lay underneath the sheets. Tucking the sheets up and under her chin, they patted her hair softly and watched with a fond smile as she grasped onto the blankets tightly, eyes still closed in slumber. 

Careful not to wake the twenty-six-year-old, the figure leaned down and pressed their lips to her forehead with a softness known only to mothers. Her hand still smoothing down the messy head of hair belonging to her daughter, she let a small, sad smile grace her aged face. 

"Sweet dreams, my night owl," she whispered. "Goodnight."

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It wasn't until the morning sun was glaringly forcing its way into my room when I finally woke up. Rubbing my eyes, I groaned and pushed myself up on my elbows. The sheets fell away from my body and I looked down at them, confused. Either I had crawled underneath them during the night, or someone had come in and tucked me in. 

I chuckled, but with my fatigued muscles from a long night of much-needed sleep, it came out sounding like a strained wheeze. 

Pushing myself out of bed, I ran a hand through my tangled hair—or tried to, more like, as my fingers quickly got stuck in the knots that required a heavy brushing. Ignoring the mess on my head, however, I trampled downstairs, not caring that I was wearing the same clothes I'd been in the day before and had gone to bed in.