Jesus, why is this so fucking complicated.
Fuck it, I pick medium on everything and click buy now. Shutting my laptop, I sit back and look up at the TV. The Roku sign dances around the black screen, the sound of silence in the apartment deafening.
The sun is setting, the house becoming darker. I go around turning on a light here and there and decide to check on Sailor Moon, before trying to find something for dinner. Pushing the door open just so, I find her on the bed this time bent over, her hair unbraided and in her face as her arm moves around. What the fuck is she doing?
Stepping inside, careful not to spook her, I look around her and find her drawing.
When the hell did she get that? It’s the notepad that was on the counter in the kitchen.
“He’s got the whole world in his hands,” she sings and tucks a large amount of hair behind her ear, displaying the sketch.
Brows furrowing, I swallow as my eyes come head-on with a dead sunflower. Its stalk bent over and head decaying and falling apart. The shadowing ominous and deathly. The picture alone brings you to a sunflower field in the middle of a cold winter day, making you feel sad and depressed instantly. But there’s a beauty to behold, looking at its disturbing mutation, you can see by the way the petals try to lift that there’s life in there somewhere.
Instantly I’m brought back to the hospital I was in for twenty-four hours when I was a kid. A girl named… fuck, what was her name. Star, no… Luna! She drew the exact same flower, over and over. I’ve never seen that flower since… not until now.
Come to think of it, this woman’s wild hair looks like Luna’s. Coming farther into the room, she stiffens, noticing I’m in here. Is she Luna? How did she wind up in that van? What has she been through?
Opening my mouth to speak, I take a breath, preparing myself. For what, I don’t know. There are not many people in my life that made a positive impact but she was one, if this is her, that is.
“L-Luna?”
Her eyes widen, her hand with the pen shaking.
It’s her. It’s Luna.
Squatting down just enough to look under her curtain of blonde hair, her green eyes hit mine with recognition.
“It’s me… Romeo.”
Luna
A sharp coldness slips down my back, the hair on my arms standing. Nobody has called me Luna in years. Breathing through my nose, I feel as if I can’t get enough oxygen, so I open my mouth to breathe.
He bends down in front of me, his arms resting on the bed. I’ve never been so scared in my life. How does he know my name? The biggest fear I’ve ever had is running into someone I know, what would I tell them. How would I explain the life I have?
“It’s me… Romeo,” he says, and my eyes squint trying to place him. I’ve met a couple of Romeos in my life.
“From the hospital, when we were kids,” he continues, and my hand drops the pen.
It’s the straitjacket kid. My… sunflower.
Chest rising and falling so fast my eyes fill with tears. I don’t know him, but I was drawn to him when we were kids. We had an unspoken bond, and when he was near me, I felt a little less sad. When he left. Nobody knew how much I cried that day. I sat in the corner of my room thinking about the night we talked to each other through the vents.
“Romeo?” I croak, my throat dry from not talking, it comes out a crackly word.
A smirk pulls on his lips, and I suddenly don’t know what to do.
“Do you remember me?” he asks, hair in his eyes.
I want to reach forward and sweep them to the side, but I resist. People change over time, he did take me. He’s involved with men who buy women. Just because we had something as kids, doesn’t mean he’s safe now.
I nod but keep my guard up.
His eyes drop to the sketching, and he silently scoffs. What is he thinking? Is he thinking about me? When we were kids?
“My sunflower,” he whispers. His eyes come to mine, and a tear slides down my cheek. “I never forgot you,” he says in an unreadable tone, one laced with a darkness and light.
I’m so confused. Do I trust him? I know he said I could leave but they never mean it, it’s a sick game of cat and mouse. Will knowing who I am now make my position here worse?
“What will you do with me?” I ask, the words coming out a little smoother than before.
Licking his lips, he stands. His hard chest coming into full view. He’s definitely not a little boy anymore. No wonder I didn’t recognize him. Back then he was small, scared, and meek looking. Now he looks like a… prisoner. One who escaped and is lost.
Great, two lost souls under one roof, what good could come of that. If he can’t save himself, how can he save me?
“What do you want me to do with you?” he replies, his question laced with promiscuous endeavors, but under-toned with a gentleman’s ease. He’s flirting with me and telling me he’ll stay back if I want him to at the same time. Would he have answered the same way an hour ago before he knew I was Luna? The breath is knocked from my chest with
