Footsteps of Spring

立春 [4] / [7]

He looked into the mirror in front of him. He wiped off the steam, and stared at himself. During this whole ordeal, he lost quite a lot of weight. His face lost some of it's liveliness, and he looked gaunt. He sighed deeply. He could've died and that thought again gave him a chill. A sudden uneasiness overwhelmed him.

This place was unfamiliar to him, just like Sarah's. But no, this is different, I know Cynthia, and what kind of woman she is. What occurred in Sarah's place won't happen here, this is Cynthia's place. He controlled his mind, and let the thought reverberate around his head until he could relax.

After a shower, he dried himself off with his towel, and donned a shower gown - which Cynthia had put in his room with several other daily necessities.

It seemed she hadn’t come back yet. Of course she hadn’t. She must be very busy these days with cold cases.

He was able to check his cellphone after such a long while. He got a bunch of messages while he was laid up, but chose to ignore them. At that moment, he got a message from Cynthia.

<I'll come back earlier. Do you feel any better? I made some salad and chicken soup. They're on the stove. Message me if there's something you want. I will bring it to you>

Alexander was extremely grateful to Cynthia for taking him in, yet his reply was simple and to the point.

<Thank you. For everything>

He felt a rush of emotion towards Cynthia when he saw the text, but couldn't tell if it was because he was happy to hear from her, or because she mentioned food. He was rather hungry, and made his way to the kitchen. It was small, yet well laid out, with a center island and wrap around counters of matching wood, with a stove, refrigerator, microwave: the works! It was cozy, and certainly a lot better equipped than his own combination kitchen/living room. The soup was on the stove, and he ladled some into a bowl. It was still pretty hot, so he blew on it before taking a sip. He raised the spoon to his lips, then . . . then he stopped himself.

It smells okay, he thought. No! No, Cynthia wouldn't poison me. I'm just . . .

He closed his eyes, poured the soup into his mouth, and swallowed. It was delicious, but he still had this lingering fear.

Do I have PTSD?