Chapter 297 Did I Scare You?
Just as he was struggling internally, the door was knocked twice softly, then pushed open a crack.
Caroline poked her head in, and seeing Alexander awake, her eyes clearly brightened for a moment.
"You're up? How are you feeling? Want something to eat? I made some really thin oatmeal. The town doctor said this is gentler, easier on the stomach."
Her tone was natural, as if he just had a common cold.
This deliberate calmness finally loosened his tense nerves a bit. He nodded and tried to sit up.
She immediately came in, propped an old pillow behind his back, and reached out to help him.
The oatmeal was quickly brought into the room. She handed him the bowl and placed the spoon in his hand.
He took it, but his hand started shaking uncontrollably again. He looked at her with a bit of helplessness.
She smiled slightly, "It's okay, take your time."
He tried bit by bit, and after a long while finally managed to scoop up a spoonful. The oatmeal tasted bland, with just a hint of salt, cooked until almost dissolved—indeed very gentle. He had no appetite, but still forced himself to swallow it down mouthful by mouthful.
She didn't leave. She sat down on the chair by the bed, quietly watching him eat.
"I... last night..." After a few bites, he still looked up, his voice dry and hoarse.
He wanted to apologize, to explain, to say something to break this suffocating silence, and also to erase that pathetic version of himself from her memory.
"Eat first," she interrupted him. "We'll talk after you finish. You're still very weak, you need to build up your strength."
His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed his words and continued eating the oatmeal with his head down.
In front of Caroline, Alexander always seemed to be the one being cared for, being arranged for, even though he had once been one of the Hamilton family's promising heirs.
This role reversal didn't bother him. It felt like a handhold at the edge of panic—no drama, just something real he could rely on.
It took him a full hour to finish the oatmeal.
She took the empty bowl and poured him half a cup of water. She watched him drink it down before returning to sit in the chair.
"Thank you," he avoided her gaze, his eyes falling on his still slightly trembling hands on the blanket. "For last night. For all of it."
"You don't need to thank me," her answer was simple. "Just focus on getting better."
"I... the way I was... did I scare you?" he finally asked.
Caroline was silent for a while. After a few seconds, she said softly, "A little. But mostly I was worried about you. I've heard people talk about that drug. It's bad. You'll feel terrible, I know."
Her honesty made him feel a bit lighter inside. At least she wasn't giving him empty comfort, and she wasn't showing excessive pity, which would only make him feel more ashamed.
"I'll... try to control it," he made the promise with difficulty.
"Okay." She nodded, got up and walked out. "Rest some more. I'll go wash the bowl. What do you want for lunch? I'll check the market."
Over the next few days, Alexander's withdrawal symptoms flared up twice more, once in the afternoon and once in the middle of the night.
The first time, both of them were unprepared and both were crushed by fear. The next two times, they both seemed to have gained some experience.
As soon as the signs appeared—restlessness, panic, cold sweats, and that indescribable itchy ache deep in his bones—Alexander would stuff the towel Caroline had prepared into his mouth and bite down hard, both to keep from making too much noise and to avoid biting himself when he lost control.
He would curl up at the far end of the bed, facing away from the door, pull the blanket over his head, trying to endure alone the wave of pain that would drown him completely.
But Caroline could always sense something was wrong and would appear quickly. She usually didn't speak, just knelt by the bed, using a cool damp cloth to wipe away the cold sweat that kept appearing on his forehead.
During the worst moments, she would, like the first time, half-embrace his curled-up body from behind. That bit of warmth was like a small fire left in the darkness—not dramatic, not dazzling, but enough to remind him that he wasn't alone.
Alexander no longer pushed her away. He found himself beginning to depend on Caroline. Even in those moments when his reason was torn apart by pain and only instinct remained, he would instinctively grab at her clothes, more of a reflex than burying his face deeper into the pillow.
Between episodes, he would fall into a deep sleep, exhausted as if drained empty.
Caroline stayed by his side. She would wait until he was sound asleep before quietly leaving to wash his soiled clothes and prepare some more easily digestible food.
Caroline no longer mentioned "other options." She just took care of him day after day, as if this was something she was supposed to do all along.
She also asked Irene to quietly bring back some herbal remedies from outside that were said to calm people and ease withdrawal pain, then boiled them into a very dark-colored soup.
Alexander instinctively resisted, making many excuses to avoid it. Caroline, usually gentle, suddenly got angry that day, put down the bowl and left.
He panicked immediately, stumbled after her to her room, and drank the whole thing down in front of her.
He clumsily held up the empty bowl to show her, like a child eager to prove he had "done the right thing."
Caroline was amused by him and reached out to touch his head, the gesture very gentle.
From then on, he drank it willingly every time. The taste was bitter enough to make him nauseous, but he would still gulp it down in one go.
The two of them still didn't talk much.
Caroline wasn't much of a talker to begin with. Alexander, tormented by both pain and guilt, often didn't know what to say either.
But a silent understanding gradually formed between them. A look, a small gesture, and they could roughly understand what the other meant.
Under Caroline's careful care, Alexander's body began to gradually recover. The hollows in his face weren't as frightening anymore, and the wounds from self-harm on his wrists began to scab over.
More importantly, the intervals between episodes seemed to be lengthening, and the intensity during episodes also seemed to ease a bit.
Alexander began trying not to stay in bed all day.
At first, he only moved around in his room. Later, he could walk to the doorway, lean against the doorframe, and watch her busy in the yard.
He watched her water and weed that small vegetable patch, watched her squat by the basin scrubbing clothes hard, watched her cough a few times from the cooking smoke but still stubbornly not let him help.
On sunny afternoons, Caroline would move out the small stool Alexander had made and have him sit under the eaves in the sun. She would sit on another small stool beside him, doing some mending.