Page 36 of Sweet Poison

After a moment that feels like an eternity, she taps the small device and then uses her hands to form the words in sign language. Though I can’t understand all the signs, it’s clear from her gestures that the device helps her communicate. I wonder if that thing helps her hear or helps with speech issues. Without thinking I frown, and that makes her look even sadder. Shit. She then reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small, folded card. After unfolding it, she hands it to me. The card is covered in neat, handwritten notes that look like a grownup wrote. Perhaps her Mom? The note explains that Willow was born with a hearing impairment, and the device helps her process and translate sound.

Oh…

“Are you a mute too?” I blurt out, confused.

Willow shakes her head now, and my frown deepens.

“Then why won’t you talk?” I ask, hoping to get a clearer answer.

She pauses, thinks and then touches her face, mimicking a tear falling down her cheek.

Her pretty eyes turn so sad that anger boils in my stomach all of a sudden.

“Sad?” I ask leaning closer. “Talking makes you sad?”

Willow nods slowly, her eyes downcast.

I touch her chin gently and make her look back at me. “Why?”

My mind races, trying to piece together the reasons behind her silence. As the pieces of the puzzle start to come together, it suddenly dawns on me—maybe people have made her feel bad about using her voice. The thought hits me like a jolt, and my anger surfaces, not directed at Willow but at this ugly world that has treated her poorly.

I wonder if there have been moments when she has tried to communicate verbally with others and her attempts were met with harshness or ridicule, making her associate her voice with pain and embarrassment. Maybe the very act of speaking, something so natural for many of us, was tainted with negative experiences for Willow.

The thought makes me see red and the sadness in her expression makes me want to hurt someone for making her feel bad about something she has no control over.

Trying to control the sudden anger, I look at her and my frustration softens into a deep sense of empathy. I don’t want her to think that I’m mad at her.

“I bet you sound beautiful, fairy.” I tell her, my voice trembling slightly.

As soon as the words leave my mouth, her eyes lift to meet mine, and there’s a flicker of relief in her gaze. Then, she leans a little closer with a small smile on her face and in the stillness, she takes me by surprise by whispering, “Thank you.” The sound is so low, barely above a whisper, and carries a husky quality that makes it all the more beautiful.

I’ve never believed in magic. Never cared to but in that moment while looking at the tiny girl with flowers in her hair and a gentle smile I knew that it must be real. Magic must be real because how else could one explain such a creature.

After a long while just existing with her in her little world while she took care of her little mushroom friends, Willow eventually lets out a soft yawn, a clear sign that she’s tired and it’s time for her to head to bed.

I gently take her hand in mine, feeling a sudden sense of responsibility and care as I lead her out of the greenhouse and toward the house. The warm lights from the greenhouse spill out into the night as we walk, casting a gentle glow on the stone path. I make sure to guide her quietly, not wanting to get caught by her parents or army of uncles.

Once we reach her room, I hold the door open for her, watching as she steps inside safely. When she seems like she doesn't want to go in, I offer her a reassuring smile before closing the door softly behind her, making sure not to make any noise.

With Willow settled, I make my way back to my own room without getting caught and open the door. Once inside I head straight for the corner where I had left my backpack.

My heart skips a beat when I notice that it’s been moved.

Hurrying to the floor, I open it and my eyes widen in surprise when I see what’s inside. The backpack, which I’d packed with just a few essentials, is now overflowing with an assortment of items. There’s more food—canned goods, snacks, candy, juice boxes and a few extra loaves of bread. Alongside the food are neatly folded clothes, a stack of cash, and several knives in every size. “What?” I whisper to the empty room. The knives catch me off guard, but as I pull them out, I realize these knives are not kitchen knives but ones that are intended for protection and might cause real damage. It’s clear that someone knows my situation and has gone out of their way to ensure I’m well-equipped and safe if ever find myself on the streets again.

But who?

When I can’t come up with an answer, I give up and close the backpack before stashing it under the bed and then I climb into bed.

That night I went to bed feeling safe like I’ve never felt before and dream of blue eyes.

That was one of many magical moments with Willow O’Sullivan.

She changed me in ways I never thought possible.

I just didn’t understand then how dangerous the sweet fairy was to my heart.

She made me believe life could be better.

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