Fairy Boyfriend Puck (special preview)

One night, after we return home, I have a horrible nightmare. I am in the woods alone, trying to find Westley. A man then comes out from behind the trees. He is tall and broad. His skin looks like bronze and the more I look at him, the more strange his appearance becomes. His legs are dark and hairy, looking like the legs of a goat. He has tall, curled back horns that look stained with blood. His eyes are bright gold, glowing even in the daylight.

“My son likes you,” he says. His voice is dark and deep. “So let me bless you.” He grabs me, kissing me hard and hurting me. His long tongue slithers into my mouth and down my throat.

As I start to cry, Westley is there. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

I grab him, sitting up from the bed and holding on to him. He holds me, stroking my back and comforting me from my nightmare.

“I’m here,” he whispers to me. “It’s ok.” He kisses my cheek. “You can cry, Buttercup.”

I don’t sleep the rest of the night and come morning, I don’t feel in good sorts. Westley makes me stay home, noticing how pale I look.

I keep thinking about the goat man from my dream. He is handsome, but his intentions warp him into something grotesque. He is powerful too. I can still feel his hands on me and I want to wretch when I remember the so called blessing he bestowed upon me. 

Over the next few days, I start to get worse. I am growing weak and I am constantly exhausted. I collapse in the bathroom one day, going unconscious for quite a while. It gives Westley the scare of his life. I try to keep things normal, to assure Westley I am ok, but by the end of the month, I feel like I am dying.

I am put on bedrest and Westley devotes all his time to me. We’ve seen so many doctors and specialists and yet they have all said the same thing: “I don’t know.” Westley has gotten angry and he’s taken things into his own hands. 

Months go by and my health doesn’t change. If anything, I am only getting worse. There are days I feel like I am dissolving. Westley keeps hold of my hand, reminding me I am solid. 

On days where I feel strong enough, I only have one request. “Westley, can I go outside?”

“Not today,” he says. “I can’t risk it.”

“I just want to go outside, just for one second,” I say. “I’ve forgotten what the sun feels like.”

“Please,” Westley whispers. “It’s not the time for it.”

I am kept in our room, surrounded by protective curtains of plastic. There are machines around me, ones I’m sure Westley isn’t supposed to have outside his office. I am too weak to argue such things, so I never question him about it. 

There are days I just wish I could let go, end my suffering and Westley’s misery. He would heal and he could move on. It is on days like these that I would think of my mother’s story. How, when people were sick, fairies would come to visit them. I had believed such things as a little girl, imagining during my bouts with the flu and chicken pox how fairies would come to see me and make sure I took my medicine without a fuss.

I wonder, do the fairies still come? Do they still worry over the affairs of mortals? Did they ever before?

I then see him. At first glance, I am terrified. He has the same shape as the goat man from my dream, but the more I stare, the more I see blue. He comes to my bedside, gentle and sorrowful. His large dark eyes make me feel safe. His warm, strong hands brush back my hair and I don’t feel quite so weak.