33. Rowena McLeod - Bedtime Stories
Synopsis: It’s a late evening inside the bunker, and the young witch, Poppy, has come down with the flu. Everyone’s doing what they can for the young girl, including a distraught Rowena. While everyone’s asleep, Rowena goes to check on the young witch, finding her awake. So Rowena decides to read the witch a bedtime story, hoping she’ll get the much needed rest necessary to get better.
* Rowena’s p.o.v *
Despite the quiet thunder rumbling effortlessly through the evening sky, warning anyone it could of the upcoming storm brewing in the distance, the inside of the bunker was silent. I sat worriedly at the large table nibbling at my cuticles as I listened for Poppy; a cough, a sneeze, her cries of pain as she hurled into the garbage can Sam Winchester had placed beside her. There was no magical spell that could make her feel better, just old fashion care; something I wasn’t use to giving. Maybe it was good news that she wasn’t having trouble sleeping, maybe it was the first sign that her illness was starting to kick itself out of her system. If that was the case, then I should probably head to bed myself and check on her in the morning.
I pulled my tired body out of the chair, my legs feeling numb from how long I had been sitting there, and made my way towards my guest room. With each step I got closer to Poppy’s room, and the deepening worry of a mother continued to grow and rage inside me.
“I’ll check on her one more time tonight. Just to be sure,” I hummed to myself.
Her door was cracked open, the dimly lit lamp creating a sense of warmth and welcome as I approached. I didn’t go inside right away, instead, I leaned forward to get a better listen then gently pushed the door open. There was a light creaking sound caused by the rusty hinges that desperately needed to be oiled up. When I poked my head inside, I saw Poppy sitting up in her bed sipping from her glass of water. In her lap was a book and I wondered to myself how long she had been up, and how I didn’t hear her.
“Rowena?” She questioned, tilting her head to the side; her onyx black hair shuffling at the sudden movement, “I didn’t think you’d be awake so late.”
Beside her bed was an alarm clock that read that it was almost two o’clock in the morning. I stepped completely into her bedroom, my heels clicking against her bare floor. She really needed a carpet in here, the poor girl hardly wore any shoes and the floors probably felt like ice in the early mornings.
“Well,” I said, my thick accent clouding the room, “with you being sick, sweet girl, I figured someone should stay up to wait on you. And since the boys have turned in, I thought a mothers touch would be better than a sleepy, grumpy, gun wielding Winchester.”
A grin cracked onto her face as she giggled, and I swore I could hear the sound of fairies being born in the distance. She was magic inside and out. Her laughter was killed off as she started coughing, hacking up whatever fluid was currently blocking her airway. Sympathy coated my glistening eyes as I approached her, rubbing her back soothingly. When she was finished coughing raspily, she sipped on her water to soothe the aching soreness in her infected throat.
“You shouldn’t get so close,” she croaked, “the flu is no joke, apparently.”
I sat down in the chair that was angled beside her bed, letting my hands rest in my lap.
“Darling, don’t you worry your sweet little head about my wellbeing. What have you got going on here?”
Our attention turned towards the book that rested easily in her lap. It didn’t look like any book I’ve ever seen, nor did it seem like a spellbook considering all of the funny little pictures inside.
“It’s a story book,” she muttered, “I’m not feeling very tired, so I wanted to read a little bit. Thought maybe it would be like when a mother or father reads their children to sleep. Unfortunately, it’s not.”
It was a miracle that Poppy turned out the way she did, kind, loving, friendly; considering all of the bad things that have happened to her during her life. If anyone had the right to be angry and cruel at the world it was her but instead she held onto things that children clung to.
I took the story book out from her lap and peered down at the page. I didn’t recognize the story, it was one I’ve ever heard or read about. The portrayed photo on the right showed a pretty redhead with a green tail staring off at some shipwrecked, ditzy prince.
“The story is called ‘The Little Mermaid’,” Poppy informed, “it’s about a curious mermaid who falls in love with a human prince and bargains her voice away to win him over on land.”
“Ah, well, sounds like it should be…interesting. Come on, let’s get you tucked in and I’ll read you a wee bedtime story to help you drift off to sleep. You need to rest if you plan on getting better.”
Poppy laid back in her bed and pulled her covers closer to her chin, nuzzling herself deeper into her fluffed pillows. I flipped to the beginning of the story, crossing my right leg over my left. Taking a deep breath, I began reading.
“There once was a curious little mermaid named Ariel with the most beautiful voice in the entire sea…”
The story was just as she had said it would be. A teenage mermaid, curious of the human world, trades her voice to the sea witch so she could win over her prince. And so on and so on. By the time I finished the last line in the book, Poppy had fallen asleep. The sound of her stuffy nose wheezing with each deep breath she took barely filled the room. I reached over and turned off the lamp beside her bed, leaned down, pressing a simple kiss to her fevered temple, then left her room while still holding her book. The soft clicking sound of the door closing drifted throughout the halls but not loud enough to wake anyone up. In my own bedroom, after changing out of my normal attire, I plopped myself into the mattress ready for bed. I stared down at the book I had read to the young witch and smiled.
“Things would have been different if I had a daughter,” I muttered to myself, “if Poppy were my child.”
