Evan’s World: Episode 20 – A Madison’s World Side Story

Charity felt relief as a few days had passed and the idea of a community hadn’t progressed nor was it brought up. It seemed to hang in the distance as something that was a goal but not anything immediately happening.  
 
“Charizard, Kleenex” Evan whined as she sniffled loudly. Charity looked at the box of Kleenex sitting on top of the bed covers. Evan had gotten sick. So it meant unlike most days when she had free time to herself as Evan was at school or out with friends. She was home and in bed.  

Charity pulled a kleenex from the box. It felt like pulling on a tarp. As she looked up at Evan. Even sickly looking she still seemed massive in size. She still felt in control. Charity could do nothing but pull the kleenex up the length of the bed from Evan’s hips to till she was near upper chest.   
 
Evan coughed at that moment.  Charity could see giant droplets shoot out of her mouth and rain down around her. She noticed that when people were around her she would cover her mouth and make sure not spray her germs about. However, in the privacy of her room here. In her own room she would just cough. Charity didn’t get that consideration.  
 
“Thanks Charizard,” Evan said grabbing the kleenex and blowing her nose. She had been at Evans every beck and call all day so far. She was relieved that she wasn’t bigger or she would have had to hold her hair back when she was throwing up.  

“Here, take this to waste basket,” Evan said dropping the used kleenex she had just blew her nose into above charity. She could do nothing but hold her hands up to catch the massive wad of Kleenex. As she caught it she felt her body brace itself as she moved awkwardly. The wet snotty tissue was now closer to her then she ever wanted it to be.  
 
Knowing that while Evan wouldn’t care as much. She would certainly hear it from her mother Jean who had been in and out of Evan’s room quite frequently if she drug this snot filled kleenex across the bed.  Charity knew she would have to carry it.  She hated walking across evan’s bed as the comforter and blankets along with the mattress made walking more difficult. She carefulyl made her way to the side of the bed where she pitched the giant kleenex over the side. Althoguh admittedly it was more of drop with slight heave as it tumbled into the wastebasket below.  
 
Charity lay curled into the crook of Evan’s arm, her world wrapped in fever-warmed skin and the dizzying scent of cold medicine and unwashed sheets. The rise and fall of Evan’s chest beneath her was slow but uneven, a rhythm disrupted by occasional coughs or sudden, ragged breaths that made the ground beneath Charity shudder like a moving fault line. 

The blanket covering them smelled faintly of sour lemon and sweat. Somewhere in the distance, though really, just above her, Evan’s nose gurgled wetly with every inhale. It was a symphony of sniffles and labored breaths, each exhale brushing Charity’s hair like a gust of wind from a poorly-sealed window. 

Charity didn’t dare move. Evan had pulled her close in a half conscious gesture, burying her into the warm hollow just under her chin and against the soft edge of her hoodie collar. A humid space, thick with the scent of Vicks and human breath, and made warmer still by the heat radiating off the girl’s body like an overworked radiator. 

She’d tried squirming once. Evan had tightened her grip like a reflex, one massive arm draping over Charity’s entire lower body like a weighted blanket that thought it was being gentle. The kind of gentle that could bruise. 

A low groan rumbled through Evan’s throat, thunder to Charity’s ears, and then a congested sniffle. A moment later, a sharp cough exploded into the still air, rattling Charity to her bones. Droplets sprayed the inside of Evan’s hoodie, some misting outward across the blanket like invisible fallout. The sound alone was enough to make Charity flinch, her fingers clenching the worn fabric beside her. But Evan didn’t wake. Her face twitched once in half-dream, then stilled. 

“God,” Charity thought, forehead pressed to the cotton weave of Evan’s sleeve. “She’s sick, and I’m still the one dodging hazards like I’m in a war zone.” 

Evan’s hand shifted then, fingers twitching in sleep. One finger brushed over Charity’s legs, massive, clumsy, but soft. Evan let out a soft whimper, then pulled Charity closer, tighter, until the girl’s arm pressed flush against her back. 

A sigh spilled from Evan’s lips and warmed the top of Charity’s head. Another cough bubbled up a moment later but was smothered by the blanket this time, no less loud, no less jarring. 

Being held like this, being treated like comfort, like a plush toy, stirred something sharp in Charity’s chest. Not just the physical discomfort, though that was plenty. It was the way Evan’s sickness didn’t make her dangerous, not to herself. Not to the world. But somehow, it still made her more powerful over Charity. 

A sick Evan could cough freely. Sweat freely. Use her as a human pillow without permission. And Charity’s role didn’t change. She was still the smaller one. The one who adjusted. The one who endured. 

The one who kept her mouth shut because Evan might be sick, but she was still the guardian. 

Still the one who decided if you got a clean towel. Or a snack. Or ten minutes of privacy. 

Charity closed her eyes. Evan’s heartbeat thundered beneath her like a soft drum, steadily, numbly, unaware of the world it pressed so tightly against. 

She wasn’t a plush. She wasn’t a comfort object. 

But here she was. 

Being treated like one. 

And hating how part of her was beginning to understand why it might feel good, for Evan. 

To hold something warm and quiet and small. 

Even if that something used to be a girl named Charity Stevens. 
 
The room had settled into a thick, fever-saturated stillness. The only sound was the occasional wheeze from Evan’s nose, a congested whistle that made the air seem thicker somehow. Charity remained nestled against Evan’s chest, her body stiff from hours of being held like a stuffed animal, her limbs sore where they were half-pinned under the sleeping girl’s hoodie sleeve. 

The bedroom door creaked open. 

Charity flinched, instinctively tightening her grip on the fabric beneath her. A moment later, soft footsteps padded in, quieter than Evan’s, measured and lighter, but still thunderous by comparison. 

Jean. 

Even before Charity could see her, she could smell her, floral shampoo and faint citrus hand lotion, carried on a whisper of cool hallway air. Jean moved slowly through the room, letting the door swing shut behind her with a muffled click. She stood for a moment in the dim glow of the fairy lights strung across the headboard, observing the curled shape of her sleeping daughter. 

Evan let out a soft whimper in her sleep, her brow pinching into a frown. 

“Oh, honey,” Jean murmured, barely above a whisper. She crossed to the bed and reached out, fingers deft and practiced, gently tugging the blanket that had slipped halfway down Evan’s torso. Charity felt the massive quilt rise behind her like a slow moving wave, and then descend again with a soft fwump, wrapping Evan, and by consequence, Charity, more securely in its cocoon. 

The heat doubled instantly. 

Charity tried not to squirm as the edge of the blanket pressed into her spine, trapping her even tighter against Evan’s damp hoodie. 

Then Jean noticed her. 

Her eyes, kind but always perceptive, landed on the small figure pressed into her daughter’s side. A faint smile touched her lips, not mocking, but soft with some mix of amusement and appreciation. 

“You’ve been keeping her company all day?” she whispered, leaning down just slightly. 

Charity gave a tiny nod, unsure if she should speak. 

“Well, keep doing what you’re doing,” Jean said, brushing a stray lock of hair behind Evan’s ear. “She sleeps better with you there. She likes the comfort. You’re helping more than you realize.” 

Charity said nothing, but her breath caught. Helping. Being useful. It warmed her, even as it humiliated her. 

Jean straightened, smoothing the blanket over Evan’s shoulders. 

“You’re a good girl,” Jean murmured to Charity now, her voice like honey and linen. “I’ll get you a little treat later for all this hard work. You’ve earned it.” 

A treat. 

The word made Charity’s stomach turn, not because she didn’t want one, but because part of her did. She hated how the promise of something small, a piece of dried fruit, a warmed pellet with sugar glaze, now lit up the reward center of her brain like a firecracker. 

Jean stepped back toward the dresser and retrieved a folded square of soft fabric, a delicate washcloth that looked like a tarp to Charity. She returned to the bedside and, with practiced ease, dabbed it gently across Evan’s flushed forehead, catching beads of sweat and brushing damp strands of hair from her face. Evan stirred but didn’t wake. 

“There we go,” Jean whispered. She turned to Charity again and laid the cloth nearby, just behind a fold in the blanket. 

“When she wakes up, wipe her down again. Especially her forehead. She gets clammy when she breaks a fever.” 

Charity looked at the cloth, then back at Jean. She nodded once. 

Jean’s gaze lingered on her for a beat. Something unreadable passed through it, not pity, not exactly affection, but something like gratitude. Then she turned and slipped silently from the room, leaving the door cracked an inch behind her. 

The quiet rushed back in. 

Charity glanced at the washcloth, massive, damp, smelling faintly of lavender. Then she looked up at Evan’s sleeping face, only inches above her. Her skin glistened with a new sheen of sweat, lips parted slightly, breath hitching and thick. 

Charity stayed still. 

Not out of fear this time. 

But because Jean had asked her to. And she didn’t want to disappoint her. Not her. Not Evan. 

And that thought… that small, horrifying thought… nestled itself into her chest and curled up beside her, just as tightly as she’d been curled into Evan. 

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed. The world outside Evan’s window had faded from dull gray to a quiet blue dusk, soft shadows stretching across the floor. From her place under the quilt, Charity remained motionless, cocooned against the heat of Evan’s body. Her skin was damp now too, not from exertion, but from shared warmth, the kind that clung to every breath, every inch of skin. 

Evan stirred. 

Charity felt it first in the twitch of her shoulder muscle. Then a groggy hum, a whimper, almost, thick with congestion and fatigue. Evan shifted, sniffled hard, and one massive arm tightened slightly around Charity’s frame, pressing her in as if she were a favorite plush. 

A wave of warmth passed over Charity’s face as Evan exhaled above her. Her breath smelled faintly sweet, sickly, orange juice, maybe, or the remnants of cold medicine. It ghosted across Charity’s forehead with each shallow breath. 

Charity turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of the washcloth Jean had left, still resting in the shallow dip of the blanket beside her. It felt like a task more than an option now. 

She wriggled out from Evan’s loose grasp, careful not to disturb the edge of the blanket. Her limbs ached from stillness, every joint stiff. She stepped carefully across the quilt’s uneven terrain, the woven fabric shifting beneath her bare feet like a wrinkled hillside. 

The cloth was heavier than she expected. Damp, cooled now, and faintly scented with lavender and detergent. She dragged it toward Evan’s face, inch by inch, folding it awkwardly in her arms until she could lift it like a bundled robe. 

She hesitated. 

Then, taking a breath, she climbed onto Evan’s chest again, near the dip between her collarbones, where her fevered skin gleamed. Charity braced herself with one hand and gently pressed the cloth to her forehead. 

Evan inhaled sharply, twitching. 

Charity froze. 

But Evan didn’t wake fully. Instead, she turned her face slightly toward the touch. Her expression slackened, softening in a way that almost looked peaceful. Her eyes blinked open for a fraction of a second, glassy, unfocused. 

“Charizard?” she murmured, her voice thick, frayed with sleep and mucus. 

Charity didn’t answer. She just dabbed gently again at the sweat along Evan’s brow, smoothing it toward her temple, the way she’d seen Jean do. 

Evan let out a sigh. A genuine, contented sound. Her lips curled faintly into a smile. 

“You’re sweet,” she mumbled, eyes already drifting closed again. “Knew you’d take care of me…” 

Charity’s hands trembled slightly. The cloth felt heavier in her grasp, like it was soaked not just in sweat, but in something harder to name. 

Affection. 

Obligation. 

Bonding. 

The words clanged together in her mind, indistinguishable. 

Evan’s hand moved again, blindly, and landed against Charity’s back. It didn’t push or pin, it simply rested there, as if completing a circuit. As if anchoring her. 

“You’re such a good Little,” Evan whispered, barely audible. “My perfect… tiny nurse.” 

Charity swallowed. 

She felt the weight of the cloth again in her hands. Damp. Warm. A burden she hadn’t asked for, but had chosen to carry anyway. 

Because what else could she do? 

As Evan’s breathing deepened again, settling into rhythmic, sickly exhales, Charity lay back against her chest. The world still smelled like cough drops and used tissues. Her ears still rang with Jean’s words, You’ve earned it, and now Evan’s, my perfect… nurse. 

She hated how they warmed her. 

And hated even more that she didn’t want to move. 

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