Short story

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A pale light seeped into the cramped bedroom from under the door. There was just enough light for John to see Patricia's pale, drawn face, if he were to have looked. But John didn't look.
John stood stiffly in the middle of the room, hands on the back of his desk chair, staring out the window into the blackness. "What are we going to do now?" he asked.
After a moment, Patricia, nearly hidden beneath the comforter said, "I don't know. I don't want this to happen any more than you do."
John turned around slowly and stood facing the bed. He peered towards the outline of Patricia's face. Trying with all his might to be calm for her, he said, "Baby, I know you tried. I know."
Soft sobbing came from the bed and John went on into the darkness, "I don't want to be like this, baby. I feel like an animal. If I could stop it completely, I would."
“If you have to go to someone else, I'll understand," she said.
"No! I want to be with you. Only you." He paused and took a deep breath. "I just want us to be like we were."
Patricia groaned and pulled the comforter up past her nose. "Things aren't ever going back to how they were. I can’t stand for anyone to see my naked now. Even you,” came her slightly muffled voice.
"Can't you just stop thinking about it?" John implored.
"No."
"What about the therapy?" John heard the exasperation in his voice.
"I don't know. I really don't." Silence once again overtook the room. Patricia covered her face with her hands, quietly sobbing, wanting to disappear. The memory of that night had been condensed into one image: the bad man's yellow, desirous eyes when he stepped out from behind that gray hedge. The fact that he no longer haunted her every thought was a miracle. Slow progress was being made at therapy, but perhaps too slow.
Patricia stared at John. He was looking at the floor, hands at his side, rigid. For a full month she had disappeared to everyone in the world except for John. She couldn't stand to see him hurt. Worse still, she felt responsible. He had stayed by her side for hours a day, making breakfast, singing, reading her books. It killed Patricia that she couldn't please him. Not now, perhaps not ever.
John stepped softly over to the bed, put out his hand, and touched Patricia's sallow cheek with his fingertips. He said softly, now close enough to make out her almond eyes, "Baby, I'm so sorry. I’ve failed you. Every time I try to help, I wind up hurting you.” Patricia pulled her hand out from under the covers and rested it lightly on John's hand. She said, "No, Johnny. You're so good to me. I couldn't ask for more."
"I just want to-"
"Shh." Patricia reached her arm up towards John's pained face and beseeched, "Lie with me."
Patricia made space for John on the bed and, as he slowly clambered in, she kept gentle contact with his forearm. John slowly slid his right arm underneath her torso and, having wrapped his left arm over her, squeezed her tight against his chest. He rested his head against her breast and, as he did so, the tension left his body. Feeling this, Patricia's body also relaxed.
I'm scared, he thought.
It's my fault, she thought.
Both of them were silent.

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