Another one
Aftermath.
A long and sleepless night. Paul Weller playing at a barely audible volume. Bottle of scotch on the table. Know your limit and stick to it; after all, you have work in the morning. You have to face them all, face *him.* Need to be hangover free to do that.
The minutes stretch out, the clock on the wall ticks off each second with maddening regularity until your raw-burned nerves can take no more. The clock is shrouded in a towel and buried in a drawer.
At five, muscles are complaining and one foot is asleep. You switch on the kettle and don't notice the pins and needles. Shower, shave by feel as the face in the mirror only condems you. Suit, tie; undertakers clothes a child once swore he'd never wear. Lisa chose them in a smart shop in London.
Out the door by 5:30, leaving the coffee to grow cold on the table. Automatic drive through Cardiff, little traffic at this hour. The road is shared by taxis and lorries; drivers anonymous in their own metal prisons.
Unlock the door, step into a place where nothing, and everything, has changed. She is gone. They found out, they are to blame. But you brought Dr >>>>> here, is Lisa to blame for his death? YOU hid Lisa, rescued Lisa.
The face in your mirror condems you.
You walk in. Tension in the room crackles like electricity. Eyes on you - wary, calculating, accusing. Then he nods. Words unnecessary. A conversation that never existed, created in two minds. You won't be fired, won't be cautioned. Lisa is gone, and that is punishment enough.
Meanwhile, there is a job to do. Rubbish collected and black bag tied up. Coffee cups are washed and hung up. Pterodactyl fed. The office polished. The armoury stocks checked. Then you get the cleaning equipment and take the familiar journey. Down the steps, along the corridor. Lisa's room. NO, the room that had been Lisa's for a certain time. Now, just another room to be cleaned by the man whose job it was. The expert at blood, slime, gifts offerings from that flying rat and anything else Torchwood produced.
Hand on the handle, banish the memories to the deep, black pit at the back of your mind. Door opens and you brace, hands clench.
The room is clean. Spotless, sparkling. No conversion machine, no blood. A table of polished oak, and hints of lemon in the air.
Cleaning stuff back to the Hub and put away. Slip by his desk, he glances up and eyes meet. No smile, he merely nods again. You look deep in his eyes, and know.
"Haven't you ever loved anyone." you had demanded.
You received no answer then, you do now. Loved and lost, and now you *know* each other.
To the gents to wash your hands, and you look up. Your face in the mirror understands, and forgives.
Written - Dec 06
A long and sleepless night. Paul Weller playing at a barely audible volume. Bottle of scotch on the table. Know your limit and stick to it; after all, you have work in the morning. You have to face them all, face *him.* Need to be hangover free to do that.
The minutes stretch out, the clock on the wall ticks off each second with maddening regularity until your raw-burned nerves can take no more. The clock is shrouded in a towel and buried in a drawer.
At five, muscles are complaining and one foot is asleep. You switch on the kettle and don't notice the pins and needles. Shower, shave by feel as the face in the mirror only condems you. Suit, tie; undertakers clothes a child once swore he'd never wear. Lisa chose them in a smart shop in London.
Out the door by 5:30, leaving the coffee to grow cold on the table. Automatic drive through Cardiff, little traffic at this hour. The road is shared by taxis and lorries; drivers anonymous in their own metal prisons.
Unlock the door, step into a place where nothing, and everything, has changed. She is gone. They found out, they are to blame. But you brought Dr >>>>> here, is Lisa to blame for his death? YOU hid Lisa, rescued Lisa.
The face in your mirror condems you.
You walk in. Tension in the room crackles like electricity. Eyes on you - wary, calculating, accusing. Then he nods. Words unnecessary. A conversation that never existed, created in two minds. You won't be fired, won't be cautioned. Lisa is gone, and that is punishment enough.
Meanwhile, there is a job to do. Rubbish collected and black bag tied up. Coffee cups are washed and hung up. Pterodactyl fed. The office polished. The armoury stocks checked. Then you get the cleaning equipment and take the familiar journey. Down the steps, along the corridor. Lisa's room. NO, the room that had been Lisa's for a certain time. Now, just another room to be cleaned by the man whose job it was. The expert at blood, slime, gifts offerings from that flying rat and anything else Torchwood produced.
Hand on the handle, banish the memories to the deep, black pit at the back of your mind. Door opens and you brace, hands clench.
The room is clean. Spotless, sparkling. No conversion machine, no blood. A table of polished oak, and hints of lemon in the air.
Cleaning stuff back to the Hub and put away. Slip by his desk, he glances up and eyes meet. No smile, he merely nods again. You look deep in his eyes, and know.
"Haven't you ever loved anyone." you had demanded.
You received no answer then, you do now. Loved and lost, and now you *know* each other.
To the gents to wash your hands, and you look up. Your face in the mirror understands, and forgives.
Written - Dec 06