Dementia Fic
The clock ticks by another hour and his paper is still blank, still waiting for the first page of a new novel. Harry tries again, he tries but nothing seems to come out, even as his fingers hover over the keyboard of his typewriter, there’s no words or ideas, especially at this time of night.
A drink of coffee only reveals that it’s gone cold again. It’s a welcome distraction, and he gladly moves from his seat and writer’s block to reheat his bitter, black coffee for the fifth time that night and stretch a little bit. His microwave is old, and it takes a little longer to heat things up, but he doesn’t really mind all that much. He just lingers around the kitchen for a few minutes while he waits, eyes moving over the magnets on the fridge, over to his calendar…
Ten years. Has it really been that long already? That hospital-
He hadn’t really wanted to leave, but they’d told him he was fine and eventually, his insurance wouldn’t cover him any more. It’s still a bitter memory, the way James had looked at him and said nothing. Not even a goodbye. Ten years and James is still there. Harry sends a letter once every few months. Always the same things;
‘Hello.
How are you doing?
Are you eating?
Will you be out soon?
I hope you’re doing well.’
James had responded to the first few, but after a while, Harry stopped getting letters back. It never really deterred him from sending them though, so as always, he sent letters. Confident that James would get them. He still does.
The microwave chimes it’s finish and he retrieves his coffee, taking a few idle sips and heading back to his office, seating himself again. Fingers on the keys- okay, time to write.
He’s startled, as soon as he presses the first key he’s interrupted by an abrupt knock at the door. At first he’s convinced he’s going insane. It is, after all, four in the morning- but there it is again. Slow, almost unnatural. Knock… knock… knock.
Hesitantly he’s on his feet, cautiously, he takes with him a golf club (just in case). Slowly, the door swings open and he readies himself for-
“James…?”
He looks different; longer hair, unshaven, different clothes, definitely older. His age certainly shows. Still, he’s got that same empty, sunken look, the same pattern of movement as he wavers on his feet. Suitcase at his side, and a bundle of letters in his hand.
Nothing stops Harry from practically falling forward to hug him, golf club clattering to the floor. And as always, James barely returns the gesture. Ever the same. Quiet for now, but Harry can tell…
He doesn’t ask why he came, just leads him inside and gives him the bed. There’s no doubt that James has been on the road for a while. He looks exhausted, so the author leaves the questioning for later. He’ll take the couch tonight, but get very little sleep.
~~~
The following day James doesn’t rise until late in the evening around seven. Luckily he’s in time for dinner, and Harry tries to be cheerful as they sit at opposite sides of the table and James eats like he hasn’t seen food in a month. The dark haired man doesn’t mind. Let him eat all he wants.
This too, passes in silence, Harry shows him to the shower, leaving him to wash the filth away as he sets up a chair in the kitchen and finds the scissors and a comb. When the blond man returns, he’s promptly seated and Harry goes to work, first with a razor, sitting on a stool in front of his friend, carefully removing the beard on his face. He ignores how awkward it is, sitting so close and James still has said practically nothing. Edging the blade across his jaw, scraping away the whiskers and lather patiently. He just wishes James would stop staring at him.
When James’ face is clean, Harry deploys the scissors and comb, lopping off the long locks of hair that had an unsettling way of obscuring James’ eyes. Harry, after all, is an author and no barber, but he does his best to reproduce the haircut James had when they’d been friends. It turns out a bit uneven, but it’s the best he can do, and the quiet man in the chair doesn’t complain, he just rises and looks in the mirror.
“Thanks.” It’s pretty much the first real thing he’s said to Harry. The other man tries not to act too surprised, even if he is.
“Don’t worr-“
“I missed you.” James interrupts him, turning from the mirror and shooting him that same sullen stare he always did.
“I missed you, too.” Harry softens, as he always did. Only a he feels a hand on his arm does he look up to see his friend, suddenly much closer, arms wr-
Harry rips the paper from the typewriter, crumpling it between his hands and sending it flying towards the wastebasket. He misses of course, and he grumbles, turning to hide his face in his hands. He needs to be writing a novel, not his childish hopes. He hasn’t received a letter from James in nine years. What makes him think that he’ll respond this year, much less show up on his doorstep and-
Ridiculous, but tonight he’ll write another letter. This one will be different. This one he’ll pour out his feelings, he convinces himself, and he’ll tell James that once he gets out, there’s a place for him here.
And he does.
~~~
“Hey Jason, do we have a James Sunderland committed here?”
Jason turns from his paperwork, chewing on his pencil and thinking for a moment. Always so many damned questions with this rookie. No wonder he always gets the crap jobs, taking meals to solitary, delivering the patient’s mail…
“We did, but he’s been dead for a while now.”
“Dead?” The rookie seems to pale and he drops the letter like it might catch on fire.
“Yes. Dead, deceased, no longer living, six feet under, worm food. Dead. Happened about nine years ago. Killed himself; idiot jumped off the roof.” Jason smirked. He loved watching the new guy get squeamish.
“Damn! Why are we still getting’ mail for him then?” The rookie furrowed a brow.
“Probably some idiot relative who didn’t get the news. We get one every few months.”
”Well shouldn’t we… uh, let him know? Return to sender?”
“Eh.” Jason shrugs, yawning, “They’ll get the message eventually.”
~~~
James would get this one. He would write him back this time.
Harry is hopeful.
Time to go check the mail.
A drink of coffee only reveals that it’s gone cold again. It’s a welcome distraction, and he gladly moves from his seat and writer’s block to reheat his bitter, black coffee for the fifth time that night and stretch a little bit. His microwave is old, and it takes a little longer to heat things up, but he doesn’t really mind all that much. He just lingers around the kitchen for a few minutes while he waits, eyes moving over the magnets on the fridge, over to his calendar…
Ten years. Has it really been that long already? That hospital-
He hadn’t really wanted to leave, but they’d told him he was fine and eventually, his insurance wouldn’t cover him any more. It’s still a bitter memory, the way James had looked at him and said nothing. Not even a goodbye. Ten years and James is still there. Harry sends a letter once every few months. Always the same things;
‘Hello.
How are you doing?
Are you eating?
Will you be out soon?
I hope you’re doing well.’
James had responded to the first few, but after a while, Harry stopped getting letters back. It never really deterred him from sending them though, so as always, he sent letters. Confident that James would get them. He still does.
The microwave chimes it’s finish and he retrieves his coffee, taking a few idle sips and heading back to his office, seating himself again. Fingers on the keys- okay, time to write.
He’s startled, as soon as he presses the first key he’s interrupted by an abrupt knock at the door. At first he’s convinced he’s going insane. It is, after all, four in the morning- but there it is again. Slow, almost unnatural. Knock… knock… knock.
Hesitantly he’s on his feet, cautiously, he takes with him a golf club (just in case). Slowly, the door swings open and he readies himself for-
“James…?”
He looks different; longer hair, unshaven, different clothes, definitely older. His age certainly shows. Still, he’s got that same empty, sunken look, the same pattern of movement as he wavers on his feet. Suitcase at his side, and a bundle of letters in his hand.
Nothing stops Harry from practically falling forward to hug him, golf club clattering to the floor. And as always, James barely returns the gesture. Ever the same. Quiet for now, but Harry can tell…
He doesn’t ask why he came, just leads him inside and gives him the bed. There’s no doubt that James has been on the road for a while. He looks exhausted, so the author leaves the questioning for later. He’ll take the couch tonight, but get very little sleep.
~~~
The following day James doesn’t rise until late in the evening around seven. Luckily he’s in time for dinner, and Harry tries to be cheerful as they sit at opposite sides of the table and James eats like he hasn’t seen food in a month. The dark haired man doesn’t mind. Let him eat all he wants.
This too, passes in silence, Harry shows him to the shower, leaving him to wash the filth away as he sets up a chair in the kitchen and finds the scissors and a comb. When the blond man returns, he’s promptly seated and Harry goes to work, first with a razor, sitting on a stool in front of his friend, carefully removing the beard on his face. He ignores how awkward it is, sitting so close and James still has said practically nothing. Edging the blade across his jaw, scraping away the whiskers and lather patiently. He just wishes James would stop staring at him.
When James’ face is clean, Harry deploys the scissors and comb, lopping off the long locks of hair that had an unsettling way of obscuring James’ eyes. Harry, after all, is an author and no barber, but he does his best to reproduce the haircut James had when they’d been friends. It turns out a bit uneven, but it’s the best he can do, and the quiet man in the chair doesn’t complain, he just rises and looks in the mirror.
“Thanks.” It’s pretty much the first real thing he’s said to Harry. The other man tries not to act too surprised, even if he is.
“Don’t worr-“
“I missed you.” James interrupts him, turning from the mirror and shooting him that same sullen stare he always did.
“I missed you, too.” Harry softens, as he always did. Only a he feels a hand on his arm does he look up to see his friend, suddenly much closer, arms wr-
Harry rips the paper from the typewriter, crumpling it between his hands and sending it flying towards the wastebasket. He misses of course, and he grumbles, turning to hide his face in his hands. He needs to be writing a novel, not his childish hopes. He hasn’t received a letter from James in nine years. What makes him think that he’ll respond this year, much less show up on his doorstep and-
Ridiculous, but tonight he’ll write another letter. This one will be different. This one he’ll pour out his feelings, he convinces himself, and he’ll tell James that once he gets out, there’s a place for him here.
And he does.
~~~
“Hey Jason, do we have a James Sunderland committed here?”
Jason turns from his paperwork, chewing on his pencil and thinking for a moment. Always so many damned questions with this rookie. No wonder he always gets the crap jobs, taking meals to solitary, delivering the patient’s mail…
“We did, but he’s been dead for a while now.”
“Dead?” The rookie seems to pale and he drops the letter like it might catch on fire.
“Yes. Dead, deceased, no longer living, six feet under, worm food. Dead. Happened about nine years ago. Killed himself; idiot jumped off the roof.” Jason smirked. He loved watching the new guy get squeamish.
“Damn! Why are we still getting’ mail for him then?” The rookie furrowed a brow.
“Probably some idiot relative who didn’t get the news. We get one every few months.”
”Well shouldn’t we… uh, let him know? Return to sender?”
“Eh.” Jason shrugs, yawning, “They’ll get the message eventually.”
~~~
James would get this one. He would write him back this time.
Harry is hopeful.
Time to go check the mail.