[Anthony] - Interlude - Rei
Two days have passed slowly, time flowing like molasses on a cold morning.
Anthony sleeps when he can, when grief and pain will allow him. Otherwise, he spends a lot of time meditating deeply, pulling his focus together and keeping his mind clear. In the moments when he can talk with Joule, when they break through unfamiliarity and awkwardness and actually exchange a few words, Anthony finds some measure of relief and distraction. But those times are few enough.
His host lingers, watches like an eagle over her nest. She seldom stirs from the oversized armchair, generally to stretch her legs, or fetch another book from the overflowing shelf on one wall. Occasionally, awkwardly, she helps him to the flat’s tiny bathroom. And a couple of times a day, she’ll busy herself in the kitchen nook, to make a meal, or more often a fresh pot of tea. The food, gleaned from Joule’s scant cupboards, is simple and spare, which Anthony ruefully admits is all to the good; his stomach heaves at even the thought of anything more than bland food and hot tea.
He finds himself increasingly restless. If he moves more than a little, he can feel the strain on his torn body, and yet staying quiescent and quiet is driving him quietly mad. Mad enough that sometimes, when he can’t gather his focus enough to calm down, he tries getting up on his own. Inevitably, Joule is there in a flash, gentle but firm, keeping him in place and looking at him with that strange mix of admonition and amazement.
Sometime during the third night, when his stomach is itching and burning and keeping him awake, Anthony stubbornly pushes himself to one elbow, and finds himself looking over at Joule. She’s asleep on the folding cot she dragged up from somewhere in her garage, curled under a sleeping bag and an extra blanket. Her dreadlocks fan over her twined arms, glinting in the wan gleam from the streetlights outside the window. Her eyelids tremble, and her face is set in a concerned, nervous expression. Clearly, he’s not the only one whose dreams are less than pleasant.
He’s thinking around the burning from his wound, thinking on how much of a crazed disruption he must be in Joule’s life, and how adroitly she’s kept her watch over him, when it abruptly occurs to him that the more he’s restless, the more he’s just making himself part of the problem. He’s being a greater burden on her than he needs to be, and the thought brings him a moment of guilty clarity. Flushing in the dark, he eases himself back down to his side. Using his wakefulness to good effect, he turns his focus towards settling the idea firmly in his mind; that he needs now to be calm and still, to not tarnish his host's diligence or disrespect her care, by accidentally undoing her work.
Eventually, more resolved, he dozes. Real sleep wanders around him, just out of reach, touching him for brief, nightmare-laced moments. Present and past join forces to keep him from rest. Snapshots of snow and blood, howling and fire are at odds with peaceful granite walls and the drone of chanting. Black, frostbitten hands and mad laughter blend seamlessly into orange eyes and a cold, scarred smile, the flash of a long blade. Pain erupts from his stomach, sudden and real, or from his left shoulder, the ghost of torture long ended. Each time brings his eyes open in the dark, and his breathing eases only slowly.
By morning, he’s woken many times.
Anthony sleeps when he can, when grief and pain will allow him. Otherwise, he spends a lot of time meditating deeply, pulling his focus together and keeping his mind clear. In the moments when he can talk with Joule, when they break through unfamiliarity and awkwardness and actually exchange a few words, Anthony finds some measure of relief and distraction. But those times are few enough.
His host lingers, watches like an eagle over her nest. She seldom stirs from the oversized armchair, generally to stretch her legs, or fetch another book from the overflowing shelf on one wall. Occasionally, awkwardly, she helps him to the flat’s tiny bathroom. And a couple of times a day, she’ll busy herself in the kitchen nook, to make a meal, or more often a fresh pot of tea. The food, gleaned from Joule’s scant cupboards, is simple and spare, which Anthony ruefully admits is all to the good; his stomach heaves at even the thought of anything more than bland food and hot tea.
He finds himself increasingly restless. If he moves more than a little, he can feel the strain on his torn body, and yet staying quiescent and quiet is driving him quietly mad. Mad enough that sometimes, when he can’t gather his focus enough to calm down, he tries getting up on his own. Inevitably, Joule is there in a flash, gentle but firm, keeping him in place and looking at him with that strange mix of admonition and amazement.
Sometime during the third night, when his stomach is itching and burning and keeping him awake, Anthony stubbornly pushes himself to one elbow, and finds himself looking over at Joule. She’s asleep on the folding cot she dragged up from somewhere in her garage, curled under a sleeping bag and an extra blanket. Her dreadlocks fan over her twined arms, glinting in the wan gleam from the streetlights outside the window. Her eyelids tremble, and her face is set in a concerned, nervous expression. Clearly, he’s not the only one whose dreams are less than pleasant.
He’s thinking around the burning from his wound, thinking on how much of a crazed disruption he must be in Joule’s life, and how adroitly she’s kept her watch over him, when it abruptly occurs to him that the more he’s restless, the more he’s just making himself part of the problem. He’s being a greater burden on her than he needs to be, and the thought brings him a moment of guilty clarity. Flushing in the dark, he eases himself back down to his side. Using his wakefulness to good effect, he turns his focus towards settling the idea firmly in his mind; that he needs now to be calm and still, to not tarnish his host's diligence or disrespect her care, by accidentally undoing her work.
Eventually, more resolved, he dozes. Real sleep wanders around him, just out of reach, touching him for brief, nightmare-laced moments. Present and past join forces to keep him from rest. Snapshots of snow and blood, howling and fire are at odds with peaceful granite walls and the drone of chanting. Black, frostbitten hands and mad laughter blend seamlessly into orange eyes and a cold, scarred smile, the flash of a long blade. Pain erupts from his stomach, sudden and real, or from his left shoulder, the ghost of torture long ended. Each time brings his eyes open in the dark, and his breathing eases only slowly.
By morning, he’s woken many times.