someone else's shadow (fragments from a story that might never be told)
This is what occurred to me after reading Freedom's Just Another Word For Nothing Left To Lose one too many times. My brain worries me on occasion.
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Someone Else's Shadow
Rodney was brushing his teeth when it happened, making faces at himself in the bathroom mirror because it wasn’t like there was anyone around to mock him for doing it-not anymore. Apple was winding himself around Rodney’s ankles, purring uncertainly, ears flicking against Rodney’s shins.
The crash startled both of them-although, to be more accurate, it was more of a thud. The soft-edged thud of a body hitting some unyielding surface, followed by the thwack of a limb knocking against a cabinet door. Almost more startling was the silence following the noise, the apartment suddenly unsafe and defenseless, awaiting further assault.
Rodney spat out the toothpaste, seized the toilet scrub brush, and stalked out to see what exactly had invaded his home. There had been a time when he would have panicked, dialing 911 or diving out the nearest window. That time was well past, though, and he was not going to run away from what was probably only a collapsed stack of books. Besides, Apple seemed more curious than afraid, following at Rodney’s heels without hesitation.
The apartment was small enough that it was impossible to not hear in every room what was done in every other room, and the only sounds Rodney could hear were those he was making: the rustle of cloth and the squeak of flexing floor boards. There wasn’t any sound to suggest there was someone else in the apartment.
So it was something of a shock when he entered the kitchen and discovered a form on the floor, nearly as familiar as his own. Scruffy black hair, tac vest, P-90-
Rodney dropped the scrub brush.
“John?”
It was definitely John, but there was something . . . off about him. And not just that he was lying loosely curled on his side on Rodney’s floor, or the ring of gray feathers surrounding him. Or the fact that he was supposed to dead.
Apple was purring again, walking toward John-not-John, because it couldn’t be John-with intent apparent in the set of his tail.
“Rodney?” John’s eyes were only half-open, but they appeared to be the same color they’d always been. He tried to sit up and failed, slumping back down to the floor, ashen-faced. “Where are we?”
“Somewhere safe,” Rodney said, because he couldn’t think of anything else that was true and not liable to require three hours of explanation. This was apparently the right answer, because John’s eyes slid shut again, the tension easing out of his spine.
He remained boneless and complacent while Rodney half-carried, half-dragged him over to the bedroom. (The couch was a black hole and not to be trusted with anything so precious.) The slightly-damp tac vest came off easy enough, but the t-shirt underneath was soaked through and nearly dripping, and Rodney had to peel it off John. The socks and boots were the same, as if he’d gone swimming in them before appearing on Rodney’s floor. The scars uncovered one by one were all familiar, until Rodney rolled him over onto his front and found himself confronted with a stranger’s back. There were more scars-too many scars-and tattoos where there should have been none, and it was like discovering that his hands weren’t his own.
They settled into an odd domesticity-Rodney spending his days at the university, John (other-John) spending his days doing something, although he never really told Rodney what. However, the apartment’s windows were filling up with dirt-filled coffee cans and yoghurt containers, and there were bags of potting soil on the balcony. And the various (inaccurate!) textbooks Rodney kept piled around the place were developing dog ears and smudges.
In the evenings, John would usually turn on some sports channel. The first time Rodney watched it with him was so weird that he couldn't do it, choosing to hide out in the kitchen until he started feeling silly. It was just that this John (and how odd to be able to say that) didn’t drawl the right insults, didn’t roll his eyes in the right places when Rodney started heckling.
“You’re like a pet,” Rodney said, half-horrified. “An illegal pet I can’t mention to anyone.”
“You could always pretend you’ve gotten a dog,” John sounded bemused. His arms were covered in flour, but he looked like he was enjoying himself. “You could call me Sparky. I always wanted a dog named Sparky when I was a kid.” He considered for a moment, holding a measuring cup partly filled with sugar. “Or maybe Moominpuppy.”
“Moominpuppy?” Rodney repeated blankly, unsure it this was something he should already know, something which had been true for his John as well.
“It’s sort of like vacation,” John said indistinctly from the floor, where he was currently putting together yet another jigsaw puzzle. It was his fourth in a week and a half, and Rodney was beginning to wonder where he was finding the things.
“Well, apparently they can’t do it from their side-my side-so we’ll have to figure it out from here.” And with a sudden sick feeling, like discovering he’d eaten someone else’s birthday cake, Rodney realized it was over.
But he should have been expecting it-there was a knee-high stack of jigsaw puzzle boxes in the corner, every windowsill was full of dirt- and plant-filled containers, and all Rodney’s physics journals were full of post-its covered in John’s illegible scrawl. And now that he thought to look, Rodney could tell that the apartment was cleaner than it had been in living memory. John must have gone completely stir-crazy to resort to scrubbing down bathrooms.
1 | 2 | 3 | 4
*
Someone Else's Shadow
Rodney was brushing his teeth when it happened, making faces at himself in the bathroom mirror because it wasn’t like there was anyone around to mock him for doing it-not anymore. Apple was winding himself around Rodney’s ankles, purring uncertainly, ears flicking against Rodney’s shins.
The crash startled both of them-although, to be more accurate, it was more of a thud. The soft-edged thud of a body hitting some unyielding surface, followed by the thwack of a limb knocking against a cabinet door. Almost more startling was the silence following the noise, the apartment suddenly unsafe and defenseless, awaiting further assault.
Rodney spat out the toothpaste, seized the toilet scrub brush, and stalked out to see what exactly had invaded his home. There had been a time when he would have panicked, dialing 911 or diving out the nearest window. That time was well past, though, and he was not going to run away from what was probably only a collapsed stack of books. Besides, Apple seemed more curious than afraid, following at Rodney’s heels without hesitation.
The apartment was small enough that it was impossible to not hear in every room what was done in every other room, and the only sounds Rodney could hear were those he was making: the rustle of cloth and the squeak of flexing floor boards. There wasn’t any sound to suggest there was someone else in the apartment.
So it was something of a shock when he entered the kitchen and discovered a form on the floor, nearly as familiar as his own. Scruffy black hair, tac vest, P-90-
Rodney dropped the scrub brush.
“John?”
It was definitely John, but there was something . . . off about him. And not just that he was lying loosely curled on his side on Rodney’s floor, or the ring of gray feathers surrounding him. Or the fact that he was supposed to dead.
Apple was purring again, walking toward John-not-John, because it couldn’t be John-with intent apparent in the set of his tail.
“Rodney?” John’s eyes were only half-open, but they appeared to be the same color they’d always been. He tried to sit up and failed, slumping back down to the floor, ashen-faced. “Where are we?”
“Somewhere safe,” Rodney said, because he couldn’t think of anything else that was true and not liable to require three hours of explanation. This was apparently the right answer, because John’s eyes slid shut again, the tension easing out of his spine.
He remained boneless and complacent while Rodney half-carried, half-dragged him over to the bedroom. (The couch was a black hole and not to be trusted with anything so precious.) The slightly-damp tac vest came off easy enough, but the t-shirt underneath was soaked through and nearly dripping, and Rodney had to peel it off John. The socks and boots were the same, as if he’d gone swimming in them before appearing on Rodney’s floor. The scars uncovered one by one were all familiar, until Rodney rolled him over onto his front and found himself confronted with a stranger’s back. There were more scars-too many scars-and tattoos where there should have been none, and it was like discovering that his hands weren’t his own.
They settled into an odd domesticity-Rodney spending his days at the university, John (other-John) spending his days doing something, although he never really told Rodney what. However, the apartment’s windows were filling up with dirt-filled coffee cans and yoghurt containers, and there were bags of potting soil on the balcony. And the various (inaccurate!) textbooks Rodney kept piled around the place were developing dog ears and smudges.
In the evenings, John would usually turn on some sports channel. The first time Rodney watched it with him was so weird that he couldn't do it, choosing to hide out in the kitchen until he started feeling silly. It was just that this John (and how odd to be able to say that) didn’t drawl the right insults, didn’t roll his eyes in the right places when Rodney started heckling.
“You’re like a pet,” Rodney said, half-horrified. “An illegal pet I can’t mention to anyone.”
“You could always pretend you’ve gotten a dog,” John sounded bemused. His arms were covered in flour, but he looked like he was enjoying himself. “You could call me Sparky. I always wanted a dog named Sparky when I was a kid.” He considered for a moment, holding a measuring cup partly filled with sugar. “Or maybe Moominpuppy.”
“Moominpuppy?” Rodney repeated blankly, unsure it this was something he should already know, something which had been true for his John as well.
“It’s sort of like vacation,” John said indistinctly from the floor, where he was currently putting together yet another jigsaw puzzle. It was his fourth in a week and a half, and Rodney was beginning to wonder where he was finding the things.
“Well, apparently they can’t do it from their side-my side-so we’ll have to figure it out from here.” And with a sudden sick feeling, like discovering he’d eaten someone else’s birthday cake, Rodney realized it was over.
But he should have been expecting it-there was a knee-high stack of jigsaw puzzle boxes in the corner, every windowsill was full of dirt- and plant-filled containers, and all Rodney’s physics journals were full of post-its covered in John’s illegible scrawl. And now that he thought to look, Rodney could tell that the apartment was cleaner than it had been in living memory. John must have gone completely stir-crazy to resort to scrubbing down bathrooms.