[Fic] Half Shame, Half Glory - Part 5
Michael, meanwhile, was in the shower. He has been at the hotel’s gym, falling into that easy rhythm that leaves the mind blank and the body pleasantly tired. It’s late by the time his muscles have had enough, and makes his way to the communal showers.
He smells almonds.
It’s ridiculous. Of course the showers don’t smell of almonds. A second whiff of the room proves that. But the sight of frail, naked bodies overlap his vision, and the cloying scent of almonds stays with him. Michael decides to shower in his own room.
He was scrubbing furiously at his skin, trying to wash away the phantom aches and peel away ghost numbers from his arm. Trying to slough off the spectral grime of a life that wouldn’t leave him be.
He could taste ash in his mouth again.
The Irishman cut off the stream of near-scalding water and stepped out of the stall, towelling off his hair before drying the rest of himself. The blue ink is still there in his periphery, but never actually there when he inspects his forearm, and it’s driving him mad.
Little things, monstrously huge in their insignificance, haunt him. He was at a coffee shop the other day (God knows why he was there, maybe he was sick of the sludge they serve at the studio) and he was talking to some tourists. He was having a grand old time, more relaxed than he had been in a long while. He didn’t have to worry about being an actor or a celebrity (or something else entirely), and it was liberating.
It’s not until he bids them ‘Auf wiedersehen’ that he realizes the whole conversation was in German. He left without finishing his coffee.
(there was the faintest hint of chocolate in the brew. when he bought it, he thought it would be a nice treat. he found, now, that it tasted too much like fearpainlossanger-)
That was two days ago. Last night, he had dared to turn on the TV and flick through the international channels. Das Erste, Télé Française, La Primera, Wizja TV. German, French, Spanish, Polish. All languages he was all but a stranger to, and yet could understand perfectly.
He is dry now, so he wraps the towel around his waist and brushes his teeth. Michael doesn’t feel any better. Now that he is no longer drenched, all of the little hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up, like the air is supercharged before a lightning storm.
The toothpaste is spit into the sink and washed away, the foul taste in his mouth abates. The actor wets his forefinger with a dab of cologne and, as has become his habit now, draws an invisible line under his nose to ward off the ever-present smell of death.
Routine complete, he leaves the bathroom (since when was the coin in his hand?) and searches through his belongings for some pyjamas. He finds some nice red-plaid flannel pants. Some other articles are tossed aside in the process.
He sees them.
Striped pyjamas.
Blue.
Striped.
Pyjamas.
Michael’s mind is blank for the moment. He stands transfixed and unblinking. Thoughts of ‘what the devil’ and ‘I didn’t know I had those’ skitter across his brain before he explodes into rage. Senseless, destructive rage.
The fabric does not tear easily, but it rends none the less in his hands. His skin feels like he’s touching a Van der Graaf generator and something sharp is in his hand that tears the stripes to shreds. His cell phone lets out a pained whine before it dies in a flurry of sparks and the bed frame groans and buckles and the coin is stuck to his palm like glue and tearing into his flesh it may as well be a knife -
- he breathes -
let’s go...
Whatever was in his hand falls to the ground as he takes in the tatters he’s left behind. Michael takes a step back -
-breathe-
- and walks into the back of the door.
He grabs blindly for a coat and some shoes, socks and shirt completely forgotten, and all but runs out of his room. The door slams shut behind him. He needs to get out of there. His skin jolts when he presses the brass button for the elevator.
Michael doesn’t see the misshapen piece of metal that was once a doorknob.
( Part VI)
He smells almonds.
It’s ridiculous. Of course the showers don’t smell of almonds. A second whiff of the room proves that. But the sight of frail, naked bodies overlap his vision, and the cloying scent of almonds stays with him. Michael decides to shower in his own room.
He was scrubbing furiously at his skin, trying to wash away the phantom aches and peel away ghost numbers from his arm. Trying to slough off the spectral grime of a life that wouldn’t leave him be.
He could taste ash in his mouth again.
The Irishman cut off the stream of near-scalding water and stepped out of the stall, towelling off his hair before drying the rest of himself. The blue ink is still there in his periphery, but never actually there when he inspects his forearm, and it’s driving him mad.
Little things, monstrously huge in their insignificance, haunt him. He was at a coffee shop the other day (God knows why he was there, maybe he was sick of the sludge they serve at the studio) and he was talking to some tourists. He was having a grand old time, more relaxed than he had been in a long while. He didn’t have to worry about being an actor or a celebrity (or something else entirely), and it was liberating.
It’s not until he bids them ‘Auf wiedersehen’ that he realizes the whole conversation was in German. He left without finishing his coffee.
(there was the faintest hint of chocolate in the brew. when he bought it, he thought it would be a nice treat. he found, now, that it tasted too much like fearpainlossanger-)
That was two days ago. Last night, he had dared to turn on the TV and flick through the international channels. Das Erste, Télé Française, La Primera, Wizja TV. German, French, Spanish, Polish. All languages he was all but a stranger to, and yet could understand perfectly.
He is dry now, so he wraps the towel around his waist and brushes his teeth. Michael doesn’t feel any better. Now that he is no longer drenched, all of the little hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand up, like the air is supercharged before a lightning storm.
The toothpaste is spit into the sink and washed away, the foul taste in his mouth abates. The actor wets his forefinger with a dab of cologne and, as has become his habit now, draws an invisible line under his nose to ward off the ever-present smell of death.
Routine complete, he leaves the bathroom (since when was the coin in his hand?) and searches through his belongings for some pyjamas. He finds some nice red-plaid flannel pants. Some other articles are tossed aside in the process.
He sees them.
Striped pyjamas.
Blue.
Striped.
Pyjamas.
Michael’s mind is blank for the moment. He stands transfixed and unblinking. Thoughts of ‘what the devil’ and ‘I didn’t know I had those’ skitter across his brain before he explodes into rage. Senseless, destructive rage.
The fabric does not tear easily, but it rends none the less in his hands. His skin feels like he’s touching a Van der Graaf generator and something sharp is in his hand that tears the stripes to shreds. His cell phone lets out a pained whine before it dies in a flurry of sparks and the bed frame groans and buckles and the coin is stuck to his palm like glue and tearing into his flesh it may as well be a knife -
- he breathes -
let’s go...
Whatever was in his hand falls to the ground as he takes in the tatters he’s left behind. Michael takes a step back -
-breathe-
- and walks into the back of the door.
He grabs blindly for a coat and some shoes, socks and shirt completely forgotten, and all but runs out of his room. The door slams shut behind him. He needs to get out of there. His skin jolts when he presses the brass button for the elevator.
Michael doesn’t see the misshapen piece of metal that was once a doorknob.
( Part VI)