(no subject)
The next few days are defined by a deep, drowning exhaustion that hollows out his feelings, leaving no room for anything but sadness and anger. He barely remembers anything about leaving Sarov, just waking up a day later in a hospital with five stitches in his wrist and bruises on his throat. He answers questions put to him, but doesn’t start any conversations on his own. A doctor talks to him, updating on the extent of his injuries (not good, but not more than a few weeks of healing could cure); later, another doctor talks to him, asking questions about how he feels as delicately as if he were navigating a minefield.
Jack doesn’t even bother asking questions, this time. She just sighs deeply like she’s in pain, too, and tucks him in bed for another couple days. He eats, sort of, and when he goes to sleep he has a new selection of ways to die in his dreams. When he wakes, he’s not entirely certain if he didn’t actually die, after all, and is just haunting his life, unable to let go.
He’s tired. He’s not sure if he’ll ever not be tired.
Jack doesn’t even bother asking questions, this time. She just sighs deeply like she’s in pain, too, and tucks him in bed for another couple days. He eats, sort of, and when he goes to sleep he has a new selection of ways to die in his dreams. When he wakes, he’s not entirely certain if he didn’t actually die, after all, and is just haunting his life, unable to let go.
He’s tired. He’s not sure if he’ll ever not be tired.