Within hours Bravo would come into view, a homecoming of sorts, for some, a reminder of what was not to others. John looked into the mirror and washed his face with water cold as space itself, as if in the washing, in the splashing of pain, the face he knew, the face he remembered, would return. If wishes were horses and land was free he thought.
Pain came not in the night--and, contrary to belief, not in the constant and intense nightmares, each seemingly more vivid than the one before and all the more real with each re-dreaming of an event that would no more wash away than the blood from ancient cobbled streets--but in the mornings, in the mirror, when a face once familiar stared back as a stranger, and answers were as absent as the eyes grown weary in resistance and regret. In the night, the pain was sharp and quick, intense, wet and heart-pounding. But in the morning, in the mirror, the pain was nothing but endless dull grey, a heaviness in the gut, invisible to the eye but as real as the ticking of a clock, steady, consistent and as tortuous as water dripped on the forehead.
John waved his hand and water flowed, from where, to where, he did not contemplate. His white undershirt hung from his thin frame as from a wire hanger, clinging to skin as damp cloth is wont, a gift from the night, a reminder that all was not as it was. He washed his face again, slapping each cheek as a mendicant in supplication, hat extended, empty, again. Placing both hands on the lave before him, John leaned forward as if his back no longer could support the standing straight, as if judgment rendered a slouch he would wear for to stand straight was reserved for men deserving, his nose inches from the silver reflection, his breath as frost in the cold. Then as if his forehead was a hammer and as if he could bang the pain out of the likeness before his worn visage, head met glass and he never heard the knock.
"John?" asked Rog, knocking again, unsure of the odd noises from within. "John?"
The noise stopped. Yul looked at Rog. "Override the lock."
Rog fumbled the pad then reached for his las. "Put that away," said Yul, slapping the back of his head. "Frail, did you not learn anything from the last time." Offering no resistance, Rog stepped aside. Yul worked the pad, the door opened. "Oh my Janus. Go get Trev. And Rog, don't let Ariel anywhere near here until we can get this mess cleaned up."
9 comments:
A strange thing to say, never having walked in his shoes I cannot claim that I can even begin to imagine what he must be going through, but I still very much want to say just how the truth rings through this scene. How despair is etched in every word, how consciousness and sleep would alter the way in which his mind sought to sieve the grief that he feels into something that he could hope to find a way to manage one day. Nightmares in the night of precisely what he saw, what he knows happened and disbelief, unwillingness, denial, a place past anything that it is possible to deal with turning to that grey dullness that you speak of, that heaviness. There is an absolutely beautiful, not pleasant, but beautiful line (among others) within that made me stop and stare
John leaned forward as if his back no longer could support the standing straight, as if judgment rendered a slouch he would wear for to stand straight was reserved for men deserving, his nose inches from the silver reflection, his breath as frost in the cold. In that one line we see for the first time what we know has been with him all this while, guilt, deserved or not is no matter, guilt for putting Cait in such a situation, guilt for not being able to stop what happened to her, guilt at not being able to save her life, guilt at the decisions made now long ago that ultimately led them unto the path that took her from him, sacrificed. Every time I read a chapter of yours, every single time, I am quite simply in awe at how you do this, how you give us a scene of a man washing his face and through the sheer genius linking one word to another you convey and create and touch so far beyond what one would think is achievable in so few words. Somehow you are able to tap right into the heart of the matter in question, as they say a picture tells a thousand words, the pictures verbally present do just that, for every one there is a thousand behind it.
If wishes were horses and land was free - did you hear that somewhere or did you write that? Either way,I love that.
Love how Yul slaps the back of Rog's head too, :-D, apart and together, I dread to think we might not have known them.
No need to comment on the last bit except to say the word mess is deeply disturbing.
Should anyone ask me what it is about this story that is so very special, today's chapter joins hundreds of others that could be held up in evidence. Just this, nothing else.
Although this morning ends up a little different than the ones that went before, I do so love how you have given it that title. Even in the face of grief, when one life stops and sometimes it seems that the whole world should stop too, that it simply cannot go on without this person, day always follows day, of this one can always be certain regardless of what happens to any of us as individuals, and so in naming it The Mornings, that circle continues, night, day, and there is nothing to be done but sleep and wake. Wonderful.
Sweetest, the phrase, I believe, comes partly from a nursery rhyme. It goes something like this:
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
If turnips were watches, I would wear one by my side.
And if "ifs" and "ands"
Were pots and pans,
There'd be no work for tinkers!
I took the first part and added the second part. So now you know. :-D
As always, I'm blown away with your comments. May be back later to respond in kind. :-)
WOWOW This is riveting! Even in light of the fact I've lost the story line due to being so busy, this chapter still packs so much POWER as a 'stand alone'.
I'm guessing they found a suicide on the other side of that door :( But I'm hoping not.
Grace, this chapter's bark is worse than its bite. The psychological and emotional issues are very real for John and we will see them again, but the physical head banging against the mirror only resulted in John cutting his forehead. What Yul and Rog see looks worse than it is, which is to say they see John's face and chest covered in blood and broken glass all over the place. John looks like hell, but the cuts to his head are superficial and not serious.
As for your very kind words on this chapter, thank you Grace. Comments like yours mean the world to me. I'm a bit like Mairi. I doubt my abilities and affirmation via comments, as much as anything, keep me believing I'm not writing just complete tripe.
By the way, if you liked this chapter, please read the one just below this one--it really sets up what this one is all about, which is John dealing with the rape and murder of his wife, Cait, and the nightmares and mornings of that reality.
"I doubt my abilities and affirmation via comments, as much as anything, keep me believing I'm not writing just complete tripe."
Ditto
I find it hard to comment, I will make more of an effort in future because I understand how much it means.
My favourite part:
"the pain was nothing but endless dull grey, a heaviness in the gut, invisible to the eye but as real as the ticking of a clock, steady, consistent and as tortuous as water dripped on the forehead."
Thank you Miladysa. I think if you write, like you and I do, you write with a sense of doubt. To judge one's own work is nearly impossible. I've written things I almost didn't post that readers thought was wonderful and I've posted stuff I thought was brilliant that received a cold shoulder from most. I just keep reminding myself to write for the joy of writing and let the rest fall where it may. Again, thank you for taking the time and making the effort to leave a few kinds words. Always, always much appreciated. :-)
Yeah, the pain in the morning is a dull ache...The pain in the morning is worse than the pain in the night because you know, another day has come and yet it has nor gone away...pain in the morning spells the sense of continuity and is heavy, with the weight of another day to come..like you say, " real as the ticking of the clock, consistent and tortuous as water [dripping] on the forehead"
An excellent rendition of the weight of guilt from soul and heart and mind to the physical.A weight unbearable, a cross on the shoulders...and finally, plunging headlong into crisis...
That is a very subtle transformation of imagery.
Mona, your ability to see the imagery, to know what I'm trying to say, amazes me. Your perceptiveness and intelligence, Mona, is very, very seductive. I find myself swooning when I see one of your comments, knowing you've put time and effort and grey matter into your response. Thank you my friend. :-)
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