"But if you tell me what I dreamed and what the dream means, I will give you many wonderful gifts and honors. Just tell me the dream and what it means (Daniel 2:6 NLT)!"

"And it is not because I am wiser than anyone else that I know the secret of your dream, but because God wants you to understand what was in your heart (Daniel 2:30 NLT)."

King Nebuchadnezzar wanted his dream analyzed and interpreted, without even telling anyone what the dream was. He ordered death to the wise men of Babylon for not being able to fulfill a request that is simply unfair. Daniel and his friends prayed to God for help, and God gave Daniel the information that was needed to facilitate the king's demands. I loved how Daniel could have put himself on a pedestal over having information that no one else could figure out, but instead gave the credit to God once the ball was in his court. Thank You Lord for helping me when I have been faced with seemingly impossible demands. Please help me to always be humble and send the credit Your way anytime success comes to me. Please let my life glorify You. In Jesus' name I pray, Amen.

all of our lives together

10 months

a day

or just 5 minutes

doesn't matter really,

as long as I get to spend that time with you

meet me on the equinox

somewhere between then and now,

where your whispers taste like powder sand

and liquid stars.

slipping my fingers into the marron

and cobalt streaked skies

slowly dipping my toes in your love

ever so gently, but with a blazing soul.

footprints on the moon,

imprinted over the kaleidoscope of your heart

my ever raging, peaceful midnight sun

I am interested in longing,

in longing so deep it threatens to splinter a person apart

— Rachel Yoder

A few hours later.

It takes some time to convince him that I was more or less stable now and would not collapse before anyone else's welcoming feet again. Or any kind of motor engine, for that matter, If I ever decided to head outside for a whiff of some rather questionable fresh air. Safe to say, it takes me at least an hour and a lot of heavy, pressuring stares before he lets me out of his sight. Not that I could blame him. Even though that kind of hovering attitude; irritated me worse than a nasty, itchy rash. Heating my skin more than a steamy and passionate rendezvous session with a poison ivy bush would.

But still, I get it.

For some reason, he cared, and I was grateful for it. Even if I sucked at showing it. There were times when I thought of myself as an Italian matron, expressing my care and concern by bringing food. It was the best way I knew how - a small smile creeps to my lips but is quickly replaced by a deep, ulgly scowl. At that simple task of showing affection, I was more or less decent. But as the mental state goes, and communication skills when it comes to any type of feelings... Well, let's face it. In that area, I was a shipwreck. Though even I had my moments sometimes.

Yes, sometimes.

I think quietly, shifting between people, corridors, and eventually, the seemingly endless flights of stairs. I head to the roof, sneaking outside before anyone could notice or protest against it. Blocking the heavy door with a piece of a cardboard box, so I would not get shut out, leaving my sorry ass to potential hyperthermia and a not-so-pleasant ice statue effect. With some hesitation, I inhale deeper and then exhale very slowly. Releasing the tension in my chest a bit, letting the lungs take in as much oxygen as they wanted. Mmm, even though the air was freezing, it felt good as it expanded under the ribs, scratching almost painfully from the inside but making me feel just a little bit more human.

I close my eyes and hold back on any unwanted thoughts and feelings that could slip into the cracks, rocking the already unsteady foundation. The only thing that I do, let in, are my senses as I concentrate on all the seemingly insignificant things in between. On how the wind moves against my skin and fingers, as my hands open wide, my head lifted back, eyes closed. Or on how each sound vibrates in my eardrums and under the muscles. The street traffic blending into an unknown melody that somehow soothes my mind. With time I relax slightly, allowing myself to be in the here and now, but eventually, some time later, he finds me.

I'm not even that surprised. Somehow, he always found me, sensing when my mood would drop or when my thoughts were further away from him, from everything. Maybe he felt the notions that I had been ignoring so well. Never truly realizing how the things inside of me changed after taking out that ring a few weeks ago, that still meant so much to me. The simple silver one, forever painted in daisies and bruised time. Blurring out the longing for someone that once felt like home against the rubble and dust of the world that left her colder, quieter, somewhat defeated.

With growing tissue around the parts that she managed to stitch the best way, she knew how. Healing slowly, but with visible nylon, threads sticking out of her, reminding her how rushed she acted. Not caring about much more than to stop the open wounds from gushing deep crimson. Not taking all the time that she should have to peace herself back in the right way. Her tapestry, consisting of glue, cotton patches, and torn pieces of grey scotch tape.

Temporary solutions for the wounded ones.

Struggling, I move away slightly from the past and slowly retreat to reality, suddenly feeling very tired. I have been very moody because that little thing pressed deep into one of my drawers, hidden under the layers of the surface life. The returning memories, hitting at me, taunting my mind. And what happened today did not help my case either. Too many waves, pulling me down at once. At times I could resist my past, but my past could not do the same. And the only reason why I haven't noticed it until now was because there were so many things to handle first, ripping me constantly in all directions. And above all, ladies and gentlemen, I was a good runner, fleeing away from my problems smoothly, on instinct, not letting any more pain in.

But somehow, it regularly found its way back to me, just like he did.

You smoke?

I look down at the contents lightly nestled into my hand as he asks, surprised. Staring at me as if holding a pack of cigarettes was worse than what I did before. Like I should be feeling more sinful from this than actually from killing someone. From taking a life that was not mine. Yes, as if nicotine and yellow-stained fingers were my biggest problem now. Oh, how silly seemed the sins in his mind in comparison with mine. I think but then shake my head. But how could he know or even suspect my real atrocities? The filth that lingered under my fingernails, forever stained in gone powder. It wasn't his fault that I did not have enough of a backbone to let him in completely and tell him all that sit rotting inside of my darker, infected parts. I stare back and shrug my shoulders, feeling the crisp air slip past my wrists and under the sleeves of the leather jacket. It takes a lot of energy not to shrink from the chill, staying calm and poised. Yet despite it, my body remains motionless.

No.

I watch his eyebrows furrow slowly.

Then why are you...

Holding it helps me calm down.

I don't think I follow.

You could say it's a souvenir.

Alright, you have to give me more than that.

I gaze at him for a moment, and then the words just flow out, spilling smoothly as if water over pebbles in a rushing stream.

It was my fiance's. He died, nothing more to say.

He's taken aback by my answer, his eyes growing wider as he takes an unconscious step back, probably not even realizing it. I inhale the cold air and then slowly let it out again. Letting another sharp, heavy stone fall out of my lungs. I almost hear it hitting the pavement beneath my feet with a low sound, and then I straighten my back, something both loosening and deflating in my core. Well, eventually, he would have found out anyway. So why prolong it? I gaze up at him, parts of me quietly surrendering. I was just too tired to keep up with all the secrets. I had too many of them as it was.

Eleonore.

The way he says my name sounds more like a question than anything else. It makes me uneasy. I never liked any form of pity, and the worst kind of pity was hearing the sharpest words in the world covered in silk. I'm sorry for your loss. The only time I would let people do that to me was on the day of the funeral. And only then. And today was definitely not such a day. I cut him off abruptly before he can say anything else.

No, stop. It doesn't matter anymore. I moved on. So let's just drop it, alright? No need to dig into the past. Nothing good ever comes from it.

I step further away from him and go to the edge of the roof, knowing how bitter my voice sounded but not really caring. I look inside the paper box and stare at the three lonely cigarettes and a simple red plastic lighter. I pull it out and play with it for a moment, then sigh and hide it, putting the packet back inside my jacket. I cross my arms and lean against a low brick wall, separating me from the empty space in front of me and the twenty floors below my feet. The wind, blowing the hair around my face as I watch the stars gradually set into the deep blue ink, pink and maroon-colored sky. Wondering how much longer I would have to go through this mess. Was there even any way out? Or was it just a case of waiting for the grave end?

After a while, I turn around and see that he must have left some time ago, letting me with this moment and the memories. He left me in peace when I needed it the most. It was one of the things about him that I could easily fall in love with if there was anything in my to still love. I had doubts about that because all there seemed to be left was just a block of ice that grew bigger with every day. Thick, almost unbreakable, and wrapped around in silence. Coated over a heart that had been bruised one too many times and lost a will to feel certain empty notions. It was beating, of course, feeling, existing. Caring. Caring so much. But was that enough to feel, everything?

_____

I walk down the staircase on stiff legs, feeling a chill in the bones. The cold banister only intensifying the sensation, causing my teeth to ring loudly against each other, the late-night and the lack of sleep taking a haul on me. Though what I was about to just do, made me feel even colder. But it was needed. I open the inside door and walk into the hallway of the building. I know Charlie's shift isn’t over yet, so I look for him without rush, eyes scanning the place, face crinkled from too many thoughts. I can feel stress and exhaustion tugging at me, the world around gently buzzing, lights a bit too bright, and noises unpleasantly heightened, my head starting to pound mercilessly. But it was nothing, just a sad, depressing part of my life now. Humans are a specific kind of creatures; they adept even to the worst things. Even though it made my skin crawl to think that I was now used to the pain. To this form of insanity. An overstretched material no longer serving its purpose.

Charlie?

I finally find him at the main desk, filling some patient's paperwork and setting the medication dosages. A faint smile stretches my lips; I guess I learned a stuff or two while coexisting in his complicated, medical world. And if I ever went back to stealing morphine, I would be much better at it than just a month ago. He looks up at me, distracted, and sees the barely visible smile on my face, but he’s not fooled by it.

Nora, what’s wrong?

He notices me shiver.

God, have you been up there all that time? I thought you would go to the library or to some argument session with Morgan. Not that you would actually stay on the roof. Are you insane?

Yes, in all ways. I feel like answering but then shrug, not being able to focus entirely on his words.

I need to talk to you.

Of course, yes. But only if you go to the cafeteria and get yourself something hot to drink and eat. I will meet you there, but I have some things still that need to be done.

My arms cross, and I take a demonstrative walk to the wending machine, pull out a few coins from my back pocket so he can see, and get a paper cup of tea, steam rising from it as I sit on a chair nearby.

I’m good. And can wait here for you.

Was the show necessary, Eleonore?

If it made you say my full name twice in one day, then yes.

I take small sips of the hot over-sugared liquid, never taking my stare off him. He looks like he has to deal with a spoiled five-year-old, and he’s not that far off, to be honest. But he doesn’t understand what’s going on with me and how fragile I have become. I don’t want to be far away from him, in case I might break again. I have been feeling weaker since we met. Better, more peaceful, energized at first but now more like on pain killers that worked too well. Addicting, blurring my senses, and with a hard crash, if I didn’t take the right dosage on time. Just like when I was taking drugs, better for a while, and then even worse than before. Constantly craving more. Just to stop the pain, the thoughts, the voices.

He made my life bearable, with an illusion of normality, but there was an enormous price that came with it. A falling apart car could only run so long, no matter what kind of miracles the mechanic could perform.

Don’t make me sit there alone, Charlie. Please? I would rather be here to know when you’re done.

He stares at me for a while, his expression slowly changing. It’s worried again. I tense, trying to swallow the big lump in my throat, tears starting to form unexpectedly. I take a bigger sip of tea and gaze at the cup with an empty stare, not wanting to feel anymore. He walks over until he reaches me and then crouches beside me, touching the wrists gently, the warmth filling my skin, circling in the veins, and reaching my tired mind. My eyes start to sting again, but I compose myself at the last moment.

What’s going on, Nora?

Nothing.

His sigh is heavy and tickles my skin.

Is it because of that seizure you had in front of doctor Sorentine?

No. Well, in a way.

Hmm, okay.

He nods a few times.

I'm getting closer then. And is it also about what you told me on the roof? And the lighter that you hold on to so tightly?

Finally, I make myself look up at him and then nod, almost unnoticeably; not sure what would happen to my emotions if I tried to speak right now.

Alright. As soon as I finish up with my things, we will go to the cafeteria together and talk

about whatever you want to, deal?

I feel like a little kid again and groan, waving my hands dismissively in the air.

Yes. Now get up from your feet. You’re making a spectacle of yourself.

I watch as his face loosens the deep frown and spreads into an almost normal smile.

Why? Are you feeling embarrassed by it?

No, I wouldn’t want any of the nurses here to think you are proposing to me and then beat me up in some dark alley behind the dumpster. I hear such acts of violence are common in hospitals. Especially with attractive male nurses inhabiting the area.

He laughs out, shaking his head, and then with a bit lighter step, he heads back to his responsibilities. I watch as he disappears and then walk up to the reception, tapping on the counter until I get some proper attention. A middle-aged woman with glasses and a strong presence about her looks up and gives me an all-knowing look.

Susan?

Yes, Elle?

I need a cigarette, really bad.

You don't smoke.

She states with authority.

No, but you do, and I am more than aware of that secret stash that you keep away from your husband. Twenty cigarettes a week, like clockwork.

You’re too observant for someone that always looks out of place, my dear.

It helps me get by and stops the wolves from eating me alive. Come on, I know you have a coffee break soon, and I'm really desperate for some nicotine.

I send her a long look, grabbing her stare, knowing that she will understand.

I need to prepare for a battle.

She sizes me up for a moment and taps against a plastic pad three times.

Fine, but next time don’t be blabbering on, letting other people know about my place behind the dumpster. Especially, mister sweeter than sugar and more bothersome than all saints behind the holy gate discussing bloody politics.

I chuckle loudly, and it makes my insides unwind until the weight on my chest gets smaller. I truly loved that woman; she could always pick me up from the gutter of my existence. And that spoke volumes.

That’s a promise.

_____

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

Previous chapters :

41. https://theprose.com/post/437586/those-deeply-rooted-ways

42. https://old.theprose.com/post/441074/between-the-corridors-of-fragile-things

43. https://old.theprose.com/post/442704/doctor-issues

it’s a constant process of falling in the deep,

resurfacing, re-calibrating,

and telling myself everything will be okay

- Fiona Robinson

The following day.

I lean my back against the front entrance of the hospital building in a slightly distracted state. Arms crossed tightly against the late Autumn chill as my mind repeatedly attempts to analyze the last 48 hours, coming with only one disturbing conclusion. The more I tried to put some distance between me, and him, the closer somehow I ended up falling into his bright, alluring sphere. Like trying to defy the damn gravity or the laws of physics. An equally useless action. I think bitterly, then sigh, rubbing my face over and over again until I feel the judging stares prick my skin, stirring my blood. I look up at the people that pass me on the way in and shift, annoyed. What, you never saw straight-on crazy before? I feel like shouting into the cold air but then exhale slowly and unfold my arms. What’s the point, anyway, Eleonore? We’re all some levels of crazy here, no exceptions.

The only difference here was that she didn’t have a problem admitting it. And instead of moving from it, she preferred to cover herself in it like in a thick winter coat that soon she would need not to freeze in this hell hole that flamed her skin not with fires but with frost. Tiny ice shreds that never left her, and had nothing to do with the weather, that liked to kiss her bones with sticky tenderness, whispering softly of the things that were coming her way.

A little dramatic today, aren’t we now, love?

The words ring out in my head, and I flex my shoulders, trying to calm it all down. No need to bring even more negativity into the world. There was too much of it as it is. Still a bit triggered, I turn around towards the entry. Hesitating for a moment as visions of last night color my mind with swelling, chaotic feelings that vibrate through my muscles like the wrong kind of medicine. I felt so exposed and bare yesterday, so not used to someone seeing under my layers, exposing the bruises under the haggard and scarred tissue. It wasn’t meant for anyone to see. For anyone to touch. It was just hers, and there were so few things that she could say that about these days.

I shake my head and march into the building, heading for the third floor without looking back or stopping to see anything or anyone. Choosing the stairs and running up as fast as possible, and not letting myself think until I reach my destination. After a short moment, I navigate to the right corridor. And despite the blazing irrational state that I’m currently in, something still manages to attract my attention. Slowly, my eyes follow a guy with a deep frown and a displeased expression coming out of Morgan’s room. I lift my eyebrows, surprised. He fixes his glasses slightly and writes something down in a thick, leather-bound notebook. I watch him get distracted in his notes and check something on the calendar while I silently head to her room. For a moment, he catches my stare, and I hold it, not in any way intimidated, more curious what the guy was all about.

My eyes gradually take him in, the short but thick brown hair with the beginning of grays streaks showing on the sides, then the rather tall frame and the slim silhouette. He seems to be in his early forties from the look of it. Wearing dark blue jeans, a swede jacket in the shade of coffee. All questioningly pared with a vest underneath that was so multi-patterned that it made it nearly impossible to declare what color it was. Not that it mattered. Maybe he was going both for the professional and laid-back option, trying to be more approachable. Who knew.

My stare drifts back to his, and I nod politely. He does the same and gets back to his little scribbles. Mmm, there was something about him that rubbed me the wrong way. My eyes narrow a bit for a while, but then I leave it at rest; life was too short to waste on such things. I walk into the room and, for some reason, notice a similar frown on Morgan’s face. She groans, annoyed, crumpling pieces of paper laying on her bed with frustration, and then throws it down to the floor, coughing slightly. I try for the sudden worry not to slip into my bloodstream the way it wants to.

Hey, hey, calm down there. Whatever it is, it’s definitely not worth that kind of energy loss.

I come over and pick up the paper from the ground, smooth it out a bit and glance at it, but don’t really focus on it much.

What’s this?

It’s called “dealing with trauma” according to my parents.

I gaze at her questioningly and then put the documents on her nightstand. She glares at me and huffs under her breath.

Therapy.

Pardon?

Therapy. An upgrade of a guidance counselor and a lesser evil from a shrink option. I mean, what would my dad’s friends and associates think if his daughter went to a shrink, right? Can you imagine the horror and shame?

She shakes her head and sighs, not really waiting for a reply.

My mom solves problems. I’m the problem. And there is the solution; a high-notch overpaid therapist wannabe.

She points to the man still standing in the hallway and making some phone calls now. I gaze at him for a moment and then back at her. She just shrugs.

Well, that’s her opinion anyway. As if a better mood and a fake smile on my face could help the diseases go away.

I open my mouth to say something, but she stops me.

No, don’t. At least you can spare me the “positive attitude can solve all issues” crap.

I lift my hands in the air and shrug, not really bothered.

Hey, I’m just an innocent passerby here. Don’t blame me for the way, in which the world is constructed.

She groans but then nods.

Yeah, sorry. I know it’s not your fault.

My eyebrows shoot up, probably giving me a very comical expression.

Excuse me? Could you please repeat that? Because I don’t think I will have a chance to hear it again. But slowly, and focus on the pronunciation, I want to enjoy each mouthwatering, honey dripping syllable coming out of your mouth.

The pillow flies my way at an impressive speed, but I manage it catch it in the last moment before it gets too familiar with my face, though, stagger a bit in the process.

Whoa, easy. Hospital property here, and I don’t plan on being charged by it. Mmm, well then. You ever considered playing professional football? Because we could definitely use you on the national playoffs.

She shakes her head but manages to produce a real smile for me.

You’re ridiculous.

Yet, you still tolerate me somehow.

For, now.

Of course.

I smile back at her but then touch my forehead, feeling my head spin a bit, legs going slightly weaker in the knees. I throw her a quick glance to see if she caught it, but thankfully she’s already occupied, making sure the stuff she got was torn into neat, smaller, and smaller pieces of white paper snow.

Feeling in a confetti mood?

I ask, amused but then try not to notice how my voice quivers a bit, putting hands in the pockets of my jeans as they start to tremble. This really was a sickness, no matter how much I went out of my way to pretend otherwise. And it was heading for the kill.

Yeah, something like that. Maybe I will make a snow globe and give it to my therapist as an early Christmas gift.

She says in a dark tone, and I smile again, despite feeling my fragile state increase with each moment.

That’s my girl. I’m proud of you. Uhm... hey, Morgan?

She looks at me from her entertaining activity and lifts an eyebrow.

I think I will go look for the nurse man, so he doesn’t send a search party after me consisting of the Baskerville hounds and his noble attitude. And then come back here. Okay?

She nods.

Do as you please. Just remember you’re behind on the product line.

She points to a plastic box filled with colorful paper and the things I already made for her, and the ones we have made together. There are roses there, tulips, and flowers made from multiple layers, resembling big balls of perfectly shaped petals. I must say, there weren’t many times when I could actually use the word perfect in any sentence that related to me personally but here, it was cutting it close. I focus even more on the box and smile at the sight of a few origami birds. I didn’t possess many positive memories from childhood, so this one I held specifically tight to my chest, remembering the time spent with my mom. I look back at her and nod.

It shall be done.

I smile faintly and walk out into the hallway, feeling my throat tighten as I try to swallow, beads of sweat appearing on my forehead. Why was my health declining so fast lately? Was my body giving up and shutting down completely, running its final course? I try to swallow again. Perhaps, I didn’t really have answers to those questions but knew that the pain and different symptoms came in waves. At times drowning me mercilessly and at others letting me simply drift on the surface. Carried with the current and giving me the allowance of a few temporary sun rays and the kindest form of warmth. I shake my head, annoyed a bit. Don’t let yourself get melodramatic again, Eleonore. Nobody really likes the sad sappy types too much. Slowly, I head forward and try to push away any dark thoughts that were pressing themselves onto me, a familiar buzz under the skull waking up and welcoming the voices. I hear them and feel the venom start to spread into my bloodstream, but don’t allow them to turn into words. Instead, shut my eyes closed for a moment, humming to myself soft melodies and drowning out the world around me.

If there is a lot of noise in the room and you blur out the actual conversations, focusing only on the sound itself... then you are left in a space full of bees. And as much as it sounds crazy, it actually not only works but can even have a soothing effect as well.

I shift forward with difficulty but somehow am able to harness a bit of the chaos that kept on attacking my mind. Detach yourself, love. It’s the only way to quiet them down. I feel the sweat drip down the lower of my back, and my jaw clenches tighter. They say you can get used to the pain, but they are wrong, very wrong. Because when it grows, it becomes a whole new Hellgate to cross under your freshly bleeding feet. I think with barely any remains of a clear mind just before my knees buckle under me, hands hitting the floor in a weak attempt to break the fall. I curse and groan through my teeth, my body rolling into a tight ball constructed of wires and iron strings. Not here, not now. Please. Not here where everyone could see. The thoughts scream at me as I have less and less energy to think straight or even try to get up to save myself from public view. Though I still try. But the sweaty hands slip against the smooth linoleum, my forehead bumping against the floor. Shit, shit, shit. Come one, get up. You can do this. You have to. The hall was still empty.

Come on.

Excuse me, miss? What’s wrong, are you feeling nauseous? Let me help you.

Or apparently not. I groan again and look up as an unfamiliar voice asks, my eyes watching someone get closer with every step. Their silhouette, seeming to move towards me in almost slow motion, my perception of reality altered and distorted somehow. Time and sounds, blending and changing their pace as they pleased. As if trying to breathe underwater and stumbling through an unrehearsed nightmare. I squint my eyes and moan in frustration, not being able to usher any coherent words. It’s the guy that I saw before. The therapist. This is not good.

I’m... f-fine.

I mumble, silently feeling like a winner for even finding scraps of my voice through all the mayhem that was controlling my neuron system and clawing its way deeper and deeper under and shredding me from the inside out. I make myself focus slightly more and somehow manage to move up to some kind of a sitting position, balancing myself on the hands and breathing with effort. But it’s clearing just a bit. I’m able to make out more of my surroundings, but I’m also all too aware that it’s not over, just a pre-show, and it will get worse before it can get better. It comes and goes in waves. It always does.

_____

Charlie

Something in him shifts as he’s talking to Raffael, his patient, the one with an arm in a cast and some broken ribs to match. Thankfully, he was feeling better with each day, though a full recovery would still take at least a few more months. He smiles at him, but his mind is distracted, a strange itch forming under the muscles, his body tensing. What was that sensation, that feeling? He couldn’t really explain it or the source of it, but he knew something was wrong. Helplessly, he looks to the sides and into the hallway but doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.

Mmm, Raffael?

The 17-year-old looks up at him, stopping in the middle of a little story he wanted to share with him, as he was rather bored in his room. Not really having that many opportunities to talk to anyone as there weren’t that many people visiting him on a daily basis. He lifts his eyebrows.

You will have to tell me the rest later; I just remembered I forgot about something important that needs my immediate attention. So sorry.

The boy looks at him a bit surprised as he knows this isn’t usual behavior for Charlie but then just nods, understanding.

Sure, you’re the one at work here, man. I’m just on an inventorially vacation here. And I think this place is way overrated, I wouldn’t recommend it to friends. Two stars at most, and that’s if I get my jellos more regularly. Otherwise, this place is going down any day now.

He says in a light tone and grins. Charlie smiles as well but then swiftly turns around, trying not to break into a run as he gets out of the room, more tension building up in his muscles. It seems to penetrate the bones. What the hell? He wasn’t even sure what brought the state he was in right now or what direction to head. No logical explanation in sight. Yet he doesn’t ignore or disregard it, something inside pushing him forward with force. He passes the hallway and turns in the opposite direction that the reception was. Making a few turns on his way. Soon enough, he walks past the room of that girl that Nora likes to hang out with and catches his breath. His entire form, freezing for just one second, both his heart rate and the world around him, seeming to stop at exactly the same moment. He hears her pained groan and instantly breaks out of the stillness.

He moves up to her and blocks Dr. Sorenstine’s view. Bending and holding her wrist as if checking the pulse, good energy spreading through her veins gradually, like a warm compress on sore muscles. Her mind appears to relax a bit, and she gazes up at him. She looks pale, and there is sweat covering her skin. She seems to be drained, but a shy smile appears on her tired face as the body still trembles a little. Charlie smiles back as relief takes over, soothing his tensed frame. Gently, he helps her shift and stand up slowly, giving her a reassuring stare. Then he straightens his back and turns around to the doctor, his whole attitude changing and growing professional, reserved; something in him taking the shape of a stone.

She should be fine now.

From what I just experienced, she did not seem fine.

The man speaks coldly, his dark eyes inspecting his facial expression and body language. Damn psychologists, always watching you like a specimen in the worst possible moment. The doctors for the mind. Though he wasn’t that phased by it, his reactions were composed and calculated. They had to be; too much was at stake.

She’s handling a difficult illness, making her body more weak and unstable. Plus, on top of it, a post-traumatic syndrome that as you, doctor, of course, know can be very overwhelming.

And grief, that leaves a mark.

His head snaps back to her as she continues in a hushed tone, not looking directly at neither of them.

My doctor says it’s a long process. The physical issues are not helping either, it’s a constant struggle to stay afloat. But I’m trying. I think that counts for something.

He gazes at her, surprised. Not sure if she is speaking the truth or just making stuff up like he was. He stares closely at her face but can’t really read it. Nora’s eyes meet his, holding the stare and not looking away, her expression seeming calm and confident. She must be pretending; he would sense something otherwise. He breathes out just as the doctor decides to slip into the awkward silence.

I am sorry for your loss...

Eleonore.

He gives her a quick nod.

Yes, Eleonore. Are you sure that you feel better? Maybe Mr. Evans should take you to the emergency room or at least examine you more thoroughly?

There is a slightly patronizing tone in the therapist’s words. But he decides to play dumb and ignore it.

That might be a good option, doctor. Come on, Nora. I will help you get there. You need to be checked; you know what happens when you don’t take your medication on time.

They walk away while James Sorenstine watches them, not in any way convinced by explanations that he just heard. What was this entire show about? He saw the symptoms and how her body reacted, all the vitals being out of order. And then just calming down almost as soon as that over helpful staff guy was near her. No one is that good. She should have not, get better so quickly. He looks as Evans walks her off, fingers still wrapped around the young woman’s wrists as he does anything in his power to block her out of view. Something was off here, and his mind would stay alert until he would find out some answers. But no rush. Shadows always catch up with us, one way or another. The doors to the elevator open, and they disappear in it. He definitely had to look more into this case. The whole situation felt rather surreal, something unexplainable still lingering in the air even after they leave. He couldn’t quite touch it yet, but it was just a matter of time before he would.

All he had to do was dig deep enough.

_____________________

*The Hound of the Baskervilles, one of the best known of the Sherlock Holmes novels, written by Arthur Conan Doyle in 1901.

_____

https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

Previous chapters :

40. https://theprose.com/post/427675/of-monsters-and-living-things

41. https://theprose.com/post/437586/those-deeply-rooted-ways

42. https://old.theprose.com/post/441074/between-the-corridors-of-fragile-things

This was always going to happen. And why shouldn’t it? I can’t expect you to remain still just because I silently asked the void. It’s selfish of me to even think otherwise. You’re so eager to move while I’m content with a standstill. Why do I want you to stop too? How can I claim to be in love if I want you to stay in a place you aren’t happy? I’ve begged. I’ve pleaded to whatever powers that be, hoping for some divine intervention to stop you leaving. I knew this would happen but I still hoped it wouldn’t.

Sometimes my words roll out in waves

like grass that's kissed by wind from cranes

who rise up on a sheet of wind...

Rhymes come to bless me on a whim...

On other days I must go out

into the ravenous array,

and hunt my dinner down with tools,

and weapons of personal choosing...

You feel it on the air sometimes

just how the world gets with it's hoarding...

Will we approach this march of dimes,

or die beneath boarded up planks?...

I'm not sure which will be our fate,

I just know that I feel a pulse,

and there is something new and sure

emerging from the dewy blades...

Sometimes my words roll out in waves

like grass that's kissed by wind from cranes

who rise up on a sheet of wind...

Rhymes come to bless me on a whim...

I feel the sickly sweet descent

of falling leaves where blow-hards puff

themselves into a royal knot...

Their eyes bulge wide where horses trot,

and bandits of the world press on,

while those in blind-folds pay the price...

I know that life continues off

the map that some deluded prince

dreamed up to keep a good man down...

Gets hard to flail or move around...

...But maybe in this time of trials

where famine reigns, and truth gets filed

under the guise of worn out shoes

we'll find lost life midst shades of blue.

©

9/4/21

Bunny Villaire

All you need is

one ray of light

to help you see

more clearly.

All you need is

one smile from a stranger

to help you walk

more lightly.

All you need

is the laugh from one baby

to put a smile

on your face.

All you need

is one cheer from a friend

to help you

finish the race.

All you need is

one cup of coffee

to help you

through your day.

So look out for that thing,

that one small thing

and you’ll always be okay.

The Chosen People

It was called General Order 11 and it was the instruction for expulsion of all Jews in military districts during a war—but it wasn’t World War II and the person who issued the order wasn’t Hitler. It was then Major General Ulysses S. Grant and the order was issued in December 17 1862 during the Civil War. Grant was convinced that “mostly Jews and other unprincipled traders” were controlling the black market trade in Southern cotton in Tennessee, and Kentucky.

President Lincoln revoked the order a few weeks later following an outcry of protest from Jewish community leaders as well as the press and Congress. Grant later shifted the blame to a subordinate, claiming he had written the order and that Grant had just added his signature without reading the document.

On A Side Note: Lincoln had five brother-in-law’s who fought for the Confederacy. Four were all brothers of Mary Todd Lincoln: David, George, Samuel, Alexander (both Alexander and Samuel were killed during battle).. The fifth one (brother-in-law), who married Emile Todd, named Benjamin Hardin.

The brilliance of a dawning day

trilled by wild birds in everyway,

gives people wings, and

makes us fly...

Beyond vibrations of reality

the fairies that we feel inside

flourish here

within their fragile beauty...

Tiny wings that one can

barely aim to hear

build up their unimagined speed

and elevate our frigid hearts...

They make us light in

thought and mind!...

God bless them for their charity

within our daily discourse...

Outside the sun pours

down through trees...

At second glance, a pool of dreams

reflects me and another race...

I blink again, and they are gone...

How quickly doth perception shift!...

Each man and woman has its' pair,

who dances in the darkest realm...

Our fairie selves so out of reach, though

we weave spirits in our dreams...

To tap them deep, we must explore

the well cloaked secrets we ignore...

I curse the confines of our lives,

the steel, and concrete closing in...

My back against the wall, I sweat,

until a tiny voice reminds

that life should always be adored,

then I am loosened from my bind...

I hear a swell of music spring

out from the brook

beside my feet...

The Guides by deepest wisdom led

me to a blissful, unfound place

of wellness and renewal.

©

6/29/21

Bunny Villaire