after the trip

My sleep wasn’t peaceful, though.

I have the sense of emerging from a world of dark,

haunted places where I traveled alone.

― Suzanne Collins, Mockingjay

I hear knocking on the door and moan when it doesn’t stop, vibrating through the walls in repeated acts of torment. Groaning, I sit up with effort and rub my face for a moment, trying to remember in what universe I am in right now. The answer wasn’t clear. Sighing, I blow my nose in a piece of tissue that I find lying around next to me, and instantly I am rewarded with a deep pulsating throbbing under the skull. And for the first time in a long while, I know it’s not from the noises in my head.

There is pain between my eyebrows and in the center of the forehead. It’s been a long restless night, and the pain comes from crying through most of that time. Well, that plus finding my secret stash of bourbon, or from what was left of it. Half of a bottle went in smoothly. However, the effects of drinking were very far from smooth. The word torture comes to mind along with others, such as a neuro system annihilation or recreational limb tearing after church. Slowly, I exhale and stretch my neck a bit, moving the head to the sides, testing it, and praying that it will stay on its hinges.

I haven’t drunk in a while, knowing it would only worsen my state, It always did. As if alcohol was the gasoline for the sparks inside of me. Like a ticking bomb, just waiting to be ignited. Not that it wasn’t doing great on its own. Oh yes, it was sure as hell doing perfect on its own. I close my eyes for a moment and sigh silently. Yet it was the only way I could find to dim the pain inside, the one centered in my aching heart and not the one under the roughly pulsating skull. I didn’t even notice that ache. Mmm, not this time around anyway. Maybe the voices in my head decided that this burden was enough for now, and they just enjoyed the show instead.

Shakily, I stand up from the couch, feet shuffling slowly against the floor. I move reluctantly to the door and look through the peephole. Of course, who else, ladies and gentlemen. I stare at his dark expression but open the door anyway. Even if the less welcoming part of my nature, wonders if I could just pretend that he wasn’t there. And instead of opening the door, go to the kitchen, put my head in the sink, pour cold water over it, and then die. I groan again and finally turn the locks and step aside, preparing myself for a possible explosion and a prolonged list of complaints.

He storms in and leaves his work bag on the kitchen counter, and turns around towards me, sternness pretty much radiating from under his skin, something sparking in those usually kind eyes. He opens his mouth to start a whole lecture -if I knew him right, and I know that I did- but then stops abruptly. He stares at me, taking in every detail slowly. First, the puffy eyes, then probably the grey complexion, and finally the tangled up haystack on my head. Yes, I was a vision for the sore eyes. I watch as his eyes leave me for a moment and gaze around the living room, slowly focusing on the mess left on the couch. Mangled clothes and sheets, laying everywhere. The empty bottle of bourbon on the floor next to it, a crumpled pack of chips placed almost artistically on the coffee table, a not yet open box of Oreos keeping it company. I frown a bit. Mmm, I probably passed out before I even opened them.

I stare back at him. He looks at all of this, and his gaze lowers, eyes sticking absentmindedly to my bare legs. I was only wearing an old, worn-out black sweater that reached my mid-thighs and a thin top underneath. Honestly, I didn’t even care. All I knew was that I needed water, and I needed it now. I pass him and open the fridge. Ugh, nothing useful. I walk up to the cupboard and get a glass from it, pouring the water. It sounds like a bad boys-band in my head or a merry-go-round on crack. Loud and annoying. I drink the water and wonder again, is it too late to put my head under the tap.

A hard night?

He walks up to me, leans against the cupboards, and crosses his arms. I stare at him as I drink another glass of water. My mind starts to clear up, but it is no way close to normality - whatever that means these days. I slowly breathe in, trying to calm down the waves of nausea that were hitting me one by one since the moment I shifted my body remains into a sitting position.

You have no idea.

I might have a clue. Mmm, aren’t you cold in that?

He points to my legs, and it’s as if the first time that I notice that I don’t have any pants on - a low sigh. Somehow, finding a pair of jeans or sweatpants proved to be too much for me at the moment.

In a minute, I need to take a shower first. You wait and make yourself comfortable.

He gives me a funny look and stares at my messy place. I frown as he gazes at everything as if he’s thinking intensely about something. I curse under my breath and head for the bathroom. My voice is very audible when I shout out, a lingering threat in my voice.

Don’t clean anything.

There is no response, but I know that he is making faces at me. I shake my head. Being friends with Mr. Cleaner was not an easy relationship to handle. I take off the few pieces of clothing that are on me and walk into the shower cabin. Moving the faucet to the left for hot water and secretly beg for it to be actually there. An ice-cold stream rushes over me, and I scream out, tapping my feet against the titles and moving my arms in the air. I must look like a complete moron, but I don’t care much. After a while, the temperature rises, and my body gradually relaxes, an urgent tap on the door bringing me out of my little state of relief and bliss.

You okay in there?

Yeah, fine. The water was shit cold, that’s all.

I hear low footsteps moving away from the door and rustling noises in the kitchen; he’s probably making tea. I pour the water again and feel it getting hot. Yes. That’s what I needed, the only thing to help me survive this day. I stand in the shower and let the water wash over me. I don’t move until it starts to burn me. That feels so good. I lower the temperature a bit and put my head against the cold tiles, the contrast of hot and cold calming me down and soothing the senses. After what seems like forever, I bring myself back to life, feeling a bit better. I even wash my hair.

Later I walk out of the bathroom. A medium-size towel wrapped around my body and a different one shifted into a loose turban on my head. I walk into my tiny bedroom and let the towel drop, and look around for some clothes. Thankfully there is always some lying on the bed. I quickly put on a pair of purple sweatpants and a black t-shirt on top, dry my hair with a towel and pull on a thick grey blouse with a hood. And then walk into the living room and try not to moan.

As usual, he cleaned. Nothing is lying on the couch, the covers folded and put on a chair next to an oversized desk. He cleared the coffee table and got rid of the empty bottle from the floor, and I was sure that if I had a working vacuum cleaner, he would have used it too. I gaze at two cups standing proudly on the table and the steam coming from them and tilt my head to the side. I see him stepping out of my room now, with the towels. He leaves them in the bathroom and movies some things around, probably organizing and putting them in place. I close my eyes and count to ten slowly. Then I sit on the couch and drink the tea. Mmm, good. Strong and sweet. Perfect for a hangover.

I thought I told you not to clean.

And I thought you knew that I stopped listening to you ages ago. You don’t know what’s good for you.

He smiles calmly at me and heads to the kitchen then he starts to wash the dishes. I moan and lay down, face deep in the pillows, eyelids that feel heave like lead, closing as I listen to the water running in a steady rhythm, the sounds calming me down. And before I even notice, I drift off to sleep, not being able to resist, body sinking deep into the sofa.

_____

You were snoring.

I open my eyes with protest, only half awake, and frown. Slowly, I blink away the blurriness, letting his face and the room grow into focus.

Mmm, I don’t snore. I breathe loudly.

Of course. It was like listening to the sweet music of violins in an opera.

Yeah? Well, you’re pushy and have no boundaries.

I groan and stretch, my joints popping.

In that case, I am glad that you still manage to tolerate me.

Oh, shut up.

He sits next to me, and even with how shitty I feel, I still manage to notice the circles under his eyes, suddenly guilt spreading with more intensity than the hangover still pumping viciously in my veins. He must have come here straight from work, to me. He could have just went home and finally rest - yet he chose to come here. I feel my body deflating a bit, from things and emotions I can’t even name.

Long shift?

Yeah, you could say that.

He moves his hands against his tired face and ruffles fingers through tangled hair - and I wonder silently, how soft they are today.

You should have taken a nap too. The bed is empty anyway.

I considered it but instead did some work.

Hopefully, not with cleaning the whole building from top to bottom?

He looks at me, giving me a small smile.

No, just some paperwork. I needed to get it done anyway. So it might as well be now.

Charlie?

Yeah?

He asks, a bit distracted, and I tilt my head slightly.

Sorry about yesterday.

I hear him sigh.

What was that even about? Did I do something to you in my past life to deserve a bounty hunter in the form of Susan Cormeum, to be unleashed upon me?

Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.

Yes, because I can run fast, and she has many other preys around the hospital area.

Sorry. I guess I just didn’t want you to fall into your question asking ritual.

My what?

You know, putting out a million and one inquiries until you are satisfied with the answer, which you hardly ever are, by the way.

He frowns at me.

I don’t do that.

Are you sure about that?

Now it’s his time to sigh.

Maybe. Just please, Nora, don’t send the queen bee on me again.

Deal.

So, is that why you blew me off? To drink freely, all day and night, without any interruptions?

No, definitely not.

Then why?

I just needed to be somewhere.

He looks surprised by my words. He doesn’t seem to be convinced as if all I had were these four walls and him. I think sometimes he forgets I do actually possess some social bones in my sarcastic form. Well, I do know people anyway, and some actually even enjoy sharing the same breathing area.

I am telling the truth, Charlie. I had to be at a certain place, and it was important to me. A lot. Alright?

My tone is getting a bit defensive, but I try to hide it.

Where did you go?

He asks quietly, somehow sensing the emotions I fail to hide.

I can’t tell you, and not because it’s a lie.

My voice turns softer.

I promise.

And will you... tell me about it one day?

I stare at the worried expression and the weariness on his face. Thinking of all the wonderful and kind things that he did for me and how much I really owed him. It’s the millionth time I think about it, and the debt is growing more and more with every passing day.

Yes, I will. Someday.

He hears the sincerity and openness in my voice and finally allows himself to believe.

Alright, okay.

I nod my head and smile.

Now lay down.

What?

He asks, surprised, eyebrows almost meeting in one line.

I’m going to turn on the TV, watch some senseless mind goo, and you will lie down.

I stand up, take a pillow from the chair, and plump down on the sofa again, putting the pillow on my lap and pointing to it while shifting to the edge of the furniture to fit his tall frame.

Come on, no reason in resisting. I will get it my way, anyway. So just do it.

He hesitantly changes his position and lays his head on my thighs, sighing but closing his eyes.

That’s better. Now, a few ground rules. You may sleep and rest in my humble quarters, but don’t you dare snore or do some other none flattering sounds. Because if such a thing should occur, I will make sure to record it and send it to all the nurses, and your ratings will drop - just like that.

I snap my fingers dramatically and can sense him smiling without even needing to look down, feeling his body loosen next to mine. Relaxing as well, I skip through the channels until I find something more or less non-repellant and end up on a date with Doctor House. Perfect, finally, a guy just as messed up as yours truly. I grin and watch, the hammering under my skull finally subsiding a bit. Eventually, my head starts to feel heavy, and I drift off to sleep with him, a strange sense of being at the right place, of belonging, embracing me with surprising softness.

_____

Charlie

Confusion, that’s the first word that pops up in my mind. Slowly, I wake up and look around, disoriented, everything seeming to be covered in a thick layer of fog. For a brief moment, I don’t recognize the place that I am at, the growing darkness outside making things even worse. My eyes lower, and I squint, seeing a pink pillow lying on the floor. I frown. Pink? I shift a bit and notice what I am laying on, or should I say whom, my head on her lap and neck stiff from being too long in one position. I sit up, moving my head to the sides, and notice that she’s sleeping, face snuggled against the side of a couch, hair covering half of her face. I stare at her for a while, my mind moving in slow motion, no clear thought in sight. I think she senses me staring because soon she opens her eyes and gazes at me. Her expression empty for a second, but then her lips stretch into a smile.

Hey there, messy man.

She stretches and gives a long yawn, and I can’t help but do the same. Her soft sleepy smile widens even more, causing a sudden heatwave to splash over my face and making me shift in my seat. I shake my head to regain some focus. Then out of nowhere, she lifts her body and ruffles my hair as if I was some five-year-old. Immediately the spell is broken, and I groan annoyed.

Do you mind? I am a professional. You can’t handle me like that.

Well, you don’t look very professional in your current state. And as you know, I can do anything I want. Learn from your lessons, boy.

She heads for the kitchen, lights the gas on the stove, and puts the cattle on.

Tea, coffee, a neck massage?

No, I have to leave. Take a shower and prepare for work.

She lets go of the cattle and crosses her arms as if protecting herself from invisible danger.

Yeah, I guess it’s late... and I did sleep most of your visit. Thanks for coming over, though. I would have rotten on that couch until tomorrow if you didn’t show up.

Well, I did it for myself as well, planning to give you a lecture and some tips on how to behave as a relatively sane person in modern society. If you want to know more, check out my blog.

She smirks at me.

Find anything amusing?

Nothing, I just never realized that I could also see the future beyond my general powers. Somehow I knew you were coming over with an excruciating long lecture for me.

Eleonore. Emily. Walton.

I see her cringe at the sound of her full name.

...one day I am going to understand what you are about.

Yeah? Well, don’t hold your breath, nurse man.

She says, but her tone is light. She comes up at me and lifts her hands. I freeze for a moment as she puts fingers through my hair, tracing the skin and moving them around until her expression turns to that of satisfaction.

There, now you look more or less decent. You can go now.

I stare at her, puzzled for a moment but thankfully regain the ability to breathe and think logically. She stares back, looking like a child that has done wrong but is still happy with the result. I shake my head and leave her flat, a smile lingering on my face. I had a lot to do before work started and had no idea this was going to take almost an entire day. But in all honestly, I can’t say that it bothered me too much, and already, I could feel that I wanted more days like that with her, a lot more. Even if a part of me fought it, I knew.

_____

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

Previous chapters :

34. https://theprose.com/post/397121/knots-on-fragile-things

35. https://theprose.com/post/400741/dislocated-parts

36. https://theprose.com/post/404686/between-holding-on-and-letting-go