walking on eggshells and ash

I am made of things,

things that are constantly breaking

― Jenim Dibie

He puts a hand gently on my back, careful not to cause me more pain, and guides me out of the room and the wreckage left behind. We're silent for a long while, none of us really sure what to say or how to act. Finally, as we head out into the hallway, the heavy door closing behind us, he decides to speak.

I will report the damages and the break-in in a little while. For now, come on, let's go clean those cuts. At least we are already in a hospital, so that shouldn't be a problem. I don't even know how everyone else managed to overlook the racket that went on downstairs but then again, stranger things happen in life, right?

He rubs his face, looking exhausted, consternation coloring his features, probably already visualizing the mayhem that will follow after he breaks the news to the security staff - and in consequence, the police. He could keep it to himself for now and let someone else find the disaster area, but I know he's not that kind of a person; no matter the situation, he would always do the best thing possible, whatever the circumstances. I nod slowly in response to his words, still feeling a bit out of it after everything that happened, resembling a damaged machine or a radio that someone played for too long, leaving just static behind - just a lot of white noise everywhere.

Letting him touch me and walk me upstairs was a struggle, taking all my willpower not to flinch under it. It wasn't that I found it repulsive or putting off after what occurred between us - no, that had nothing to do with it. But every time I felt his hand on my body, I heard the white noise stretching and twisting, turning me into a bunch of unsteady, grey lines and out-of-tune magnetic waves that tried to find the right station but failed miserably every time. Whenever he touched me, it felt like his fingers might take out the wrong little piece from the wooden tower, build out of my worn-out structure, causing it to fall apart. I felt fragile, not made from skin, muscle, or bone, but from thick bruises painted on the ruins of something that once was a home. My walls were broken, windows shattered, and I had no doors to protect me, not a single room to hide in. And Charlie was a breeze, a potential storm; just one wrong gust of wind, and it felt that I would become merely the sand between his open fingers.

I shiver and shake my head, hoping it will stay in place, staring at the ground and following the lines and patterns of the linoleum floor as he gets the necessary medical supplies from a storage area. We later sit close to each other in a small, currently empty office, my hands resting on his knees so he can take care of the injuries properly. It feels intimate somehow, private. I try not to think about it and instead; concentrate on the pulsating wounds spread against my skin like some abstract form of art. But then I sense his stare on me and look up automatically, noticing the irritation he tries to hide, his face seeming hidden in the shadows created by the lamp behind him. It's a strange and surreal feeling, but his agitated state reflects in me like a mirror and becomes that of my own, something safe and mundane to focus on, something that brings me above the surface of the water and lets me stay there.

What were you doing here in the first place?

He asks in a low, almost harsh voice, and for the first time, I straighten my back, raising my chin in a challenging way.

I was visiting newborns. What do you think I was doing here? The pain got worse, and I needed your help. Simple.

My attitude doesn't faze him, but something in him grows sharper, colder.

What about the basement, Eleonore?

My bravado falters just a fraction, and I can tell that he notices it. I don't respond, and he sighs.

But I guess we will circle back to that later as well.

He takes a deep breath and gazes at me for a moment like he's trying to scan my entire network system and understand how the wiring works. Good luck with that - I think and don't look away, building up strength for whatever he might say next.

You didn't call that you were coming.

It was implied.

Not well enough.

I can sense tiny embers moving under my skin, and I take the subtle heat with relief, finally something to warm my cold bones.

Charlie, is this the first day that we met? How many times did I actually warn you I was

going to come, and pay you a courtesy visit? Not. That. Many.

I throw my hands up in desperation, groaning, irritated as the skin around the cuts opens wider - allowing the dirt and rust to move deeper under the fractured tissue. I mumble some nasty things in response to the unwanted pain and put my hands down, back on his lap, too tired to focus on my non-existing polite side that I just had less and less these days. I look up at him as he disinfects the scrapes and cuts on my hands and suck air through my teeth as it stings like freaking hell. He doesn't react in any way and wraps my hands up in bandages where it's most needed, giving me some space so I can still move my fingers around. I stare at his focused yet strained expression and manage to bite my tongue at the last moment. He saved my life, sparring me just inches from death. We both knew I was so close to giving up, finally too worn out by the things that were constantly ripping me apart. A piece of faded material can only take so much. I gaze at him and shake my head. I think it would forever remain a mystery to me how he was somehow always able to sew my threads back together - mending me when everyone else in his place would just throw the old fabric into the trash. He finishes, and I carefully move my fingers. The skin still stings, feeling pulled and stretched out, hands seeming more fragile than usual, but beyond that, they appear to be more or less functional. Mmm, what was the physical damage, in comparison to everything that was fucked up on the inside anyway?

At least you didn't break anything.

His tone is unexpectedly soft, and I find myself blinking without control, feeling things in me start to crumble like pieces of dry cement. The sensation is so powerful that I nearly see the white dust covering the clean floor beneath my feet, coating everything in sight.

I'm so sorry.

I say quietly, shutting my eyes tightly, guilt spreading in my veins like an infection.

For what, for no open break? Because I can assure you it would not have been pretty.

I look up at him, and somehow he smiles despite the mood in the room. I shake my head slowly.

Just, in general. I will send you a list, and you can pick something out yourself.

Very entertaining.

Not particularly.

I can feel his gaze on me again but avoid it this time; I know what's coming next.

Nora, I...

I don't want to talk about it.

I blurt out of habit before I can think, and he sighs. I watch as he gets up and starts to walk around the room in circles. I feel nausea returning and close my eyes, slowly counting to ten, so I won't snap at him again, grabbing the sides of the metal chair and pressing my fingers into it until the pain distracts me. I had no control over my actions anymore and was terrified of saying something I wouldn't be able to take back. After a moment, when my stomach stops doing Olympic somersaults, I look up, and my eyes widen in surprise, even my exhausted state fading into the background. I watch as he stands about 6 feet away from me, his forehead against the wall, the palm of his hands low, and tapping against the thick surface, back moving in a rushed rhythm as his lungs rise and fall. My eyebrows furrow, forehead creasing. He's angry. I never saw him angry. Well, upset, sure, a bit judgemental at times, and disbelieving my truths for a good reason. Yes, that I was familiar with, but not anger. The raw form of it.

I stand up quietly and walk up to him, putting a hand on his left shoulder and squeeze it; he doesn't shift and look at me, just keeps tapping on the wall as if I wasn't there. My hand slips down gently until it reaches his, fingers intertwining and wrapping tightly around his warm skin. I press it so tightly that I can feel his pulse; it's rushed, chaotic. He doesn't say anything. I turn him around slowly, so I can see his face, but he keeps looking down. I lift my hand and put it on his chest, fingers gently stroking the material of his shirt, waiting patiently until he calms down. He finally breaks out of his haze and looks up at me. I can't read anything from his face - there's too much going on there, too many things, that I fear touching.

Nora, who was that man?

Charlie.

No, stop. He could have killed you... or just let you die, whichever came first. You need to warn me about people like that. What if I was too late? What if I didn't make it in time?

I gaze at him, confused for a moment, the gears in my brain turning very slowly and unwillingly, refusing to push through any additional effort today. But ultimately, the information breaks through. He wasn't angry because of me, the trouble I got him into, or the mayhem that my presence in his life caused; he was furious because he felt helpless and unable to help and protect me when needed, feeling weak against the things he could not control. Well, I guess they both got to experience that unsettling feeling.

Well?! Why won't you answer me? God dammit, Nora!

His voice breaks slightly at the end, and my heart shrinks under the ache and softness that attacks me without mercy, ready to explode if I take even the slightest breath. I feel him. I feel every little pained part of him growing and expanding in my cells. It's so much to experience at once. I blink away the tears that are on their way and hold onto his hand tighter, feeling his pulse exhilarate under my skin, giving me sudden strength to find peace inside of me, to find peace for him. I tap my hand against his chest to the rhythm of his heartbeats, closing my eyes and listening to the music trapped there - it's a melody that unexpectedly invites me more than I could ever anticipate. A smile creeps to my lips as I tilt my head slightly, creating a song I know I could listen to on repeat for days or weeks, and it still wouldn't get old.

This throws him off, and I sense that he is slowly relaxing.

What are you doing?

It's just something my mother did when I was little and couldn't calm down.

He stares at me for a moment.

You don't talk much about your mother or your parents, for that matter.

I told you why before. We have complicated relations since her daughter has the talent to wrack lives, but I love her. I love them both. That one thing hasn't changed. Are you feeling a bit better now? I hope you are.

I don't know. This whole thing has set me off. When I found you and saw you lying there on the ground and screaming, I thought I would lose you.

Well, you didn't. I'm still here and will irritate you as long as you let me. But I think that wasn't the only reason you got angry.

I challenge him, standing on very shaky territory; he sighs again and steps away, seeming awkward and distant now. I want to say something, but I'm just not sure what it should be. He crosses his arms and turns his head towards me as if defending him from an invisible threat could jeopardize something extremely important and worth everything. Our friendship.

I had no other choice, I had to save you. And I had this feeling that it would work. I don't know why, but I did. I'm sorry. But you have to know one thing. If I had to do it all over again to save you, I would. No hesitation.

I stare at him and his expression, the entire body language, and feel my chest tighten at the sight. How many times could a heart break? Sometimes, it can break from the beginning, each and every day. It's limitless in its power to crumble, and somehow it keeps on beating just the same. I feel my eyes start to sting, but for the very first time, I don't stop the tears for fear that someone might see. I let him see all of me.

Charlie, I'm not mad or upset about that. Once again, you saved me. How could I feel even one negative feeling towards you? And let's face it, I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for you. It's okay, I promise. I do.

My voice is so soft that it feels like silk that I would like to wrap myself in. I'm surprised that I can be so tender, but at the same time, I'm not surprised at all that I can be so soft towards him. Not anymore.

Is this that scene in a movie, when you make a standing ovation speech and then disappear out of my life?

My cheeks are still wet from the tears, but somehow a shaky laugh bursts out of me as if sunlight, breaking through dark, turbulent clouds. It was a shock that I could master up a smile after this day, but that was the effect he always had on me in the end - a sensation of the sun coming through the clouds, even on the darkest days. He tilts his head, gazing at me with soft eyes, and lifts his hand, gently rubbing away some of my tears with his thumb. His touch is such a relief that I automatically lean into it.

Nurse Evans, was that sense of humor slipping from under those pretty pastel scrubs? Well, may the heavens have mercy on me.

He smiles but then grows serious again, concern still visible in his stare.

Are you sure that you are okay with it? Won't this mess everything up between us? With everything that you have been through? After everything that you have lost?

No. Nothing can.

You can't be sure of that.

I don't say anything in response but come closer, wrapping my arms around his waist and putting my head to his chest. I hold him until I feel him gradually relax as the warmth of our bodies blends together, each of us softly soothing something else in the other. Then after a while, I step aside, stand on my toes, and kiss his cheek, letting my hand lift and trace the side of his face with attentiveness. A little glimpse of heaven, for the damned tortured souls - I think and force myself to snap out of it, something in my gut telling me that if I let myself sink into this moment for too long, I might never want to come back for air. It's a very disturbing thought. I take a deep breath, smile at him, and squeeze his shoulder just before I head for the door.

Come on. I need to get out of this hospital. Oh, and by the way. Great 'saving' technique. I would say you are close to a black belt at it. Both professional and enjoyable.

I glance back, not being able to stop myself, watching his face turn into a faint shade of crimson. My smile turns dark and I relax as well, the easy, familiar banter between us giving me the strength to go through another day with my head held up. There was something about him, something powerful enough to remind me of the person I once was. He gave me the courage to find her once more and rebuild her into someone that could stand on their own. I was so grateful for his help but was also all too aware I had to find my own light and my own strength. And that meant forgiving myself. It meant confessing my sins instead of hiding from them.

Alright, Mister Evans. I don't have all day here. I need my support system to follow me, and guide me through my miserable existence.

I walk out and head for the elevators, feeling his disapproving stare on my back.

You do realize that we still need to talk about that man in the basement and how you know him in the first place? I won't let you run away from it. Not this time.

I hear the sternness in his voice, the power behind the words, and nod calmly in agreement, knowing I no longer wanted to run. It was a strange yet oddly liberating feeling.

Yes, but not now. I'm afraid I'm currently out of order.

I walk in into the special double-door elevator, stumbling a bit, and he follows, the shiny metal closing behind us. I needed some alone space to process what happened today. Though in truth, there was never enough time to adjust to the constant turmoils of my life. Always spinning, always gliding just inches below the water, hoping for a little more air. Just enough to survive. I think about the broken pipes around me, the blood on the floor, the never-ending pain, and Jeremiah's words. I close my eyes, and other things play out as well. The memory of Charlie's lips on mine invading me, those arms wrapped so tightly around my waist, my wounds, his light spreading through my cells and replacing everything else, pushing away the darkness and letting new things in. My brain had a difficult time - simultaneously processing how to move my limbs and coordinate the feelings that shifted endlessly, moving from an overwhelmed state to complete utter numbness. My life was getting more complicated with each passing day, and decoding it became a real struggle. I felt like I was continuously spiraling down a rabbit hole, with only tiny glimpses of the perfect blue sky in the distance.

Let me take you home then.

I break away from all the buzzing thoughts and nod while he wraps his arm around my waist gently and letting me sink into his familiar embrace. His scrubs making comforting sounds as I close my eyes again, the elevator gradually moving up into something that spoke of a little more mundane. The monsters, for now, left seven or eight floors below.

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

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Previous chapters :

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49. https://theprose.com/post/496088/developing-some-truths

50. https://theprose.com/post/513634/slow-burn

51. https://theprose.com/post/514578/a-little-game-of-hide-and-seek