Insomnia as Collateral Damage

Muna awoke with a feeling that there was something she should be doing. It was dark. The sliver of a moon high in the sky indicated the late hour.

The nightmares. They would have started by now. She would have woken to comfort the fretful man by her side. Muna, who had always lived and slept alone had learned to sleep in someone's arms because it was the only way he could sleep after a certain hour.

It had only been a few weeks since he'd left and Muna could still conjure her James vividly. Craggy face, blue eyes, close cropped blond hair, strong arms and body that nonetheless betrayed everything his face did not; passion, terror, the pain he had been through, whatever that was. There was more truth in his arms than his eyes. Even that last night, there was something in the way he'd held her that told her he was leaving, even if he'd never said it. Muna could still feel the slight scar on her bottom lip where she'd bitten down to keep from crying. Alone in her bed, there was no reason not to. No one to help through the night, no one to be strong for. So Muna cried and gave into memories.

XXXXX

Some fishermen had found him washed up on the beach. Muna happened across the group as they were carrying him to shore.

His soaked clothes were reduced to rags and despite the warm day he shivered. His breathing was rough, coming out in chokes and gasps. What was left of his shirt was drenched in as much blood as water.

"Bring him to my home." She told the fishermen. "It's close. We can send for a doctor."

They agreed and started up the path.

XXXXX

Muna held the stranger's head as he turned on his side and vomited a mixture of sea water, bile and blood into the basin beside him. When he was done, she gave him some bottled water to rinse his mouth and pressed a cool rag against his forehead. He ran a fever of 103.2.

The doctor had extracted a bullet from his shoulder, bound the wound, left penicillin to fight the infection and a thermometer so that Muna could monitor his temperature.

Anyone who had seen their local hospital would understand why home care and house calls were preferred. At least Muna's bathtub had a working drain where she could reliably dump the basin.

When she returned from doing so, the stranger's eyes were open; clear blue and a little unfocused from the fever.

"I'd ask," his voice sounded weak and raspy, "If this was heaven and you an angel... but I'm in far too much pain to be dead." His face paled further and he sucked in a sharp breath.

Muna was back at his side. She freshened the damp cloth and massaged his brow through the damp fabric. "Take it easy. You're very sick. You need to rest...uh..."

"Bond... James Bond."

"James then."

"And you?"

"Muna."

Just then, he groaned and turned over on his side again. Muna once again held his head as he brought up more sea water.

"Sorry." he muttered when he could speak again. "You and your name are lovely and that was not the appropriate response."

Muna smiled a little in spite of herself. "It's all right."

XXXXXX

It had taken about a week for James to recover fully, at least to Muna's liking; i.e. wound healed, fever gone and ability to hold down solid food re-established. James had a slightly more lax definition of "recovered" that entailed being able to hobble around most of her shack unaided.

Unsurprisingly, the doctor had sided with Muna's definition.

After that, he stayed with her for the better part of a year, got to know the locals. He impressed them by taking part in their silly little scorpion-shot ritual.

"And in any case," he'd remarked, drawing Muna to his chest as they lay in bed, "If the worst had happened, I'd wager you could have sucked the poison out."

She'd laughed silently, shaking her head.

XXXXX

And then he was gone. There had been a report on the news about some attacks in England. James was English and he'd felt the pull of home at their distress. Muna could understand that. She wasn't sure if it helped or hurt the worse to feel his reluctance to leave that final night. On the one hand, it was nice to feel that she'd actually meant something to him, that she hadn't been just a convenient port. On the other hand, it made her wish he would stay so she could keep meaning something to him. Also, she thought on the nightmares. Were they to do with England? What was he returning to? Did someone love him there as she did? Again, she wasn't sure if she'd be glad or sorry if there was someone who did.

Not that it mattered anymore. He had come into her life. He had been a part of it. And then he was gone.

That news report had used a phrase, "collateral damage." She had asked James what that meant.

"It means people who get hurt that the perpetrator didn't intend." He'd said this with more than a hint of scorn. "It's a lovely little bit of euphemistic language."

Muna felt there was something of collateral damage in her current insomnia.