An
evening with Darien Fawkes…the poor man.
Just wanted to get in his head; it's been a while since I did that. ;-)
Disclaimers: Don't own
characters, make no money off story, intend no copyright infringement. There is absolutely no point in suing; every
penny I have goes toward my college education and the sci-fi convention I'm
going to in November. *smirk*
Silences
I vividly remember the first time I
was in a car accident. I was eighteen,
driving one night for the hell of it and probably to get away from home, when I
crossed another street on a yellow light.
I think I was changing the radio station, trying to find a good
song. And all of a sudden there's a whoomp from the passenger side, the
steering wheel's out of my hands, I'm yelling, the car's spinning
uncontrollably...and then it's over.
The radio's still playing, unconcerned by what had just occurred, while
everything else is covered in this layer of shaken silence. It's the same silence you hear after a bomb
goes off, after your girlfriend screams out something terrible and irreversible
in a fight, after you see yourself turn invisible for the first time.
The car was a wreck. I wasn't much better emotionally, though
physically I was remarkably free from injury.
So was the other guy, a couple years older than me and just slightly
drunk. He sobered up fast. A fire truck showed up, and an ambulance and
about five million police cars, lights flashing everywhere and blinding me in
the darkness. And all I could think
was, "I did this. I caused all
this." My hands were shaking. My chest was killing me where the seatbelt
had grabbed and pulled at me. I wanted
to sit down and cry--but of course I didn't.
I wasn't a wuss. Besides which,
I had the panicked feeling that if I did
cry, I wouldn't ever be able to stop.
I declined going in the ambulance,
calling my brother to bail me out instead.
He insisted on taking me to the hospital, waiting impatiently while they
took X-rays and gave me painkillers and strict instructions for a follow-up
visit. He lectured me the whole drive
home too, telling me how stupid I was, while I just sat there in shaken
silence. But he didn't say anything to
our aunt and uncle till after I was ready to tell them what had happened.
Lately I've been feeling like my
whole life's a succession of car crashes.
Spinning out of control. My
fault. Afraid of letting any emotion go
in case I can't stop. The silence that
comes after a violent experience.
I toss my keys onto the counter,
closing the front door behind me with my foot.
I hadn't bothered checking my mail; I can pick it up before work in the
morning. I'm tired. Bobby, Alex, and I just wrapped up a case
this evening, nothing spectacular, for once no one getting hurt. They'd been joking around before I left the
Agency, insulting each other in that uncomfortable way that sometimes left me
wondering if they were joking or not.
They were gonna see if Claire wanted to go to dinner with them. I had declined the invitation. I was tired.
And now all I want to do is get in
the shower. I have a headache, temples
pounding dully in time with my heartbeat.
The kind of headache that leaves you moving carefully, as if you're made
of the most delicate glass, and the slightest thing--too loud a sound, too
harsh a touch--can make you shatter.
The kind of headache that makes you nauseous, the pain somehow traveling
all the way from the top of your head to the pit of your stomach. Seasickness and airsickness combined. Thinking, moving, simply living, becomes a
chore.
I fumble with the buttons on my
shirt, the little disks catching at my fingers and refusing to cooperate. I slip off my shoes, socks, and pants much
more easily, but still with that deliberate slowness, still afraid I will
break.
The hot water on my face and chest,
running down my legs, feels good, warm and safe and soothing. I lather soap into my hands, trying not to
breathe in the cloying scent I usually like in case I upset the precarious
control I have over my stomach. I'd
kept the lights off in my bathroom. I
find it helps with my really bad
headaches. I lean against the wall, too
exhausted to stand on my own, ready to slide down to the bottom of the shower
and fall asleep right there.
But I force myself to turn the water
off and step out of the stall, shivering in the sudden cold from the other side
of the curtain, goose bumps popping up out of nowhere. Still I can't be bothered to hurry as I pull
on a comfortable pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a nonmatching top. The most comforting clothes I have. I feel better wearing them, like a little
kid, as I pad out of the bathroom barefoot.
Food still isn't appealing. The lights are off in my apartment as well;
I hadn't felt any particular need to turn them on when I came in and I still
don't now. I lie down on the bed in the
soothing darkness and wait to fall asleep, to ease the horrible ache in my
head. But sleep eludes me. Physically I'm drained; mentally my brain
refuses to let go, trudging on mindlessly like a foot soldier ordered to keep
marching. My thoughts turn where they
always go whenever I have a spare moment to think.
Sometimes I feel like a child when I
use the quicksilver gland. When I'm
invisible. I feel perversely safe. If I
hide, they won't find me. And I can
stay hidden where no one will ever see me.
I can eavesdrop too, on the grown-ups' conversations, like the
too-serious kid that creeps about unseen and unnoticed but hears everything
said about him. It's like I'm disconnected
from the entire world when I'm quicksilvered, as if nothing out there can hurt
me anymore 'cos I'm on a different level or something. The gland gives me a curious feeling of
childish invulnerability. It's almost comforting
in that way. Until I get hurt anyway.
Of course, the gland also isolates
me. A wall of silence seems to surround
me whenever I'm quicksilvered, like I'm living one of those old silent black
and white movies that aren't really black and white. The silence is a barrier I can't cross, adding to my
disconnected-from-the-whole-world feeling--even if it's Bobby, or Claire, I
still can't reach across the silence, the quicksilver colorless vision, the
invisibility. I wonder if that wall of
silence was always there separating me from everyone else and I just never
noticed it, or if the quicksilver gland has created a new barrier for me.
The headache pulses, sometimes
fading out completely, only to come back stronger, more insistent, more
painful. If I lie perfectly still on
the covers of my bed and keep my eyes lightly closed against the darkness of
the room it hurts less. The silence in
the room is soothing, covering me like a blanket, warm and reassuring. I wish I were
a little kid again, home sick from school, so my mother could tuck me in, brush
my hair away from my forehead, sit by my side until I fall asleep. But I've been taking care of myself for
years, and she's been gone even longer.
I think that if I can just stop
thinking, my head will stop hurting.
But still my thoughts march on, almost orderly for once, not the usual
leap, spin, and bound that I'm used to.
Simple, stupid thoughts--mundane.
The thoughts are comforting in their triviality, just as comforting as
the soft pair of pajamas, the silence of the apartment. I've grown used to the silence in my life
and I'll take whatever comfort I can get.
At last I fall asleep, dreaming about the silence that comes after a car
crash, spinning out of control and unable to stop it.
