Cut me open
By the Unlucky-Charm
It kills me not to know this
But I've all but just forgotten,
What the color of his eyes were,
And his scars or how he got them.
-Rise Against
Since I've been a child, my life had been planned out for me. Where I was to study, the people I was to meet, what my job was going to be and even the woman with whom I was to spend my life with; it was all up and ready ,waiting only for my age to ripen so that they, those elements, could introduce themselves into my world.
When in school, the teachers would ask us what we wanted to be when we grew up and every other student in the classroom would shout out occupations such as businessman, police officer, teacher, etc. My answer had always been "I do not know".
And in case you're wondering; no it was not because I hadn't yet found a career that interested me, it was only because my mother and father were still arguing on whether or not I was more fit to be a doctor or a lawyer; two very typical parental choices. So, as a child, I wasn't sure of what to say. I had even approached a counsellor at the age of 14 about my predicament and as I was telling her my story, I could see in her expression that there was nothing she could do to help me. However, she did ask me what I, myself, wanted to become, but I never answered. I mean really, how could I ever tell her, me, a teenager, that I would fancy being a secret government spy.
In the end, my mother was the victor and I was off to medical school. There, I worked hard and now, at the age of 25, I'm working alongside the magnificent Dr. Tachejian. He was a friend of my father's and took me in for practice the second I graduated. I get paid an honest amount, even though I'm not supposed to. I don't think it's fair that I've gotten this far in my career compared to the other medical school graduates my age. As an adult, I knew full well that father had definitely pulled some strings to get me where I am today and that it wasn't the work of my 'exceptional talents'. Even though where I am isn't necessarily where I want to be, I guess I should be thankful.
Other than that, nothing special is taking place in my lonely life so far. My mornings have become a ritual, where I wake up, get dressed and take the bus from my parent's house to the hospital. Once at my destination, I pick up some coffee and join Dr. Tachejian.
In the beginning, my parents had insisted to arrange a car for me. I kindly refused, thinking it very inappropriate to arrive at a hospital in a chauffeur driven limousine. In my opinion, it would have been quite insulting, especially to the sick and suffering people inside the building. I mean, there they are, deprived from any luxury in their bedridden lives while I flaunted my wealth all over the hospital parking lot. Life had already been cruel to them, so why make them feel worse? Even around the patients, I avoided speaking about my personal life outside work and concentrate on other, more general, topics. Surprisingly, several of the doctor's patients spoke mostly of their past; their childhood. It amused me to hear some normal stories of normal boys living in normal towns. It was a comfort to hear that 'normal' things still did existed in this realm. I've been away from anything like that for such a long while, I have forgotten what it was like, not to mention I have fully forgotten all specific events from my OWN childhood. I had tried to concentrate and get some images to break through, but I hadn't even gotten close. Maybe there was something my brain didn't want me to see. Even so, nobody could blame me for being curious.
Caffeine in hand, I walked to the room where the doctor was. I took a sip of the bitter liquid and couldn't help but wrinkle my nose as I forced it down my throat. The beverage had never really appealed to me; I only drank it to stay awake. The only good coffee I've ever had in my life was from a far away place in the mountains. The images of that town were but a blur in my mind. And the memories: cold and painful. Unclear faces of unknown people danced around at the thought of those times, but only one surfaced and could be vividly seen. Who that person was? I could never recall.
"Good morning Gregory." My teacher greeted me when I entered the room.
"Good morning sir. How's she doing?" I asked, pushing the door shut with my back.
"I've improved!" The little girl in the bed answered instead. Her voice was a bit louder than it should be in a hospital, but I didn't have the heart to tell her that at the moment. Abby had been diagnosed with glomerulonephritis, which caused kidney inflammation, and was on the course of making a full recovery. The girl with the tiny brown pigtails sticking out of her head, grinned at me; a heart-warming smile with missing front teeth.
"You sure have Abby." I told her, smiling back.
"Do I get to go home soon?" She asked, looking very eager and excited about the idea. I thought how hard it might be to tell a child like her 'no'. It would crush her young soul and I knew I couldn't bear to see that disappointment. Luckily, in this case, the answer was a 'yes.'
"Your mother will come and pick you up on Friday." Dr. Tachejian explained, keeping his eyes low on the papers he held. The doctor managed to impress me once more with his straight face, like a doctor's should be.
"That's awesome Doc! You know, when I- AGH!"
Abby yelped in surprise and made a small jump in her bed, but she wasn't alone. The doctor and I were also startled at the sudden slamming of the door against the wall of the room, revealing behind it, a heavy breathing surgeon who's name I couldn't remember.
"Dr. Tachejian!" He heaved. "You're needed in the emergency room immediately!"
My teacher put down the papers and thanked the surgeon, but before leaving the room, he turned to me with a smile.
"Gregory, come with me. I'll be needing your assistance."
A sudden wave of anxiety hit me straight in the chest, but I didn't wait any longer and followed him into the hall. I was extremely thrilled about the doctor needing my help, but I couldn't stop myself from being so nervous about it. It was the emergency room, which meant that whatever it was, had to be done quickly, which also meant that I'd be working under pressure. The thought of 'pressure' made my stomach uneasy and for some reason, reminded me of coffee, but I could not decipher the link between those two very different things...
When we entered the emergency room, I pushed away all those thoughts when Dr. Brooks began to speak quickly. I listened in, not wanting to miss any important details. After all, it WAS my first time in the emergency room and I refused to mess it up. This was my chance to prove that I could actually handle this damn job.
"He was present at a shooting incident downtown and was brought over here immediately. The bullet is stuck in his thigh and I'm not qualified to perform the surgery." She explained.
Without even answering her, Dr. Tachejian put on his rubber gloves and began to examine the boy rapidly. He was a young male who was maybe a little older than I was, with thick brown hair and a very strong looking build. If he weren't shot in the leg and yelling in pain at the moment, he'd look very intimidating standing next to my thin body.
"Gregory." I heard the doctor say my name. "Inject him."
"What!" The young man hissed through clenched teeth. "What are you assholes injecting me with? Aren't you doctors? Just cut me open and take the thing out damneet!" He growled in a heavy French accent.
"This is going to help ease the pain." I explained to him and injected the pain killer shot into his wounded leg.
"What the fuck is that! Why can't I feel my leg!" He yelled.
Even in his state, the brunette on the operating table managed to grab onto my white coat and pull me to him. He looked straight at me with his dark brown, bloodshot eyes and held my gaze tightly, preventing me to look anywhere else. As I was forced to stare back and take in his characteristics, I came to one conclusion:
He was terrifying.
Absolutely everything about him was wild. His animal-like stare bore into me and I wasn't sure what to do, or say. I had even forgotten what his question was. His hair was all over the place and he looked tired; starting from the dark circle under his eyes, down to his fidgety movements. Even the noises he was making, the whimpers and the grunts, sounded like they were coming from a bear or a lion, but definitely not a human.
"I need to take out the bullet, so I needed your leg to be numb." Dr. Tachejian's voice cut through the silence I, myself, had caused in the room.
The man grunted and shut his eyes, looking a little more relaxed than he was a few seconds ago. But even in a more peaceful mode, his features were still roughly chiselled. I found myself staring at him rather than at the operation I was lucky enough to be present during. I could learn a lot from it, but even aware of that, I didn't take my eyes off the Frenchman. I was curious, to say the least, about everything concerning him. Where he came from, what he was doing at the scene today, how he got shot, and especially, his name. More than anything else, I needed a name.
Suddenly, his eyes flew open and began to snap left and right, looking at every corner of the room. His panicked expression confused me, notably when he began whispering something under his breath.
"What's the matter?" I asked, putting my hand on his muscular arm. "I suggest you stop moving."
I put more pressure on my hold on his arm, but it was no use because to be honest, the man WAS much stronger than me.
"Where's my shovel?" He said, but didn't look at me and instead kept looking all around the room.
"Your what?" I didn't think I heard him correctly.
"My shovel. Where is eet?" Okay, so I heard him right, but that didn't mean he was making any sense.
The more he came to realise that his...um, shovel was not in the room, the more he began to stir and loose control. It was ridiculous! He was being operated on! How could he move so carelessly!
I was almost certain this man had lost his mind. If I had heard him right, he was, in fact, looking for a shovel. I decided to ignore him, thinking it was a reaction to the shot, but then he started referring to it as a person.
"Where is he?" He growled again. I was beginning to think that maybe he wasn't growling; that his was voice was naturally that husky. Judging by the strong smell of cigarettes coming off of his clothes, I blamed it on the smoking.
'Where's who, sir?" I asked him, a little afraid of the answer.
"My shovel, you stupid Brit!" He yelled, trying to sit up.
I pushed him back down and was on the verge of calling him a French turd, but Dr. Tachejian stepped in.
"Gregory, I need to check up on a patient. I'm gonna leave you to finish this."
I chuckled and nodded at his as he left to clean up. It was a known fact, in the hospital, that the doctor's most hated job was sewing up the wounds; he always left it to his colleagues, not that I minded.
I noticed the French turd had quieted down. While taking out the needle and thread, I glanced at him and almost laughed. His face was twisted in a grimace of pain, his teeth clenched and his eyes tightly shut. His elbows pointed up in the airs, while his hands clutched tightly at his dirty hair.
"Pain killer lost effect huh?" I said in a mocking tone, which I'm really not supposed to be doing.
I took out a new syringe and gave him another dose.
"Merci." He muttered, looking straight at me again.
I began to sew his wound and for some reason, he decided to sit still.
"Where is my shovel?" he asked, only calmly this time.
"Did you have it with you?" I asked, not daring to look at him, in fear of losing myself in his gaze once more.
"Oui, in the ambulance." He answered me, two of the four words spoken in French.
"Well I can go and ask them for it, but I don't think you're aloud to have it in here with you."
"But I will be leaving, non?" He looked worried and had sat up again. I had finished the work a while ago, so him moving was not much of a bother to me. I just found it a little odd that he wasn't completely unfazed about the fact that he was shot and just operated on while being awake. I couldn't help but refer to is as suspicious.
"Nope. You're going to have to stay here for a while." I said, waiting for his reaction.
He stared at me with widened eyes, panic taking over his face and freezing him in place. He moved his mouth but no words came out. What did he think? That we were going to operate him and let him leave out the front door?
"I think some policeman are going to come and interrogate you too." I added. "Weren't you stuck in a shooting or something?"
He didn't answer me. Instead his buried his face into his palms and continued making his frustrated animal noises.
"Is something the matter?"
He looked up and for the third time already, our eyes locked. To be more truthful, it was his eyes that grabbed a hold of mine.
"Listen." He said. "Doctor...?"
"Doctor Yardale. Gregory Yardale." I felt proud to be able to say that, it rolled off my tongue and sounded nice. I had always considered my name as one those that come out of movies or television shows.
"Pardon?" He spoke in French again.
"Gregory Yardale."
His mouth slightly parted, he gaped at me like he was a bit slow. It was as if his brain was processing what I had told him, step by step.
"Bien sure..." He said in his native language, raising an eyebrow at me in a certain fashion where what I had said previously was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.
My French was a little rough, but I knew that 'bien sure' either meant 'of course' or 'absolutely yes'.
His gaze froze on some random spot in the room and his expression was distant, in another world. He was in deep thought and wasn't blinking. I was tempted to snap him out of it, but I was still unsure of what this crazy man was capable of doing.
There was a knock at the door and a couple of police officers walked in.
"Good morning doctor." One of them said.
"Good morning."
"How is he?" The other asked.
"He should recover soon enough, but I don't think he's in any state to answer questions at the moment."
"I am fine." He said. "I'll tell you whatever you want."
He was looking at the two officers like he was looking at me earlier, only it didn't seem to have the same effect. The pair was acting normally while I hadn't been able to pull away. Maybe it was because of their training that made them immune to mind games and such.
"Very well. We're going to have to ask you to leave doctor."
With a nod, I stepped out of the room. As I closed the door, I caught one last glimpse of his face, this time frowning and looking even deeper than before. What was he looking at? I felt so very uncomfortable, under the impression that maybe he was seeing something I wasn't able to.
Lunchtime rolled around and I was pulled aside my Dr. Tachejian in the cafeteria.
"Gregory, I have a huge operation this afternoon, so would you mind doing the rounds for me? Also, check on that kid in room 202, he needs to fill out some stuff. The police spoke to me about him; poor kid was just at the wrong place at the wrong time."
Wrong place at the wrong time...
"Also, they brought in this shovel into his room for some reason. They said he had this sentimental attachment to it and needed it in next to him. Just make sure he doesn't make a grab for it or anything."
Sentimental attachment to a shovel...
"Oh and one last thing. He's a major smoker, so make sure he doesn't sneak in any cigarettes into the hospital. We don't need any more problems."
Smoker...
He pat me once on the back and left. I sat down at an empty table with my sandwich, but just ended up tearing it apart without taking even one bite. He was on my mind.
Since I was a young, my parents had taught me never to lie, so I didn't. Only liars have something to hide and I, for one, am no liar. So why did this man make me feel like I SHOULD be hiding something. What is that 'thing', I cannot tell.
On top of it all, I wasn't getting any good vibes from that guy. When I went over what the doctor told me about his interview with the police, I had to restrain myself from yelling out 'he's lying!'. I wasn't sure how I knew, but I was almost certain that he was NOT 'at wrong place and the wrong time', the guy was carrying a shovel for Pete's sake! Sentimental attachment my ass. Not to be prejudice or anything, but 'criminal' was practically written on that guy's forehead.
Finding no point in sitting in the cafeteria doing nothing, I decided to kill some time and work. I passed by the three patients I had to check up on and two of them were asleep. The third, being a VERY old man, had forgotten who I was and had told me to 'get the hell out'.
I was really hoping that this would take a long enough while for me to emotionally ready myself to enter room 202. Standing in front of the room, my hand on the handle, I pathetically began to reason with myself, telling me to calm down and that he was just another patient and that I was making a big deal out of it. Hell, I sounded like a fucking high school student nervous about asking a girl out to the prom! I'm a damn doctor, why should I be afraid of one stupid patient.
"Are you going to come in anytime soon?" I heard a voice speak from the other side of the door...a voice with a heavy French accent, might I add.
As if on cue, I opened the door and let myself in, glancing just about everywhere around the room except at him. I didn't want him to see my face and be able to tell how disturbed I was at how he knew I was standing behind the door, planning how I was about to confess my fucking love to him.
"So, um, I need you to fill out a few of these papers, so that we can know who you are, so if you wouldn't mind..." I stuttered and handed him he sheets.
Looking at me like I was some kind of idiot, he grabbed the papers and held them close to his face.
"Um, doctor, I don't understand what this means." He said.
I bent down at his level next to his face to see what he was pointing at. Turns out he wasn't pointing at anything at all. The brunette grabbed my shirt's collar and pulled me even closer to his face, way too close for comfort.
"Listen to me," he whispered in my ear through clenched teeth. "I have a job to finish and it can't wait, so you let me out right now and I will reconsider slicing your throat open."
"I-I...I can't let you out. I'm sorry a-and even if I did, you won't be able to go that far with that slowing you down." I stammered, jerking my head toward the wound on his leg.
"Okay, let me put it like this." He started again. "You let me out, and I won't kill you."
He sounded like a killer taunting his next victim before cutting them up into little pieces. I gulped in fear and also at the fact of not knowing what the HELL to do. This was NOT in any textbook he had ever read.
"Look, I'm serious here. You're in terrible condition, you're obviously tired and you'll be out of here faster if you answer a few questions okay?"
He grunted and looked like he was ready to destroy me at any second, but I still took it as a 'yes'.
"Okay, what's your name."
This actually wasn't the first question on the sheet, but it was something I was dying to know. I wasn't sure why, but I just had a feeling about it. I suppose I could call it curiosity, but there was something more to it. Some say that a person's name says a lot about them and reveals several aspects of their personalities. It was only natural for me to be looking forward to uncovering the mystery of the man's name, I just didn't know why it was such a mystery. Would it really bother me that much if I didn't find out?
Yes...yes it would. I mentally sighed at myself for being such a fool. I had sunk to a new low, where my life was so boring that I imagined there being any excitement; creating mysteries and detective cases when they weren't even there in the first place. What was I expecting from this? A whole new adventure? Well, guess what me. This is going to end in total disappointment.
"Antoine Plaisance." He said.
And it did.
So there it was folks, my imaginary crime case, my pretend career as a detective already over when there was really nothing to begin with. The name did neither ring a bell nor sound familiar. It was the utter randomness of it that surprised me. When I looked at him, I saw a complex man, with eyes who have seen more than he would ever see in his life. To sum it all up, he was the perfect description of a young man with an old soul. I guess I was expecting his answer to trigger something and start a story.
I couldn't help but be irritated with myself for giving into my own stupid games. I had always been a realist and this was strictly against my beliefs. The thought that the man in front of me could have been someone to just enter my life and change everything HAD entered my mind, and that thought on it's own was enough for me to be ashamed of my own doings.
Without another word, I went on with the examination. I was to check if everything in his body was functioning right and make sure that there were no risks of infection. When I first lay my hand on him, I felt him stiffen, but then he must have realised what I was doing and calmed.
"Are you feeling all right? Feverish? Nauseous? Anything?" I asked, in my regular doctor voice. Dr. Tachejian had actually taught me about that tone. Apparently, it relaxed the patient more and created trust between him and the doctor. The doctor voice was filled with concern and care, making a person feel safe in his or her hands.
"Non. I am fine." He said.
I checked his pulse and then began examining his body for any minor cuts or bruises. I moved his clothes around and ran my hands over his rough skin; he did not like that one bit.
"What the hell are you feeling me up for?" He asked, anger laced in his tone, just like every time he spoke. He snapped his head back and I felt his eyes digging into the side of my face.
"I want to make sure that you don't have any more problems, so please, let me work."
He grunted and lay his head back onto his pillow, shutting his eyes gently and breathing in and out, very slowly. I ignored it, telling myself that it was probably his longing for nicotine and went back to my check up.
I pulled up the black tank top he was wearing, only to find the most toned and muscular stomach in the history of abs. Even when the muscles weren't clenched, each bulge stuck out, forming a perfect six pack that any woman would go crazy over. I blushed when I noticed that my hand had been lingering over his skin for a while now and that I should probably pull away before I embarrass myself again.
"You can stop staring anytime now, Dr. Homo."
Too late.
"I-I'm making sure you're all right." I mumbled, audible only to him and myself.
He grunted again and I hung my head down, eyes glued to his abs again. And that's when I noticed them. On his sides, right under his rib cage, were two HUGE bite mark scars. Judging by the shapes and sizes of the scars, I could tell that they had not been medically treated and had healed on their own a very long time ago. As I looked closer, I took note of the disposition of the teeth and tried to figure out the depth of the original wound. Those were the marks a canine would make, presumably a dog.
"These aren't recent." I stated more than asked.
"Non. I got them when I was about eight years old...or nine, I do not remember."
He looked pensive for a second, but then it disappeared.
"How did it happen, if I may ask."
"Neighbour's..." He mumbled.
"Neighbour's?" I wasn't sure of what he meant.
His tongue lashed out and licked his upper lip roughly.
"Guard dogs." His voice came out even huskier, maybe even deadly sounding.
His voice sounded scary, but his face was more vulnerable than anything else. The Frenchman cringed at his own two words, looking like he suffered when he spoke them.
"Are you..."
"I hate them." He cut my question off with an answer indeed filled with hatred.
He pulled down his shirt and glared at me one last time with his dagger-shooting brown eyes, before turning his back to me and sleeping.
Clipboard swinging along in my arm, I power walked through the hallways of the hospital, causing a draft to brush by everyone who was passing in my opposite direction. My mind was full of questions that I thought could have been dealt with once my examination had ended. Not only did my plan fail, but it also managed to backfire, sending off a series of new and more complex questions to cloud my mind.
Through all of this, I had come to one stupid, inaccurate conclusion, that once again, concerned his name. I still don't know why it interested me so, but it did. It could be considered, by some people, the most useless piece of information (at least in my situation at the present), but for some reason, it was the main thing I was after.
There was no WAY his name was Antoine. I just knew it couldn't be. The second I had realised what the scars on his sides were, I knew he was lying about his name. But why would he lie? And since he did lie, then he must be hiding something.
There I went again, creating my very own Sherlock Holmes novel, but I couldn't help it; if this was the only way to keep me entertained in the next 60 years of my life, then so be it.
Since I started working with Dr. Tachejian, I have had my fair share of patients to work with, and I have never felt anything for any of them like I felt for 'Antoine' at the moment. There must be something up with that man, that was for sure. Only by looking at the elements I knew about him, any idiot would think he was a bit odd. I mean really, the guy carried around a shovel, swore to me in French when he was being operated on, asked me to sneak him out of the hospital like it was a prison, told me he had a 'job' to do and must have some sort of dog fetish.
I wondered if he had someplace special to go. He must have, since he threatened to kill me if I didn't set him free. If it's actually that much of a nice place, maybe I should have asked him to take me with him.
I glanced at the watch on my wrist, telling me that the day was soon to end. To be honest, I wasn't eager to go home, knowing that I would not be able to rest my head, let alone fall asleep that night.
Before I got to go home, I checked on him a few more times but he had fallen asleep. I packed up my stuff and left a note for the night shift worker to keep an eye on him. If he had been smarter, he wouldn't have asked me to let him out; he would had just tried to escape. Now that I knew about his intentions, it was my duty to act upon them.
It was cold outside, and I was greeted with the London rain the second I stepped outside. Luckily, the bus stop wasn't far so I wasn't COMPLETELY soaked.
My house was two bus rides away from my work. If my life had come out the way I wanted, I wouldn't even be going home in the first place. Anything was better than sitting at dinner with that bitch and her husband. I was planning on getting my own place but she guilt tripped me into staying; crying all over me, talking about how she didn't want to lose her only son. The hypocrisy in those words was strong enough to hit me hard and make me take three steps away from her. She managed to fake an astonished face and later on speak of how my reaction had vexed her. That woman never gave me a second glance when I was a child, but now that I was making money, I guess I'm worth something all of a sudden. Even after all the neglect, I still met all of her expectations...and I will never forgive myself for that.
The bus ride was like it was every other day. Same journey, same driver, same people. The passenger's, including myself, were known to each other. I always recognized the faces in the bus, them being the same ones, sitting at the same spot every evening. We acknowledged each others' presence and appreciated the silent company. That's how I was with most of my company: silent. The Antoine guy was maybe the only patient I've ever had any unnecessary conversation with. Perhaps that was because he seemed like such an interesting man, that he earned my time and attention for unneeded words to be exchanged. Or maybe it was because he downright insulted me... either way, that guy was something special. I rolled my eyes. If by special I meant a total nutcase, then maybe I was right about him.
The bus stopped right at the end of the block, forcing me to run down the street all the way to my house, getting my blonde damp hair even damper and my soggy clothes practically dripping. I unlocked the front door of the mansion and stepped in as quietly as possible, hoping to not get noticed until I was up in my room, had disposed of my wet clothes and dried my hair. I just knew that if my mother caught me like this, she'd reproach me of how I was getting the floor wet, or how I should have been responsible enough to take an umbrella with me. I took my shoes off and ran up the stairs quietly, trying not slip on the water that was dripping from my hair. I ran into the bathroom, took my clothes off and dried myself off. I looked at the large bathroom mirror on the wall, seeing my reflection, same as it ever was. I had always thought of myself as a good looking young man. I knew I wasn't the best in the world, but I don't think people ever cringed at the sight of me. I ruffled my blonde hair away from my face, only to watch it fall back into it's original placement. My body was toned, thanks to all the sports and physical training I had done when I was a teenager. It had helped me burn away the hatred and anger I had gathered up for my parents.
"Gregory honey!" My mother's high pitched voice resonated through the house.
"Yes?"
"Get down for dinner!"
"Is dad home?"
"No honey, he won't be joining us tonight."
I ran downstairs, no evidence of having run through the pouring rain, and sat in front of my mother on the dinner table. It had been set by some of the maids in our house and the food was made by a personal chef.
"How was your day, mum?" I asked, striking up a conversation. I knew if I didn't, I'd pay for it later.
"Tiring."
Sure, shopping and hanging out in cafes with your girlfriends should be very exhausting, while I have to deal with sick kids and Antoines.
Seeing that she was not going to speak of WHY it was tiring, I tried something else.
"A gentleman got shot today and I helped Dr. Tachejian heal him." I stated, proud of myself. Of course, it was a lie since what I did as 'help' was gape at the Frenchman while the doctor worked.
"Sweetheart, don't speak of such things at the table." She whined, setting her head in her palm.
She was obviously bored, as if sitting with me for dinner was the most energy consuming thing in the world. I felt like getting up and saying: 'Look, you clearly don't want to do this, and neither do I. So you can go and eat fancy food with your friends and I'll order Chinese. How's that?'
She sighed loudly, a final signal telling me to bring up a new subject. Unfortunately, I really couldn't think of anything she would enjoy speaking of. Come to think of it, there was nothing I would enjoy hearing from her either. We were stuck in silence once more, but I had one more trick up my sleeve: THE subject. I might not have been the smartest thing to ask at the time, but I had the opportunity, so why not?
"Mother...?" I said.
"Yes love?"
"Could I ask you something? Though, you must be honest with me, mum. I'm a grown man and I have a job, I think I'll be able to handle it." I might have went too far there, but I had to let her know before I began the same old interrogation again.
"Gregory, what the devil are you speaking of?" She frowned and set down her fork.
"Mother, how old was I when we came to London?"
"Honey, not this again. You were born here. I thought you knew that."
"Yes, I do, but we went to live in America for a while, did we not?"
She looked hesitant for a second but then nodded.
"Where was it exactly?"
"Someplace called Colorado darling. Denver was the city, I believe. We didn't stay for long." She spoke rather fast, stuffing a stuffed pepper into her mouth the second she finished her sentence.
"How come?" I knew there was a reason who we left, I remembered hearing my father say something of the sort.
"W-Well, the second we got there..." She paused to swallow, only she didn't have any food in her mouth. "There was this war, you see dear? And you were young and w-were in an environment that wasn't very safe...so we had to leave."
She didn't sound so sure of herself and I wondered if she was telling me everything I needed to know.
I remember there being a war. It wasn't the whole country though, it was more of a regional thing... Children were involved and some didn't make it.
"Mother? Where was I when all this happened?"
"Oh darling, I don't know. It was terrible! We had lost you and we needed to get you back and when you finally came back, you had scars and bruises and you had a damn sword in your hands! Heavens knows where you had gotten it from!"
It seemed to me that every time I asked about this story, mother would always add one extra element that was not mentioned before. So I had a sword...? How odd.
I finished dinner and went to my room. I added the new element to my list and went to bed.
Tomorrow was going to be a long day. Especially when I had an Antoine to deal with.