Maybe we are them—the superheroes in Garfield's comic books. Who says that we're not? Reality? How many times have we outgrown reality? I can heal. She has super strength, Chase can connect to people, to animals, Vic is smart, and you, you, Richard, can fight-more so than the rest of us-for all of us!"
Touch
Chapter Four
A thought occurred to me. I stir the top ramen, letting the updraft of heat of the boiling water warm my face, and find myself lost in thought—again. The old woman asked me if I was happy with my guardian job—yet, I never told her what my job was. A wave of shivers eats at my skin and I crank the burner higher. The fire snaps up and bites my finger, the pain sending me to stumble back.
The old woman knew a lot of things I didn't have to tell her.
"Shit." I rub the redness, swiping my hand back and forth over it trying to ease the sting. The redness only shows more. I tuck my hand into my pocket and keep it away from battle against the burner. I look behind me, slinging my eyes over my shoulder and to the adjacent door. It's true. She hasn't been out of her room apparently—I wonder if she's hungry.
I stir the pot some more and thought about making myself go grocery shopping sometime soon. Maybe then, I could—well, find out what just happened. Maybe take a stroll down the same lane and find the same tavern. Though, it's not important. I tuck away the thought. A sudden ding on the timer tells me that the noodles are done and I pour the soup in a bowl, making sure to add a spoon and a fork to the mix. I come and silently knock upon the door.
No luck—I didn't think she would open it. So I carefully place my spare key, the one Victor left upon the table, into the lock and hear it undo itself with a click. Slowly, I push my back against the door, carrying the bowl of noodles in. I'm worried about my hands, they grasping the bowl. I would have to drop it to protect myself if I needed to. Maybe I should stop thinking like this. If I think this way, so will she—the mirror effect.
There she lies—asleep. The light spawning from the overheads that illuminate the doors before every apartment complex find their way into the room and fall upon her head where she sleeps. I check her condition. She's sleeping soundly, deeply—unlike before. I place the bowl next to her on the bedside table and head out after closing the blinds to block out the light.
She's sleeping soundly—strange.
I find myself waking on the stair case that morning, the corners of the steps sharp in my side. It injects me with a bit of soreness I realize as I attempt to sit up. It is morning and I try to get up with a stretch. Vic's still asleep, and judging by the empty kitchen and coldness of the air, the other two must be asleep too. By my stretch, the uncurling of my stiff leg, I knock a solid something across the floor. The sound of spilling follows. It's the bowl next to me—the soup spilled upon the floor. The one I had given to Starfire the last night.
There's a knock at the door—eight in the morning—as usual. Though, they open the door to see a boy in a stained white shirt, hunching over some spilled soup. I couldn't help, but to complete the awkward scene by waving—awkwardly.
"Uhm, hello there, Mr. Grayson—having a good morning?"
"Yeah—just spilled some things"
"Pleasant." Franks says as he and the others sit their stuff on the table as I grab a towel to soak up the excess liquid before it can stain the wood. I peak upwards to see them pull out a key and feel a breath of solemnness escape my mouth, I to close my eyes, to feel remorse. They duplicated the lock to make a key for it, didn't they?
"One-Two-One-Five." Doctor Matthews knocks on the door. "You have visitors."
"Her name is Starfire." I swish the rag in circles upon the floor. "We call her Starfire."
"Uh—that is name unauthorized by the Agency, Mr. Richard."
"Miss Starfire." Frank knocks upon the door, "Please excuse our interruption, but it's time for your checkup—"
Silence—I keep drying the floor.
"No?" Wheatley says, "We will have to let ourselves in then." Matthews peers backwards to Wheatley.
"Look," I say, "She could be changing or in the bathroom. Give her a minute for privacy."
"A day's worth for a day's worth of privacy." Says Matthews, he jabbing the new key in its lock. A heaviness comes over my eyes as they barge in—I hear her shuffle in her bed and give a slight whimper along with muffling voices protected by the thickness of the walls.
"What's going on?" Rachel shuffles down the stairs, pushing her arms through the sleeves if her black hoodie. Garfield follows.
"Stay up stairs you two."
"But—"
"What's going on?" Vic joins.
"Can you take them home?" I tell Vic, they to protest, "Look, these things get out of hand—I," there is a yell, "and I don't want you two to see it."
"Mr. Grayson! You are needed in this room." I release a breath—somewhat of a heavy sigh— and tell the rest to stay where they are. With that, I hurry into Starfire's bedroom and find something I wished not to see: she being pinned to her bed, a tranquilizing needle being withdrawn from her arm, and her shirt–the shirt I gave her—being lifted to expose her bare chest.
I fall back and hit the wall, lashing my eyes against my arms in front of me. "What the hell are you doing?!" Garfield follows in and I mask his eyes before he can see. I pull him to my side and make him face the wall. Rachel comes in and sees this all, Starfire's shirt now on the ground. She does the same as I did and warns Vic not to come in.
"W-What's g-going on?" Gar whines.
They don't answer, but their fast pace gibberish rises on a crescendo, they groping their devices as if they were doing it to save their lives. My gaze rises upwards reluctantly to find them tracing her ribs with pencils, she currently straddling the line of consciousness.
"Weight plummeted to eighty-five pounds!" Wheatley shouts.
"Eating record—" Frank skims through his note. "Where's her eating record?!"
"Richard," shouts Matthews, "When was the last time she ate—"
"I-I," I stutter, trying to avoid the sight of her eh—well—, "Yesterday—"
"Let's get her to the hospital! Pick her up!" Her arms struggle to wrap her nakedness. I hear her cry and the sound shoots off in four directions, bounces off the thick walls and hits me in a four way collision.
"WAIT!" I block the doorway, trying my best not to look at her and be respectful. "Just wait—the hospital is just going to force feed her!"
"Get the out of the agency's way!"
"Hear me out! She's been locking herself in her room for reasons! To keep people out! People who keep forcing her to do things!"
"Like eating?! Like living?! She's staging her own death!"
"And you—we—have been forcing her stage it! She doesn't know anything except for force! She's doesn't need to be forced! That's continuing the problem! She needs to learn how to eat—how to want to eat! Just give me ten minutes—just ten minutes and I can solve things."
"Trust the person who let her starve on his watch?"
"Okay, if not me—" I turn to Rachel, placing my hands on her shoulders, sliding her in front of me. She looks upward in disbelief—I ignore it, "Then let her help!"
"How?"
"If I asked you to trust me, you wouldn't. But trust them." I gestured to the two others now in the kitchen. "Starfire knows it too. Check the records, every time Rachel's been here, Starfire has slept soundly."
"That's just chance—"
"How many times has Rachel slept over?" Frank's voice is kind, genuinely hopeful that I am correct.
"Once." I breathe.
"Get the girl in the van."
"Wait!" I block them once more, "Just ten minutes—that all Rachel needs. Just ten minutes alone with Rachel. That's it. I give you the seal of my father and my rights to be her guardian if we fail. And-and that all can go to Doctor Mann—I know how much Doctor Mann wants that."
"This is foolish," Matthews spits.
"Please—" I whisper, "Just ten minutes."
With words I cannot recall, they sat her back on her bed, she shuffle through her sheets, frantically wrapping the linen around her bareness—her bare chest. I look away and the doctors walk past me, starting the timer. Frank wishes me good luck.
"Do you need me in here?" I ask Rachel, descending down on one knee to meet her on the floor, up against the corner. She watches the girl upon the bed and shakes her head.
"No—I should be fine. Did you bring food?" I hand her all I could find on a second's notice.
"Mustard and bread?"
"It's what always disappears from the fridge when I get it from the store."
A confused look rises on her face. She gestures me to leave and I continue outside the room where the three doctors, Vic, and Garfield sit, as if ready to have some type of manly conversation. Reluctantly, I close the door behind and seat myself amongst the doctors.
"I have a question to ask," I sound challenging—forceful, "Rarely, professional doctors come in. Doctor Mann is supposed to come in only once a month. Most of the doctors I usually see are students like Wheatley and Matthews." Obviously, I am talking to Frank.
"How do you know that?" Asks Wheatley.
"I just know things. I want to apply—and if I do, could I supervise her myself? No more intrusions? No more morning night routines?"
"I—I suppose—if she pulls through of course." answers Frank. "Only with the proper training and proper supplies."
"That's no problem, they taught us half of that in the military branch, I'm here to sign up—now."
"W-Wait a minute," speaks Garfield, "D-Doesn't th-that mean you l-lose your t-trainee status?
"By switching fields, he does," answers Frank.
"B-But y-you've worked s-so hard!"
"Doesn't matter. I'm not graduating anyway."
"But, I'm sorry Mr. Grayson." The doctor says, pulling out his application displayed on his IPad. "You have to be eighteen to apply. Plus, our last spot was taken by—the name should be on her somewhere—oh! It was taken by a man by the name of Victor Stone."
I turn to the man himself, perched in his seat, eyes peering to the hole his clasped hands made placed upon the table. "Vic?"
"Oh—" Voices Doctor Frank, "Are you—are you the Victor Stone?"
"By law," Vic says, "You're not allowed to mention my name to anyone outside the doctoral branch—my pen name to use is Cyborg."
"C-Cyborg?"
Frank blushes, his expression shrinking with embarrassment, "My mistake—serves me right, being corrected by someone half my age. I become unaware whenever I speak to the commander's son here. But, this makes things easier. I was supposed to meet with the new student after this session here."
"But, why?" I ask, breaking their conversation, "You're the mechanic—"
He is silent.
"You love being the mechanic."
"You wanna be the cadet."
"You knew this would happen?"
"How wise of you to start thinking about the future." Frank compliments as I wait for him to return my glare. Instead, he focuses on his hands against the tabletop.
"H-How much t-time d-do we h-have left?
"By my watch," says Matthews, "Two more minutes."
"Would you re-enter the agency even if we failed this, here." I ask Vic.
"We won't," he peers over, "so yes."
A sudden creaking grabs our attention—Rachel peers through the door. We all stand to hear her and what she has to say, but instead, she steps around the door, meets us in the kitchen, and closes Starfire's door behind her.
"Good choice with the mustard."
"So she's eating?" I say.
"Yeah, but can you come in?" Without looking for some kind of approval, I make my way around the table, muttering if everything was alright underneath my breath as I passed her. We enter her room. Upon her bed, Starfire sits, hunched forward, brows askew, conveying an air of concern or curiosity—something like that.
"He's different than the doctors" Rachel begins to speak, her voice low, easy, and somewhat emotionless. I stand straight and face her, buckling my lip down. It was like we were in the hospital again—a sight I did not like. "I know it's hard to trust—believe me, I know—and you have reasons not to. But, know that here is better—with him, it is better."
"I know," she whispers—her voice very weak. I watch her fold, she to pull her legs to her chest. She looks to me and I try my best to keep eye contact. The knock at the door takes my attention away. Time's up, I assume.
"Stay here," I tell Starfire, slowly backing away with Rachel beside me. I place my hand on her shoulder and promised myself to thank her. "They'll probably come in and see for themselves. I'll be here the whole time, so don't worry. They will leave and won't bother you today or for many more days."
"Can we have your permission to let them in?" Rachel says. At her nod, I return to the kitchen and welcome the others in. Though, it's hard to bring myself to look at Vic as he passes my frame.
Five hours have passed since then and I haven't made too great of an effort to talk to her besides bringing her a lot of food—everything in my pantry at least. She seems quiet, shy, and still a bit distrusting. But what can I expect? I see the stress on her expression and realize what it does with every passing moment. It's harder for her to walk. She tried to get up herself, but I requested for her to sit down—and I hate this: being the superior side of tug-a-war. Wasn't that was Doctor Mann wanted us to be? Two clashing forces that will neutralize the other. I wonder where he is and what he thinks about the latest news concerning Starfire. With a few days, Vic will be the doctor coming in and out of here. I'm still burdened by this choice—a burden that will probably be explained at a later time—not now. I can barely think as it is.
With the doctors, he left, happy to take Rachel and Garfield with him. I keep remembering the conversation I had with Doctor Frank: "Richard, please know that we and the agency aren't the bad guys. We are just following orders meant to guarantee her recovering. "
He said this as he passed me on his way out. I believe him—despite my emotions now. After all, they did help Rachel and Garfield—that is another story that may come up some time too. As I clean the kitchen, I clasp my head and long to sleep somewhere that's not a staircase. It's only five in the evening, but the sky is dark. Despite what the clock says, it could be nine or ten.
From under her doorway, I see the lack of light breaking through the opening and assume that she's asleep with the lights off—sleeping soundly. I should be as well.
That night I didn't dream of angels and did not hear a triumphant choir nor saw pillars of white marble. Blinding lights that would make me want to cry and hide my head in fear of being blinded was absent too. However, I thought of those elements—the elements of heaven—often. I positioned my memories of the fortune teller in my head for me to dream about that night in hope of concluding answers. But, it didn't happen. For now, I decide to tuck away the memory of that night with the fortune teller—if it even was a night, if it even happened at all. That's my conclusion.
Though, I am glad I came home when I did—that I even came home at all. With that thought, I replay what happened today and thought about what would happen tomorrow—or the next day. We were winging it—I'm not used to that. I was never trained to go off a whim and write the future with the actions I make in the present. Everything was always planned: scheduled days to train, scheduled days to rest, scheduled days to fight, scheduled days to patrol, each day spent closer to getting to graduation.
I lie wide awake in my bed now. My estimation is that it's two in the morning—or something like that. I hope the night neared the dawn and that I would see a small trace of the morning come through my windows soon. But, the darkness prolongs its stay. I try to stare at it—if darkness is even a thing to stare at—and hope I would find myself asleep soon.
And, I found myself drifting.
...drifting…
…drifting…
A sudden cry—a whimper that prolongs the sound of hysteria. I wake and curiously pull myself from my bed to suddenly get hit with a wave of sobbing flooding out from a room far beyond the kitchen. Violently, it ricochets off my walls and thrusts me from my bed, I to fly to the door, grope the handle, anxiously trying to pull open a door that seemed not to budge. At its open, I come to the kitchen, then to the door, it to come open at my push. She shoves he hands over head, she on the floor, and cries—I running to her, calling her name.
To wake her, to wake her, I grab her shoulder—and I feel myself die, her fist in my stomach, my stomach in my throat, my blood coming from my mouth, my back violently hitting a wall, debris of some kind to blow out. Oh God—I grab my stomach and writhe—no energy to grab myself, to pull my hands up, to defend myself, to die.
"Name."
"Richard Grayson."
"Parent's name."
"…"
"Parent's name."
"Mary and Jon Grayson—We are down Lethe Lane and at the right of Wednesday Avenue . Green house. Red roof. Seven windows—"
"Son, we have no record—"
"House number 9355. Two bathrooms, one for my parents, one for me. Two rooms—two rooms, I promise."
"Kid—no one has lived there for three years."
"I promise! I'm not lying! I live there and go there every day with my mom and dad after school. They walk me home. They walk me home!"
"Come on—settle down kid."
"I'm not crazy! Please, I'm not crazy! I have a family! Get that needle away!"
"Shhhh. It will all be okay. Doesn't that feel good? Huh? Now go to sleep. Go to sleep."
"Richard?" A voice sounds! "Richard! You're not speaking! You are doing the bleeding! I am sorry! I am so sorry!"
"My family was killed by gang members—"
"—I was seven then—and I watch them die—right in front of me. They were killed right in front of me. Three years later, the agency found me and reported me in as an unaccompanied minor—forced me into the institution—"
"—when I graduated from the junior academy, it didn't take me long to find them—to kill them. I was twelve then. I didn't mean to, but I did it. So, I guess I did meant to. They—they fell of that Berthold tower—like you did."
Silence.
"Victor doesn't know. Neither does Rachel or Garfield—but they always wonder why I never play the good guy—the hero—that I only do what's on my instructions list and do them well to get by, to rise in rankings."
Silence.
"For some reason, I can't stop talking," I tell the ceiling. "I know you're there. You're underneath the window where the outside lights meet the carpet. You're always are. But, don't say anything—you don't need to."
"You—you are bleeding. Tell me what I must do—"
"Yeah, I'm bleeding." I smile. "Do you ever bleed?"
"N-Nonsense." She says. "You are speaking nonsense. Please I—"
"You live if you bleed. We call it being human if you bleed. H-Humans are above animals. And I-I've been an animal for s-so long. B-But, I'm bleeding again. D-Do you see it?"
"H-Humans can change species?"
"No—" I start to choke, to cry, smiling, dying, "B-But they can change heart."
"Come on—settle down kid."
"I'm not crazy! Please, I'm not crazy! I have a family! Get that needle away!"
"Shhhh. It will all be okay. Doesn't that feel good? Huh? Now go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. "