CHAPTER III: ENIGMA
Turning the handle of the door, the wooden barrack seemed to bend under the weight of creaking and screeching sounds. Placing both of my feet on the planking as I entered, the events of the day before seemed to hit home with an alarming ease. My grip on the handle tightened, knuckles whitening in agony. Every single bruise, cut, and aching bone in my body screamed at me for attention. White hot pain demanded its presence to be known. Yet; I merely stared at the lack of people in the barrack, my mind creating a world bordering on delusional images.
My forehead made to touch the door.
Reality did not make sense; not anymore. Heck. It had stopped the day that I got sent back into time, to a life that was not even my own. I was, simply put, an anomaly in Jay's body. A modern alien, maybe.
All this sci-fi stuff was seriously rushing to my head.
Steadily getting more nostalgic with the minute, I began to miss the rush of adrenaline I had when I was still known as Daniel. That kick of bursting energy was just one of many ways to soothe an individual. However unlikely, I wanted that feeling back—craved it like a little and bratty child who's hungry for a bar of chocolate. Anything to get rid of the pain, I'd take it.
As the heat continued to suffocate me in my clothes, so did the coating of sweat covering my brow. Dazed and confused I took another step — or two — further into the small, dark space.
I grinned the grin of a madman, living in the ecstasy of utter denial. The thought that I may have been too sentimental never graced my mind. Gotta love the joy of delirium, huh?
(Maybe I was coming down with a fever. Or, option two, I was going crazy).
The hardly apparent comfort of my — Jay's — bunk seemed like a good plan now. It looked the same exactly as the state I had left it in hours ago. It was unmade, messy. And it came with the knowing comfort of the hard material jabbing into my back with each twist and turn. But it still was an invitation, one I accepted as I blindly pulled the thin covers over me. My face was pressed into the pillow, nose nuzzling the white fabric. The crumpled sheets were a sigh of relief for my sore body, tired eyes closing without a single complaint.
The last rational thought that crossed my mind when I drifted away into sleep was how good Grandpa actually smelled.
Whoa.
I'm so fucked.
"I'm uploading the file now."
[...]
"We can't help him anymore, Dana."
[...]
"That's a lie and you damn well know it."
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA, 1942
"So, why do you like books again?"
"Why do you ask, Jonathan?" was her counter.
After I had asked her this question, Irene gave me a pointedly indignant stare behind the book she was flipping through. It was her look of sisterly judgement. The light brown curly locks that framed her face moved along as she shook her head, gaze back on the book. I merely shrugged in return, eyes directed at the young girl. Peeking at the cover page of the book she held in her hands, the title read 'Pride and Prejudice'. I continued to grin at her; she was even more a hopeless romantic than dear Rosaline.
And Rosaline was desperately romantic in her own way. Perhaps because she was the oldest of us three, and as such was expected to do certain things by our parents. Live up to expectations and all that. Maybe it was even more the case for her than I had been expected to from the start — I wasn't blind. Either way, I couldn't help but think that I wasn't entirely certain of that. Still, I was willing to bet my ass that her hopeless romantic tendencies had rubbed off on Irene in the most poignant way possible.
At least, that's how I saw it.
Speaking of Irene...
"Because, Jonathan," she started in a slow manner, hazel eyes not even sparing me a single glance, "books are actually very interesting to own. They are very much compelling to read unlike — naturally — those weird comics you insist on reading and devouring. It's just so boring and... tasteless." Her grip on the ladder tightened, and a short pause fell before she continued. "It's so bland for a pastime."
I looked up at her, the face I made in return probably not even seen by her, the novel in her hands clearly blocking the view of my annoyed expression.
"You know, Irene — you don't have to use those fancy words in front of me. Gee."
She didn't reply, amusement glinting in her eyes as she pursed her full lips, and I huffed at that.
"And what's your point? I mean, come on. It's one comic and I only read it when I have nothing else to do," I harsh whispered, defending myself. But seeing the slowly widening smile on her innocent face, I knew she had seen through my terrible excuse with ease. And that subtle glint in her eyes told me she had already won this argument.
I let out a sigh.
Great.
"Fine," I stated in defeat, my fingers pinching the bridge of my nose to numb the slight irritation. "If you want to know, the copies I have of Captain America aren't my own, understood? I borrowed them."
Now, that part was true. Except for, maybe, one small thing. The borrowing wasn't really... borrowing. You see, the family living across the street had a son, his name being Tommy. A nice kid for barely twelve years old, but too crafty for his own good. That trait was going to get him into trouble sooner or later. And how did I know? Because I used to be like that.
Oh, well. A fair trade is a fair trade, I thought at the time.
Or maybe it was Tommy who had said that. Yeah. Most likely he did say that.
Irene made the trademark move of rolling her eyes, looking down at me from the ladder she stood upon before focusing on the pages again. She snorted, wrinkling her nose. "Of course you borrowed them. Like you always say." And then under her breath she muttered, "I can't believe you're my older brother."
"I can't believe you're my younger sister," I retorted, mimicking her voice just to spite her. If she thought I hadn't heard her, she was wrong.
She once more gave me that famous if-you-don't-quit-mimicking-me-something-will-happen expression of hers. It was a look she shot me almost on a daily basis, in the living room, across the kitchen table — it didn't matter where. But she never did it without a verbal insult to boot, thinking it would hurt my pride, having me run with my tail between my legs. Instead I always opted to mock her with a lazy grin.
Those comments hadn't successfully worked on me just yet, however.
"If you don't stop that, I'll tell Mother."
How naive.
I let out a low chuckle, "Please, Irene. Grow up. As if telling Mother helps in your favor. Besides..." I paused for a bit, looking around in the public facility before continuing in a hushed tone. A serious expression began to show on my face. "We're in a library. There are people here who appreciate reading their books in peace and quiet."
The stands that were housing numerous books didn't help to mute the conversation between me and Irene to an extent. With the silence around us, I became painfully aware of that fact.
Scanning our surroundings, the elder men and women were watching the both of us with gazes that held barely hidden contempt. Glares were sent our way through the opening at the beginning of the long row. Here and there they shook their heads in disagreement. At seeing this, the earlier grin that graced my face was now replaced for a more reserved look, and I kept my mouth closed in a thin line.
"Youngsters," I overheard one man complain.
The funniest thing was that my remark was meant to be a joke, but here the meaning of it took a 360 degree turn.
Irene probably noticed my uncomfortable silence after this man's comment was made, a sigh escaping her lips.
"...You're right."
I merely hummed in response, sparing a swift glance at my watch, just to see how fast the seconds ticked by. Only one hour until we had to go home.
But I had already made my resolve — there was plenty of time left.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I looked up at Irene who was still on the ladder. "Now, will you please get down?" I asked, leaning against the bookcase. "Mother is expecting us back in an hour, and I have to help Father with carrying boxes as soon as we're home. You know, the annual winter cleanup."
"Alright. Because you asked so nicely," Irene replied, a smile playing around her lips. "So, mind catching this?" With that comment, she let the book drop unceremoniously towards the floor and out of her hands. Before landing on the wooden floor, it hit my arm.
I grimaced in pain, muttering a low 'ouch'. "That's going to be a bruise," I said, picking up the old and tattered copy of Jane Austen's novel. "Nice aim you got, by the way."
"Yeah? Well, you deserved it." Another triumphant smile appeared, and she let out a soft giggle. "You're two years older than me, so perhaps you're the one who should grow up." But then her expression changed, one I had seen numerous of times before since I was young. A small frown marred her face not soon afterwards, replacing her curled lips. Hesitation was evident in her voice, her tone faltering. "Could you... maybe hold the ladder, just to be certain?"
I nodded, "Sure thing."
All jokes aside, I wasn't about to use her fright for heights against her, a fear that came about when she was still little. An unfortunate turn of events. Crossing that bridge to get past that was going to be hard for her, and young me was still adamant on holding her hand. Helping her along the way counted, I guess.
"Thanks, Jay," she resumed, once standing on the library's secure floors.
This time a genuine smile played around my lips. "Anytime."
The frayed and tattered book back in her firm grasp, I put my hands in the pockets of my slacks as she walked away with a light skip. I blindly stared into the direction Irene had gone, my legs unwilling to move just yet, rooted to the floor. It was all because of a single thought gnawing at the back of my mind; I almost felt guilty for not telling her in person. Or Rosaline.
To hell with that. I was the guilty one here.
It was all because of a bargain I had made with my parents. Otherwise it would have been too hard to say goodbye, Dad had said. Mom had just stood there, convincing me with her own words that it was necessary.
I swallowed the lump in my throat with difficulty.
If only they knew what I was about to do.
I cracked an eye open, blinking a couple of times as darkness greeted me. I decided to direct my blurry vision towards the clock hanging above the entry of the barrack.
23:25.
I blinked for good measure and looked again.
Still 23:25.
Damn. I couldn't help but keep feeling like crap; the beauty sleep hadn't done a thing.
I instantly groaned at the prospect of having slept so unnaturally long in one go, the pillow muffling my complaints. Time sure had gone by quickly since this morning. More groans with more complaining followed. Bored, bored, bored — I kept repeating the word in my mind. I managed to keep this up for a couple of minutes until I finally grew tired of it. Rather, my head eventually grew tired of all the whining.
Lying on my back with nothing else to do, I stared at the ceiling. I actually enjoyed my current loner state. It gave me the time and space to think over certain things. Some were important, others not so. Things that could have been or simply not plagued my mind. I probably could have stared at the ceiling forever as a result.
I let out a sigh.
That dream had felt so real. On top of being in Grandpa's body, I also had to go through — what I assumed to be — some kind of… weird-ass memory. It was almost enough to deliver me a subtle headache. I mean, literally everything had felt genuine; the sounds in the library, the texture of the book in my — his — hands. Even Jay himself. It just seemed too good to be true.
On another note, Grandma looked beautiful as her eighteen-year-old self.
Holy shit. Grandma?
Man. This really sucked.
Apart from the ticking noises the clock made and my slow breathing, it remained awfully quiet in the cabin. I knew I had just jinxed myself by thinking that.
The loud, approaching footsteps decided to disturb the peace and quiet. Quickly, I changed sleeping position once more, shutting out the light I knew would be turned on in a few.
Current occupation? Ex-loner.
The barrack creaked once again; the clock kept ticking on, chiming into a new hour. The wind sent in a soft breeze, along with hushed voices, muted footsteps and the chirping melody of the crickets outdoors. With my back facing the direction of the entry, I steadied my breathing, hopefully blinding the others that I was fast asleep. Ironically enough, I couldn't fall asleep.
Lying quietly under the blanket, everyone seemed to have made the collective decision to pass my cot swiftly and silently. No wonder, as it was located pretty close to the door. I blamed Gramps for this choice of his, but their small gesture almost made me smile. But so far, my little ploy seemed to work as they kept walking past, leaving me alone.
Then, without a warning, the short racket started.
"Fricking night marches."
"Oh, yeah, Hoobs? Tell that to Sobel."
"I'm sure he'd love hearing that from you, Perco."
I could barely make out the muffled thud followed by a breathy chuckle... and an equally annoyed voice reprimanding in return.
Tone low, someone uttered, "Take it easy, Perconte. Collins is asleep."
Another loud thud passed my bunk with an exasperating groan in retaliation.
"...Sorry, Sarge."
It was the same voice I had heard earlier today, when Skinny and I had been ambushed by George and the others. This voice belonged to a guy named Skip. Muck, apparently, was his surname. As for the 'Skip', my gut instinct was willing to bet that it was his first name. Or maybe it was Jay's gut instinct. If that was the case, I didn't want to be right.
No, wait. I called bullshit on that theory. Having Skip as a first name didn't seem like a... common 1920s standard. It was probably his nickname. Either way, I couldn't go wrong with calling him both names.
"Luz?"
"Yeah, Lip?" was the response.
"Take Collins' boots off," the man resumed. "And wake him up in a few hours—on Doc Roe's orders. His bandages need to be refreshed before mess duty."
"Where's Doc anyway?" someone piped up.
Apparently that question had fallen on deaf ears; no one answered.
As if on cue, I just managed to hear someone, probably either George or Muck, heave a sigh. "Is it bad, sir?"
The silence that came after that carefully posed question was heavy, at least until 'Lip' made to reply. And as was the case with somewhat everyone else in this place, 'Lip' didn't even remotely sound like a stranger.
Wait — Lipton? As in the iced tea thing?
I mentally kicked myself. Guessing names had never been my thing.
"...No," Lipton stated, calmly. "It isn't severe. Doc simply doesn't want to take any risks. Jay is going to be fine." He paused then, a moment which felt as if he was seeking affirmation from everyone. The floor merely creaked for the millionth time as he moved, further away from my bed. "Good night, boys. Lights out in 15 minutes."
A hushed chorus of "sir's" followed, and the door fell shut before them.
"Finally. Naptime, fellas."
"Goodnight to you too, Malark."
Hearing footsteps in the direction of my cot, a weight I didn't know I was carrying seemed to be eased off of my feet. The laces were being untied, my boots taken away. Someone then proceeded with patting my leg.
"...You're gonna be okay, buddy."
It didn't take me too long to fall asleep after that, zoning out the hushed whispers of lighthearted talk.
The early morning was still outside, but already several pots and pans were on the stove, cooking and simmering. It would be ready in less than an hour for a bunch of hungry men.
Before all this, though, stuff had happened. George had woken me up in an ungodly hour, which he was ordered to; Roe stood waiting at the far end of my cot for a short trip to the base hospital. I was still busy with rubbing the sleep out of my eyes when I got back to the barracks. The only changes made were the new bandages applied by the medic-in-training. What would follow was mess duty, and my grumpy attitude.
I really disliked Sobel for that nasty decision.
Now, tears ran down my face, and I quickly wiped them away with the back of my left hand. The knife I used was being held clumsily in my other hand. And as I did this, I could feel someone staring at my back, and what followed not soon after was a bark of a laugh.
I groaned at that.
"Are the onions making you emotional, Jonathan?"
"Gee, Joe, how many times haven't I told you — it's Jay; you can call me Jay," I replied heatedly, proceeding with cutting up the onions in bits and pieces for who knows what we would be eating. "And, yeah, I'm really sad about all this army chow I've got to eat."
If I didn't know any better, I'd dare say Joe Domingus looked offended when I mentioned that. I just continued to shrug.
"It's the general consensus," I offered, but not as a form of kind reassurance.
He gave me a deadpan expression then, the potato in his hands subject to the peeler. "It's nothing you won't eat, Jay."
Hearing and saying Gramps' name still felt unnatural.
I smirked, "Just doing you a favor."
Click-clack.
Click-clack.
The movement of her heels resounded in the blindingly white corridors of the enormous building. She walked past a countless amount of doors. People greeted her; she would greet back. Whenever she walked, her stride was always poised, never faltering. It screamed confidence.
Yet at seeing him, lying there in the most vulnerable state, she didn't know what or who to believe anymore. He made her question, even more than she had done on her own already.
But right now, she had to keep walking. And her uncertainty — or was it her recklessness? — had brought her straight to her boss.
"Ah, Ms. Carven," he boasted at the sight of her as she entered. "I'm glad you could join us."
"You called for me, Carter?"
The reply for her question was a mere nod, his green eyes piercing into her brown ones.
She parted her red lips, meeting his gaze evenly. "From experience alone, I can tell being called to your office is never a good sign. That's what I like to think."
"Then maybe I would like for you to challenge this bold statement."
A/N: Another new chapter! Only took me a month to get out, haha. I apologise for that — I'm a slow writer.
However, hopefully you all liked it! If you've got any suggestions, questions or comments, lemme know.
So, here follows my question to you all: is there a character in my story you would love to see? I'm still at that point in the story in which Daniel 'meets' the men of Easy, and there are a lot, frankly. I'm obviously trying to shed some light on the 'minor' characters, so, yeah. :)
Many thanks to BobtheFrog, PerfectBliss, Luckynumber28, war sage, and arahadi for your reviews! You all give me the encouragement to keep writing this piece of fiction.
Until the next chapter, and feel free to leave a review!