Author's Note: I threw this one out here for now, even though it just kind of...ends. I've never really liked it, but here it is regardless.
Chapter Seven
Over a week had passed since my stranger awoke, and in that time I had discovered in him a rather interesting trait: he absolutely despised being cared for, even more so by a person he did not know.
Although, I am quite certain if he did know me, it would have made little difference.
It was in this time that we came to our current tentative arrangement: I would not make any attempt at aiding him unless absolutely necessary and he in turn would stay out of my way as much as possible. Not hard, when you consider how weak he was.
That first night of our truce was a trial, of both our sanities. He had, in the end - and with a great deal of reluctance - allowed me to help him. Granted, he was far from amiable, but he did not have a choice; he was simply too weak to continue maintaining his somber, rigid attitude. That elegant and disturbingly familiar handgun had remained locked tightly as ever in his hand, and while I had wished for it to be as far away from me as possible – and by extension, him – I would never have asked him to release it. It was as though this weapon was the only shred he had remaining of his reason. If such a thing eased his mind and tempered his mood, then I had been in no hurry to take it from him.
That sentiment had changed in an instant...
I had wandered over to the couch where he had so disdainfully lodged himself with a bowl of broth and water, both of which were in clay containers. There was a look in his red eyes that told me I was to keep my distance; of course, I was more than willing to oblige. Carefully, I set them on the coffee table and then turned back to the kitchen; I hated having my back to the man, but I was not about to show just how unnerved I was to have him stare. My aforementioned kitchen was in a state of complete disarray. Pots were either half-full or entirely empty, awaiting a hot bath. Most of my skillets were covered in sauces or the remainders of brazed meats. I had to sigh to myself for the mess I had made, though my father always chided me for wanting to keep a clean kitchen as I cooked; a messy kitchen is the sign of a good cook, or so he said.
The pot still filled with the stew I had concocted was sitting on the stove, waiting for its lid and then a trip to the refrigerator; it was the only thing in the disaster area that appeared neat. Forgetting - for a moment - my stranger, I slumped against the counter and scrubbed my face with one hand. What is wrong with me? In a normal situation, the act of creating something, be it a stew, a quilt or even a fire, would calm me and soothe my nerves. Now, I could not find the words for what I needed, but I knew it was not what I had done. Frustrated for the hundredth time that day, I began running hot water into the sink and tossing in utensils. They made a rather satisfying clinking noise as they impacted against the porcelain sink, and they were followed up by the heavier tones of the skillet and a small pot.
Rolling up my sleeves, I dunked my hands into the scalding hot water. After having worked in the great outdoors for so long, my hands were callused and rough, not at all sensitive to the searing heat. Adding a bit of soap, I began furiously scouring the skillet, scrubbing off the stubborn bits of grease and meat morsels. In the middle of a stroke – while being rather cross at my cookware – the sound of choking caught my attention. Brushing aside a strand of unruly hair with my forearm, I could see the obvious trouble my stranger was having. Cursing myself once again for taking in this man, I rinsed my hands and made my way back to the couch.
My guest had settled the bowl into his lap, and was attempting to feed himself while sitting up. Each spoonful was a battle, as he was required to lean down, doubling over the most grievous of his wounds and causing the muscles of his stomach and ribs to contract in protest. What I had heard was one of the instances when he could not swallow, breathe, and remain bent over at the same time; his body was fighting against him and it was winning.
He had dropped his spoon, and was bent over in noticeable pain. His free hand was pressed firmly against his ribs, fingers gripping the muscles. Though his red eyes had been tightly closed, when I approached they flew open and hit me with a hard stare. Instantly, my body was assaulted with the very plain message of go away. Swallowing, I forced my feet to continue moving, to get closer to a very dangerous, wounded animal.
As I made my way around the coffee table, I could finally see through his thick black mane; his lips were parted and he was trying to suck in air, though with the way he was sitting, none would be able to fill his lungs. Once again, those eyes found me and demanded that I stay away.
Of course, I ignored them.
Tentatively, I eased the rest of the way around the table, ending up at his side. Rather cautiously, I stretched down to retrieve the spoon, garnering a wary and heated glance from my stranger. Already bent over, I decided that perhaps he would do better if I was to be on his level; with most animals, they feel less threatened if you are not standing above them. Slowly, and with extreme care, I knelt down beside him. From that angle, it became all the more obvious that he was in a great deal of suffering. His disturbing eyes were fighting to remain open, though with every wave of agony they were forced closed. The hand wrapped around his body was gripping harder and harder, as though adding more pain would take the rest away.
I needed him to lay down, to relax the muscles that were reflexively tightening and preventing him from breathing. Before I could think and tell myself not to, I was reaching for the bowl of soup still resting in his lap.
It was a grave mistake.
Instantly, that hated handgun was in my face, and all motion in the room had ceased. His blood coloured eyes were fixed on my own, and he had stopped fighting for air. There was a moment in which I could not form a thought, but it vanished when a torrent of memories and images came flooding into my mind. They all screamed for attention, glad to be free of their restraints. In my father's voice, my trainer's voice, my partner's voice…I could not stop them…
Run from the devil, child. Run, run, run. Never stop. Never quit. Are you going to quit? Are you going to flee? Give up? Fight. Always fight. Always push the advantage. Make them pay. Do not leave them their sanity. Break them. Bring their blood. Cut hard, cut deep. More blood. Cut fight bleed run kill …KILL.
And then I heard the distinct click of a cocking gun.
