Chapter Ten.
"Mmmmm," Owen groans, pushing cushions off the sofa as he stretches.
Through the nearby window, a light breeze flutters in, tinged with sea salt.
He rubs his eyes, opening them after a moment.
"Eugh," he yawns, holding a palm to his temple.
He couldn't remember how many drinks he'd had last night and he really didn't want to ask. Yet, the sound of waves crashing through the thin walls brings a smile to his face.
It's been too long since I woke up to that, he tells himself.
Slowly, he rises, the rough spun woollen blanket slides to his feet. Slowly, he creeps to the bedroom door before breathing a sigh of relief. Claire lies sprawled across the bed; hair half covering her face.
"Shit shit shit!" She curses under her breath.
She drags the hair away from her eyes, squinting at the sunlight coming in through the open door.
"Mornin' sunshine," Owen replies, rubbing his arm.
"Don't…just don't," she answers, propping herself up on an elbow.
"Feeling rough?"
"Yeah, no thanks to you."
"Ouch. Hey, you're the one who wanted to forget, I just helped."
"I did, but I wouldn't have drunk so much if I'd known I'd feel as crap as this."
"Let me get you some coffee," he offers. "And something to eat…"
"Mmm," she replies, shielding her eyes against the onslaught from the open blinds.
His lips curve upwards for a split second before he pauses.
"What?" he matches his own gaze with hers.
For a moment, there's no one else in the world.
Clare wrenches her gaze away, deciding that the clock on the wall is more interesting.
Owen clears his throat.
"I'll get you some coffee," he tells her, before disappearing behind the door.
His heart thumps against his ribcage.
Pull it together Owen, he scolds himself.
The wipers flick left and right furiously in an attempt to clear the windscreen.
"Who knew the weather could be this bad on a tropical island?" Owen quips.
"Yeah."
"You sure you're okay about…y'know…going back and…"
"Yeah."
"You're sure?"
"Yeah."
"What's the capital of France?"
"Yeah."
He glances over to find her picking her nails.
"Claire, this is important. Please will you listen," Owen slowly tells her. "I don't want you to go in there and freak out because of what happened."
"I'm not going to 'freak out' as you put it."
"Shit happened that day and…and I just want to make sure that it's not going to creep up and screw things up for you again."
"They won't," she answers. "It's gonna be difficult but I'm up for it. The faster I open those files, the faster I'm off this island."
"You're really just gonna go back to that house and live out your days away from your family?"
"Don't start Owen," she replies. "I'll keep in touch with them and…with you, but I can't stay here, which I guess is your plan."
"I have to because of Blue and Delta, but-"
"Neither of us have choices," she interjects, watching the rain cascade down the window. "Our lives are pulling in different directions. That's that."
Owen opens his mouth, but clamps it shut. Instead, he pushes down on the accelerator and takes a sharp left to the Innovation Centre.
"Glad you both could make it," Root shakes their hands in turn. "Shall we?"
The investigator enters the elevator last, and presses the button to the control room. The glass box climbs higher until they reach the room. Inside is a hive of activity. Men shout, welders torch pieces of metal together and Lowery sits in his usual spot.
"Hey," he greets the pair casually. "You want 'em to open everything?"
"Please, Mr Cruthers," Root nods.
"So I'm here to push a few buttons and turn a few keys, then that's it?" Claire asks, turning to the Englishman.
"Pretty much," Root responds.
Behind Claire, Owen furiously shakes his head.
"Buuut you may have to stick around in case we come across any more encrypted files," Root adds.
"Thank you," Owen mouths to him.
"Well," Claire sighs. "What do you need first?"
"Over here," Lowery waves her over to the interactive desk.
"What's going on?" Root asks Owen as soon as she's out of earshot.
"Just…some personal things," Owen scrambles for an answer.
"Oh."
"Yeah…" he absently begins to pick at a flap of loose skin beneath his nail. "They might need some help."
Unlike the many times that Claire had stood in the control room, it was only now that she felt completely helpless. She wipes her clammy hands on her jeans, thankful that no one notices. She rolls up the sleeves of Owen's hoody – he hadn't reprimanded her yet for stealing it – and sets to work on the keyboard, her finger striking each key instinctively. Owen's footsteps clomp up behind her.
"How many files are there?"
"Enough to keep me here for hours," she answers, her eyes not wavering from the screen. "I won't be offended if you want to leave and check on your girls."
"Barry's seeing to them," he replies. "I'll go when we're all finished up here."
"We?" She turns to face him. "And what are you gonna be doing?"
"I'm sure I can be of some use," he smiles.
She turns away, rolling her eyes.
"You got this," he adds, before turning away.
Claire pauses, her fingers hovering over the keys…
A white beast…a feature that made her stand out from the rest; a reminder that what she was wasn't natural…she was made, not born.
"That's the Indominus?" Root asks, his breath making her hair stand on end.
"Yeah," she takes a step away from the screen.
"Wow, you never told me that it-"
"Was white?" She interjects, "yeah, I've heard that before."
"It's just when you said dinosaur, I imagined something…brown scales and stuff, not that," he nods to the screen.
"Well…" Claire's knuckles begin to whiten; her right foot taps against the floor.
"Are you okay?"
She nods, but turns on her heels and heads out.
"Claire?" Owen calls after her, but she fixes on her blinkers, and heads out of the room.
"It's dead," she repeats for the eightieth time.
The rain continues to lash down, wave upon wave, completely soaking everything caught out in it.
Maybe I could just go somewhere, she considers. Surely it's safe. I just need to get away from this wretched place.
She wraps the faint cologne smelling jacket around her and pulls up the hood for at least some protection from the weather. Her Converses are instantly soaked as she misjudged a puddle.
"Shit!"
She walks past Owen's car, and down towards the boardwalk. The hood droops from the weight of the rain, hiding half of her face.
The old mosasaur exhibit lies ahead of her, the wire - not yet dismantled – lies above the water. A mixture of salt and acid mingles at the back of her throat. Slowly, Claire unclenches her fists. Spots of blood appear on her palms from where the nails had dug in.
Footsteps slap behind her.
"Claire," he begins, slowly approaching her. "Come inside, you're getting soaked."
She wipes her bloody palms on her jeans.
"You'll catch a cold," he tries again.
She uses his jacket sleeve to tub her eyes.
"Claire, please," he places a hand on her shoulder. "Talk to me. Tell me what it is and I can make it go away."
"It's just…got a bit too much for today," the walls slide back into place. "Those files should keep them busy for a while."
"You're okay though? You froze up in there like you'd seen a ghost and I just thought that-"
"I'm fine," she interjects.
Owen removes his hand from her shoulder.
"Really, I am. I needed some fresh air."
He takes a deep breath.
"Right…as much as I enjoy standing in the rain, can we go back inside?"
She bobs her head and pulls the hood back.
Vrr! Vrr! Owen pulls the phone from his pocket and presses the green button.
"Yeah?...Right we'll be there, just give us five."
"They got something?"
"Yeah, but-"
"Good, let's go back in."
"Claire," he catches her arm as she passes. "We need to talk."
"After," she tries to snatch her arm away.
"No now. You need to tell me what's going on."
"Nothing okay. Nothing is going on."
"So you just walk out into the rain for no apparent reason all the time?"
Her hands clench up.
"It's not funny."
"I know it's not, I was just making a point. I want to help, but you have to tell me. You'll feel better when you let it out."
Bile rises to the back of her throat. Her hands begin to shake uncontrollably.
"I…I don't know how to explain it."
"Okay," he gently pulls her to one of the old storefronts, finding a bench sheltered from the downpour.
"It's like a cycle, it just won't stop."
"What won't?"
"Like a wall, a mental block. Nothing escapes, it just turns over and over in my head and I can't stop it."
"And it started after the incident?"
She nods.
"Sometimes, I wouldn't leave my bed and other times, I didn't want to sleep. It was too much effort. I didn't care. I just wanted to-" she stops and stares at him.
He nods slowly.
"I Googled it. There's no medication for it and I didn't want to talk about it; maybe it's because that would reveal who I was and… Do you ever feel like this?"
"Sometimes," he nods. "But we need to stop this. It's not going to be easy, but together okay. Don't go and run away again. For both of us, don't do that again."
A/N: I've tried my best not to romanticise this story arc as much as possible, especially since I've included mental illness. However, I'm going to treat this as delicately as I can. I would like to put out there that I have been through this (not PTSD but depression) and I, in no way, wish to romanticise a condition that so many people find difficult to talk about, and find hard to act on due to the stigma attached to depression and similar conditions.
If you are reading this and suffering from depression of any kind, please speak to someone. I know that it's hard to find the courage to start, but it really can make a difference, I promise.
Yours, H.