A/N: Making a jump here on the main story line and some character relationship development. Picking right up from the last chapter.
Ch 13: The Star's Sigil
"John. John. I need you to wake up." It's Elle's voice, and it's just a breath above a whisper.
"What time is it?" The words fall out distorted while I stretch and yawn. I don't want to move. Elle drags her fingers through my hair. It feels so good. It's putting me back to sleep.
"It's past your bedtime. Let's get you up before you hurt your neck."
I feel Elle going hands-on when she tries to move me. Pretty sure I growled at her too, because she starts laughing, taking the fight out of her as she struggles against dead weight.
"Come on you old dog! You'll be much more comfortable in your bed."
"I'm fine right here." The irritation in my voice is very apparent as it is loud. Hindsight, until now I didn't realize how miserable I could be after being woken up. Like, turning into a straight up bear. Wait…did she just call me old?!
"I don't think I heard you right."
"Oh, I'm sure you did John. You can be mad at me later. Come on, get up!"
I don't make it easy on Elle as she finally gets me out of the chair. Surprisingly, she takes me for a quick lap out in the hall to get my legs back under me, then totes me off to bed. She isn't wrong that I'm more comfortable where I can sprawl out, but it doesn't change the principle.
"You're right, I am mad at you."
She brushes it off with a soft chuckle as she smiles down at me. It's disarming.
"That's fine. It means I'm doing my job right. I doubt you want to wear that god awful neck brace again." She tidies up my personal belongings from the floor and puts my journal on the nightstand. When she's finished cleaning, she returns to my bedside and takes my hand, rubbing the back of it. There's something about Elle that I can't place, something genuine. Honest about herself and her work, and she brings out the best in people.
"I moved your box behind the chair. See you in the morning John."
"Thanks Elle."
Week 4, Day 28, January 13, 2017
It's hard to believe it's almost been a month since I've returned to the world of the living. Elle's made a point to praise me for all the progress I've made. Still infection free, liver function fully operational (surprise surprise with all the pills), forgot how much percent of muscle put on and recovered. Still dependent on pain management, but I'm hitting a leveling point -enough to balance between what I actually need and what I want. And keeping my temper in check. I never though part of my recovery would include purposely antagonizing me. Or maybe I'm just more cognizant of my situation and becoming frustrated with a life of dependency.
Elle never asks me about what I found in my box.
Wednesday had been another fun day of fun and more focused PT exercises, and of course R & R. Hold onto my stubble a for another week and get a few hours with Whitney again. He regales me with more tales from the front lines. Mentions that once he's transferred to a different wing he wants to initiate his own PT program -and not physical therapy, but physical training. Get the soldiers like ourselves back on track. The world's been at war for so long, it's kind of become the only thing we've known. Fight. Train harder. Fight again. If you're knocked down, pick yourself back up and jump into the ring. Steinn Aflinn has been a safe haven for now, but Chad's already thinking of the next level. He plans on re-enlisting if he gets green lighted by his country. If not, he's mentioned getting involved with the independent militia's back home like a Blackwater or something. The man's always chasing rainbows. I admire that quality in him.
I confide in him about some of the stuff I've found while going through my belongings, sorting through the messy emotions left in its wake. Chad and I connect on a level that Elle and I can't. She tries to empathize, but I know Whitney truly grasps what I'm going through, and the two of us trudge through the aftermath of our pasts. When we're bullshitting over our differences of sports, I take a risk and interject our conversation with something I've been dying to ask.
"Chad, can you hand me that?" I gesture to the magazine laying by the window. He grabs it and tosses it my way haphazardly.
"Look like you might need some catching lessons there Johnny-boy. Could give you a few pointers if you'd like."
"It'd be fairer if I wasn't trying to use my bad arm." I was becoming so dependent on my left hand now that it was becoming easier to perform my daily tasks with it. I often had to remind myself to push myself to use my right side to keep forward progress.
"Hand me that marker too."
I can see from the look on his face he's ready to pitch it like he constantly does to that rubber ball.
"Hand it, you fuck, don't throw it."
Chad's snickering as he holds out the sharpie. For a moment he's thinking of pulling some fast shit on me, but holds off. I sketch out the symbol from my encounter with the Stranger. I take another gander at it, trying to decipher what code it could be one last time before pawning it off on Chad. I can't make sense of it.
"Chad, you ever seen anything like this?" I hand him the doodle. He stares at it for a long time, then flips it in every other direction, trying to make sense of it himself.
"What's it supposed to be? This one of those optic illusions?" He holds it out further away.
"I have no clue."
"V6? 76?" He flips it again.
"Fancy 2? 92? Where'd you see this?"
"Funny you should ask. I remember seeing it on a ring somewhere. It kind of stood out to me." I play it vague. If the Stranger is some sort of hired gun, I don't want to involve anyone else and put them at risk too. It almost felt taboo drawing it, as if it was some sort of mark of death.
"A ring? I mean, it looks like something I should know, but can't say where I've seen it."
"Fair enough. I figured I'd ask." Chad examines the sketch a bit longer before handing it off.
Chad grabs the ball and throws it at the wall, catching it on the return. I can tell he's mulling his thoughts over. It seems to have struck something with him too.
"Now you got me thinking about it John. Feel like I've seen that somewhere. Recently too."
We resume shooting the breeze for a while before Elle returns to reclaim me. I rip off the back page where I drew the hex and pocket it. For some reason if the Stranger is still lurking about here, at least it'll minimize involving innocent bystanders like Whitney. Elle takes me out to the courtyard for a nice walk. It's dark out save for the lamplight illuminating the yard, and expectedly cold, but it's such an incredible feeling being outside. Back in my room, while Elle's getting me settle in, I make a risky move and decide to ask Elle about the Stranger's symbol.
"Hey Elle, mind if I ask you something?"
"You can ask me anything John. You should know that by now."
I pull out the scrap of paper, smooth it out, and offer it to her.
"You ever see this symbol before?"
She grabs it from my hand and gives it a quick once over and hands it right back with the flattest expression I have ever seen.
"Yeah. It's a zodiac sign."
"Zodiac sign? You mean that birthday shit?" Kind of unusual. I wonder what it's significance was in relation to the Stranger.
"Yeah. The horoscopes and stuff. That's the sigil for Capricorn, the 'sea goat'. That's not your sign though. I think yours is actually the-"
"Sea goat?" I cut her off. There was something there that resonated with the letter.
"Sea goat. Half goat, half fish, or mermaid. They're known for being some of the most determined conservative people. You know someone who's a Capricorn?"
"You could say that." Again, play it vague. Elle's been my number one ally and the person I'm most invested in. I don't want to get her involved either. She's gotten me this far, and her only fault I can hold against her is her trying to protect me from myself. Shelter me from the outside world. She'd practically lived by my side since I arrived in October, and has been there every step of the way since. She knows me in a way hardly anyone else has, or anyone who I ever knew that might still be alive out there. Our relationship of understanding is unique, much like what Whitney and I have. In a world full of people, she's someone I would consider a good friend. I go to steer the conversation elsewhere as I swallow the round of oxy she's handed me.
"When's your birthday Elle?"
"What's it matter to you?" She's playing coy and smiling at me in that sly way she does.
"It's not fair, you know when mine is. Hell, it's stamped on this bracelet and on the top of every chart. I think that constitutes as an invasion of privacy."
"Hahaha, that's cute John. I'm pretty sure you lost your rights to your privacy when you signed up for the military life. And when they dropped you off here."
Oh, and I remember it too. Elle had her hands in places I only gave explicit permission to. That, and when I was absolutely shitfaced a few times and forfeited my consent to my lack of sobriety. Elle's standing over me with the charts and jotting her daily notes down.
"I never asked to be here."
"But aren't you glad that you are?"
God, she knows how to tug on the strings. And the way she's smiling, it does something awful to me. That stupid feeling. She gives me a sense of belonging in a country where I don't. How was I going to argue with being granted a 3rd or 4th pass at life? What was that old saying? Don't look a gift horse in the mouth?
"I am. I wouldn't have you."
…
…
What the fuck just came out of my mouth?
Elle stares at me, a bit slack jawed. I think the shocked look on her face is comparable to the look of embarrassment and sheer stupidity on mine. I don't think there's any recovering from this.
"Well, John, if we're being honest here…I wouldn't have you." She puts her hand on my shoulder, and gives a small squeeze. She's got that doe eyed look, her mouth poised in a cautious smile.
"You've been one of the most remarkable patients I have had the honor to work with in all my years. It's been a humbling experience. I've seen you fight back from the edge of death countless times. I've seen you on your bad days. I've seen you on your good ones. I've had to handle that temper of yours when you absolutely refused to cooperate. You're a warrior, you fight any obstacle in your way. Now that's fortitude, John. You have been an inspiration to me."
Elle's turned the table 180. I don't know what to say. It was bad enough I've said the unthinkable, but now Elle's just paved over that in heartfelt confession like I'm some goddamn hero. And it triggers something.
"Don't bullshit me Elle." The words don't come out nice, and I'm feeling a little abrasive. Maybe it's because she friend-zoned me. Maybe because praise has always been a sore subject for me.
"You really can't take a compliment, can you?" She teases.
"You're right, I can't." I find myself snapping at her. "I'm not some glorified hero like everyone thinks I am. I do my job, that's it. I didn't ask questions. People died because of me Elle. Not for me."
I don't even know where that came from. It's a raw feeling, like an open wound doused with alcohol then ground with salt.
Elle's whole demeanor has changed, but she keeps her hand firm on my shoulder. She's searching my face for something she can't find. Like she's reaching for some part of me lost at sea.
"You need to stop blaming yourself, John." There's a waver in her voice. She looks sad.
"You have no idea what it's like Elle. Don't try to tell me how I should feel." I can actually admit I'm angry at her. She has no right. No one has that right. Only me.
"I do know John. I see it every day. I see it in the faces of my dying patients. I see in my staff. I see it in you. I know what it's like to be responsible for someone's life, and what it's like to lose someone. I make those decisions everyday and learn to deal with the consequences of my actions. I don't need you to lecture me on the burden you're carrying. I am here to help you, and to try to stop you from going down the road I've seen too many walk down."
Elle eases her grip on my shoulder,
"I don't want to lose you John. Not to yourself."
She lets go.
"Goodnight."
Elle shoves my chart back on the wall, turns her back on me and walks out. I'd be lying if I didn't say I was glad she left when she did. My teeth hurt from clenching my jaw so hard. I was mad, that kind of reckless hostility that I vaguely remember during my first few conscious days in this place. That kind of anger that could put a fist through a wall. Or the kind that allowed you to shoot your way through a max security base seeking revenge for your murdered comrades. My blood pressure is skyrocketing.
Given a good hour to myself, I have time to brood and let the situation cool off. I never meant to raise my voice to Elle. Not like that. I know during out talks over lunch and therapy, Elle had gone over some of the rolling waves of emotions I'd possibly be facing. Between PTSD, painkillers, the daily trials of my disabilities, and a slowly resurfacing past, she warned me I could be in for a world of hurt. Chad had mentioned his own bouts with anger, with remorse, with regret. Still dealing with them, but in more creative ways. I had done everything to heed his advice and Elle's, but no plan is foolproof. You can't expect the unexpected.
"She's still crying you know."
That voice.
A/N: I feel like I have a knack from riding the high and railroading it into the lows. But it's what you'd expect when you have unexpecetd triggers that can set a person off.