Hooray for the muses! Once again with the legal stuff: I do NOT own Evangelion or its characters. If I did, I wouldn't have so many college bills. Oh well, enjoy the story anyway.
This morning another office bombing was added to the list of recent connected chain bombings that have been plaguing Western Europe for the past few months, this time in Germany, with six confirmed dead and ten seriously injured. The death tolls to this point are fifteen confirmed dead, with the likelihood of an increase as more of the seriously injured die of wounds…
I use the remote to shut off the television. It is suspected by experts that these bombings are the result of a rogue terrorist cell or extreme activist militia, seeing as all the bombings have killed members of or supporters of the U.N.
I simply shrug to myself: with all the incidents occurring in Western Europe, why should I worry, with where I am?
Over the past three months, both the young man and I have started to rebuild our lives, starting with our bodies. The therapists have been very kind and gentle to me, and I've just started to walk with support from a cane. I learned from the nurse that we are in Russia near the eastern coastline, though she wouldn't tell where exactly. When I tried to pry further, she asked for my help in giving my roommate his meal.
I don't mind though: he's always in a pleasant mood, despite his pain and the difficulty of his therapy, particularly his speech therapy. He still cannot speak, but he can grunt and groan now. That and he can move his arms and legs with little flexibility.
The nurse says he's a living miracle. I say it's just the miracle of medical technology, combined with a stubborn and lively patient. He actually has pinched me before, on my hip! I still don't understand why, but the nurse thought my reaction was hilarious, and he seemed to feel the same.
"See that? I told you he liked you," she had told me and let out another laugh. For some reason, I had felt my face get hot and my stomach tighten. Was that embarrassment? Why did I feel it?
But today he is in rare form, a broad smile on his lips. As I set myself on the edge of his bed, he pinches my hip again. I immediately get to my feet, slamming my cane down to keep my balance. I've gone hot in the face again and tight in the stomach. I slap his hand, trying my best to form a small scowl. But, am I really angry with him? I don't know.
The nurse laughs at me again, and I turn the scowl to her. Why is everything always so funny?
She notices my scowl, then sighs, "Okay, I'm sorry young miss," and then looking to my roommate, "Now you behave yourself young man." He only gave an innocent stare and shrugged his shoulders.
I set myself down on the bed again, and he lets me be. I let my scowl fade and my smile return: I like the way my smile feels better. Besides, there is no need for me to be mad: I guess this will become his way of being nice until his voice comes back.
"Time for your food, my boy," the nurse says cheerfully as she presents his food tray. Since he can't move his mouth as freely as I, his food has been processed for easier chewing and swallowing. Lately I've been helping the nurse more with his treatment, mostly feeding him while she prepares him for his therapy and talking to him for the sake of company.
"How are you this morning?" I ask him. He only smiles in response, giving his best impression of a "thumbs-up" with a trembling hand. I take the food tray from the nurse, whose smile can only allude to how cute she thinks the two of us are. I feel like rolling my eyes, but I hold myself back, instead nodding compliantly to her and bringing the tray close to him. I grab the spoon on the tray, gathering a few slices of softened boiled carrots on it, the spoon actually cutting a slice in half as I gather them. If he had more flexibility, he could probably feed himself. But, until he's stronger and more flexible, he still has to be fed by someone else.
Doing my job, I bring the carrots to his mouth, which he opens, though somewhat reluctantly, and takes the spoonful in, chewing it slowly, and then swallowing as hard as he can. His face is bunched up as he swallows, and then he sticks out his tongue in disgust. His expression makes me smile more. He is amusing with his face like that.
"You can't be picky, you need your strength," I tell him. He gives me a look of complaint, his lips drawn up tight toward his nosed. I only shake my head, and then gather more carrots to feed him. A grunt of protest escapes his lips just moments before I push the spoon into his mouth, and he makes a disgusted face again. Swallowing hard, he groans miserably.
"If he could only speak," the nurse says, "Alright, my boy, finish eating so that we can get you and your girlfriend to therapy." Her smile suppresses her laughter, and I rise quickly, forgetting my cane.
"He is not my boyfriend," I nearly shout, a scowl crossing my face, then the shock of falling replacing the anger as I lose my balance. I land on his bed, bounce momentarily, and then end up lying with my head on his chest and my legs dangling off the side. He's warm, and he smells like clean laundry, pleasant and comforting.
I feel his hand on my head, gently patting my hair and weakly gripping strands of it in his fingers. My face grows hot again, and I push against his chest to sit up. The nurse, though concern shows in her eyes, I can clearly read a hint of amusement at my situation.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine." I grab my cane and stand, leaning on it heavily. Why do I feel embarrassed about this? There's nothing embarrassing about it: just a mere accident. It could happen to anyone in my situation, anyone.
I look to him. He seems embarrassed too, a slight blush on his face. It is in this though I notice something else, something deeper than the embarrassment, and it brings the rest of his face to life. A few scars still remain quite visible. The nurse told me he'd been badly cut up when they found him, but that most of the scars had disappeared as he healed over the four years. Now, only the deepest and longest scars can be seen, one on his left jaw under the ear, one on his right cheek just below the bottom of his eyeglass frames and running half the length of the cheek, and a final one crossing his right temple diagonally.
His eyes gaze into mine, and I feel a familiarity I hadn't known before, or had I? They were gentle, intelligent, and looked desperate to speak out loud, maybe even shout and scream to me. I am not sure if they could what would be said, but he does seem very eager to let me know what it is he does.
"Okay you lovebirds," the nurse interrupts my thoughts, "Off to therapy." She has the wheelchair ready for him, and looks expectedly to me to move so she can assist him in. Wait a moment…
"His meal," I say, looking about for the tray. I find that she has removed the tray from easy reach, and I start to move toward it.
"He can eat when he gets back. You can help him finish. You two have wasted enough time as it is. Come on now, time to go."
I scowl again. He needs to eat what he can; otherwise he'll be too weak to work.
"He needs to finish first, or else he won't have the strength to finish his exercises," I stand firmly between the wheelchair and bed, unsure of how long I can hold the intimidating pose. My body begins to quiver, my knees shaking in order to keep me standing tall. There's my answer, I guess.
For a long time the nurse and I lock gazes, a contest of wills. Somehow, despite my shaking knees, I manage to get her to look away.
"Alright, finish his meal, but hurry it up," she says, her tone irritated but not mad. I know she has a job to do, as do I.
Turning and reaching for the tray, I feel his hand gently grasp my wrist. I look to him, curious as to what he wants to tell me.
With a smile on his face, he gives me a thumbs-up. His eyes are laughing, and it makes my face flush. He really is an amusing man.
"If only you could talk," I tell him, and then reach for his food tray to finish his meal.
I lean confidently against the cane, my legs holding their own as we return from therapy. My brown-haired companion hardly slowed now, flies past me on his crutches.
"Hey you, slow down!" I yell to him. Ever since he got the strength back in his arms he's lost all his earlier inhibitions. The doctors say that it will still be another six months or so until he can start speaking again: He's come a long way in two months.
I speed up my pace, the cane thumping in time. I would have been off the cane earlier, but the doctors found a small fragment of bone had splintered off my leg and was causing irritation in the muscle tissue. So, they removed it surgically, and I had to stay off my leg until it healed enough to walk on again, a three-week delay. Now he's caught up to me, maybe even surpassed me. This sucks.
I walk into the doorway: my friend is already at his bed, a small package lies between his knees, wrapped in what appears to be the remnants of a paper bag taped together, the mailing address written in black permanent marker, but no return address.
"Who's it from?" I inquire, making my way over to his bed. He looks up from the package, shrugs with a smile, and then resumes his search of the package, poking, prodding, and bending it slightly.
"Well, did it blow up?" the nurse asks. I turn quickly: How does she manage to sneak up on us? I'd swear she had the power to nullify sound. However, her smile eases me, making up for the entire emotional stir she creates.
I shake my head. Her smile widens, and she lets out a small laugh. Judging from the confusion I am showing, she sighs and explains, "It was delivered while you two were in therapy. I thought I'd let him find it when he got back."
"Who's it from?"
"Your benefactor," she tells me simply, then crosses her arms: something else she doesn't want to tell me about, that she'll avoid saying at all costs. Despite the fact that she's been so kind, the secrets she's kept from us are beginning to gnaw at my brain, and the questions will not rest, and it angers me that I don't know what's going on.
"The benefactor we have heard nothing from or about," I respond. I don't mean to be bitter, but my voice carries a small sting that the nurse seems to take offense to. She steps up to me and looks me in the face. She is so close now that I can smell her deodorant.
"Without your benefactor you two would still both be vegetables, perhaps even dead. I would not be so disrespectful." She places her hands on her hips and takes a step back, "He even goes to the trouble to deliver a gift, and all you can feel is bitterness." Her eyes meet mine, and their anger makes my stomach hurt.
"If he cares so much, he should come around." I snap back, fighting the cramp I'm feeling. I'm tired if all the secrets, the lies that are being fed to me. I refuse to acknowledge them any more. I can't remember anything from my life before I awakened, and now these people are trying to hand me a life that is not my own, one in which they can manipulate me like some sort of hellish puppet.
"I am not a doll!"
The nurse steps back, a look of shock replacing her anger. My arms shake, and hot tears stream down my cheeks. I do not wipe them away: why should I, when tears are all that will replace the ones I've taken away?
His hand is the next thing I am aware of, gently gripping my shoulder. I turn to him, a drizzle of tears making my eyesight blurry, but I can clearly see his smile. Strangely, his hand feel good to me, sudden warmth on my shoulder that wasn't there before, giving it a new definition and form. I reach up and touch his hand, soft in my grip.
Though his eyes are sympathetic, his smile is excited, and he brings my attention to his lap. In it is a notebook with several markers, each with a carrying thong to wear around the neck.
"Good, now you'll be able to communicate with everyone," the nurse says, a little ruffled, but otherwise back to being normal. He nods and, with a wink to me, places one of the markers around his neck.
"Then I guess I'll leave you two for now. I have a few rounds to make. Be back later," the nurse says as she excuses herself. We both nod, waiting impatiently for her to leave.
When she is gone from sight, I sit onto his bed, scooting closer to him so as not to fall off. He seems a little surprised by the sudden proximity, but adjusts quickly, whipping open the notebook and the marker from its cap. His writing is a little clumsy at first, but it quickly takes form. When he finishes writing, he displays it to me.
Do you really not remember anything from before the explosion?
"No, I don't remember much of anything before the hospital. Just a single name that isn't my own: Ikari."
His eyes light up with excitement, and he quickly writes something else down.
I don't know what happened to him, but I can help you get your memory back.
"You can? Do you really know who I am?" This could be it, the past locked in my memory, far from sight and beyond the dark border of my memory.
He nods, scribbling just one phrase on his notebook, and then holding it up for me to see.
You're name is Rei.