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Ancillae
Chapter Two: Beginners
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It is late at night when Megan returns with bag after bag of groceries. I am half asleep, but Horatio stubs a toe on the coat rack and I can hear him muffle a curse.
"Don't you have a daughter to go home to?" I toss at him, as he places a bag full of canned goods on my meager breakfast table.
"She's sleeping over one of her friends' houses tonight." He retorts, opening a bottle of Pepsi and grabbing three glasses from the dish drainer.
The two begin the task of unpacking all the foodstuffs, while I continue to stare out the window and hope that I can possibly go to sleep. It is nearly midnight.
"Stay awake." Meg tells me when my eyelids droop, while she looks through my cabinets for a non-existent saucepot. When one fails to materialize before her, she gets aggravated; "I know what I'm getting you for your birthday." It's mumbled under her breath, but I hear what she has said and can't help but grin.
"Well, I assumed when you requested pasta that meant you had items with which to make it."
"Sorry to disappoint." I drawl back, trying once again to sleep.
"Hey, eyes open." The other man tells me, walking into the room to hand me a glass of the soda.
I take the offered liquid and sip slowly, "Thank you."
"I stopped by a pharmacy on the way back and got some more bandages, Neosporin, rubbing alcohol…"
In other words – implements for my torture. At least she didn't come back with anyone in possession of a medical degree, "That's good." A generic statement seems in order.
She gives me a look that speaks of frustration, then continues with her previous chore of trying to cook dinner. I've only got a frying pan, some Tupperware, a couple of sets of utensils, and some china to my name. All were gifts from family.
"If you don't go out, you don't have a TV, and you don't cook, what do you do when you're home?" Horatio is trying to tease me.
"Well, I, unlike the Shoe Queen here, prefer to read." I direct him to what was once a guest bedroom. It is now my study. My desk and computer are in there, along with bookshelves and bookshelves filled with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Walt Whitman, Edgar Allan Poe, the odd Forensics book on DNA or fibers, worn yearbooks.
He disappears inside, and reappears with my favorite book in his hands. It's the deathbed edition of Walt Whitman's poems. I had left it open this morning to a certain page, intent on reading more out of it when I got home for the hundredth time.
The edges of the cover are worn and many of the pages are dog-eared, but it was a gift and I don't want replacement. I take it he can tell that by the way he carries it gingerly, then begins, "How people respond to them, yet know them not," He pauses, probably trying to digest the reason why this particular part of the poem is highlighted and underlined, "How there is something relentless in their fate all times," His speech cracks a bit. He reads the next line, and my voice joins his for the last, "And how the same inexorable price must still be paid for the same great purchase."
I shrug my shoulders when his line of sight crosses my own, "Beginners was the first poem of his I ever heard. Matthew used to read his favorites to me during study halls. He loved Walt Whitman."
Megan's gaze is boring into my back, "You never told me that."
"You never asked." Is my instant comeback.
She nods at that, "True. I always thought you liked Poe better. You have that giant book with all his works."
"My younger brother bought it for me. We've been working on our relationship for the last year, and I made the mistake of telling him I can recite The Raven from memory." I silently applaud her nod and grin, but grimace outwardly when she comes to the couch with an omelet.
Normally I wouldn't care, but it wasn't made the way I like them – egg substitute, goat cheese, and lean turkey. No, this one is made with normal eggs, and filled with chemically-colored yellow American cheese, greasy sausage bits, and red pepper. I know she won't leave me alone until I eat something, so I take a forkful and force it down.
I hear her breathe out, "Now that wasn't so bad."
"This is a heart attack waiting to happen. But you won't leave me alone if I don't eat." I inform her, and cajole some more down my throat. I have confidence that it will stay down, despite how much I don't want it in me.
"So long as you know."
The frying pan is heated twice more, and my two captors settle down to scarf their meal. As they do so, I attempt to stand up.
"Where do you think you're going?" Horatio must've swallowed before the woman did or I would be getting shoved back onto the cushions and lectured.
"I have to use the bathroom."
Calmly, he places his plate down on the end table beside the chair he is sitting in, then rises.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm taking you to the bathroom." He gives me a look that says there is no choice in the matter. Apparently, I'm to have a bodyguard now.
"Never mind."
He grabs my unmarred arm as I begin to lean back into the seat, releases me and resettles into the chair, "This is good, Meg." I can sense the awkwardness between them. Horatio didn't take her resignation too well either.
"Thanks." I know she wants to mention that Sean had taught her rudimentary cooking skills, but she holds it in.
"Sean would've liked these." I remark, hoping she doesn't see it as an insult.
She nods, "True. The more fattening it was, the more he liked it."
I mash up the last of my disgustingly fattening dinner. She'll think I ate more than I did that way. My eyelids start to droop again, as I all but drop the plate back onto the coffee table. I feel a small, feminine hand brush through my hair as I drift off. I hate it when she does that…
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My dreams are a constant in my unstable life. My mother doesn't understand when I tell her about work. "You always do the same thing. How can it be so unsteady?" She says to me, "Now if you were working here with your father and I…this business…"
She doesn't have a clue.
But my dreams are my last safe haven from reality. It lets me breathe, listen to the poetry I have memorized over the years whisper through my mind in the voice of friends and family. The ones I like.
Unfortunately, with the dawn comes my inability to sleep longer. Not on this couch, in any case.
Horatio and Megan are sitting at my breakfast table, sipping coffee and orange juice respectively. They are both staring across at each other, a small smile on each of their faces. I don't want to spoil the moment, and I close my eyes again.
"I saw that, mister!" Meg's declaration forces me to look at her again, "Good morning." She approaches me with a plastic bag. Gee, I wonder what's in there.
At some point during the four hours of sleep I've gotten, my boss has apparently returned home for more comfortable clothes. Now he is wearing dark blue jeans and a black T-shirt. The necklace around his neck is one I've seen many times before when his daughter is around, as it was a gift from her a few Christmas' ago – a simple gold chain with a single charm of the letters H and G entwined around the other.
"Morning." He tries to smile as she has, but he's exhausted and it shows. They both begin the arduous job of cleaning and redressing all of my wounds, "You do realize we can't keep doing this, right? At some point we have to take you to a doctor."
I nod, "I understand." I do, but it, much like my appointment with Caelyn today, will not be done willingly. When they are nearly done with my arm, I begin yawning. I can't help it. Like I said – I'm tired still. I never could sleep on a couch…with the exception of Pam's, but her couch happens to be a daybed.
"I would've sent you to bed, but I didn't want to wake you." Meg tells me, "You looked…"
"Asleep?" I offer without humor.
"Content." She connects her eyes to mine, "You haven't slept like that in ages, have you?"
"No." I'm not stupid enough to lie about this to her. She knows the answer – she wants me to say it out loud, "Not since the Clan Lab…I think."
She looks at him, and receives a nod of 'I'll-tell-you-later', "When was that?"
"January."
"That's not so bad. It's only a month." She lisps, and I remember that she's seen me in much more cranky states. I'm a bastard when I haven't slept well.
Horatio is behind the couch, just out of my peripheral vision, so he startles me when he speaks, "I cleaned up your room and put new sheets on your bed."
"Fuck. Don't do that." I clutch my chest and breathe deeply, before asking, "Are you going to follow me into the room?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
He cocks his head to the side, "You know why. We've taken all the sharp things we could find and hidden them, but you're a highly intelligent man. And you're desperate."
"Then I'm staying here."
"You can't sleep on the couch. I know you don't get more than a few hours of rest when you do." Damnit, Megan Donner! Shut up!
Captor Number Two reaches forward and pulls me to my feet, which jerks the healing gouge in my thigh. I am torn between the pleasure it brings and the realization that for once I actually feel bone-deep pain. I moan. I'm not sure why I do.
"Timmy?"
"I'm fine." The response is automatic at this point. And moot as hell.
He waves her off as she tries to advance, helping me to get my arm around his shoulders. Some times it helps to be the same height as the boss. Slowly, he shifts me until we can maneuver our way forward. Which we do so, stopping briefly to open the door.
'Cleaned your room' was an understatement. This was a complete overhaul. My linens, which had once been white and somehow went translucent, have been replaced by dark blue ones. I don't know where they found the new comforter that's piled at the foot of my bed. The clothes that had been all over the floor are in the hamper I didn't realize I owned. And the magazines that were previously thrown haphazardly on my dresser top and nightstands are now neatly stacked on the ground.
"Thanks." I grunt, trying to get in between the sheets without help. I'm not successful – one of the bandages catches the sharp edge of the table, ripping the gauze away and reopening the wound on my arm. I am fascinated by the blood for an instant, than remember where I am and what is going on.
H aids me the rest of the way into the bed. He gets out of the room for a moment, then re-enters with a fresh roll of the annoying fabric and more medical tape. We don't speak while he fixes what I have undone.
"Thank you again." I am half-asleep on my side when he rises and begins the trek back to the living room.
"You're welcome." He pulls the blanket up and around me, "Get some rest. That's an order."
I find a bit of laughter left in me, and watch him go. I am well-aware that he doesn't close the door behind him. He's testing me, probably after making Megan see some sort of twisted reasoning. She's never been one for intangible things. She needs the science. With me, she gets both and that's why it scares her. I know it does because I can see it in her eyes. She can't understand the cause, but she can see the effect.
As I drift off once again, I see Horatio come back in and sit down in the armchair beside my dresser with the book of poetry from earlier in his hands.
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There's a soft lull of breathing and flutter of pages when I next open my eyes. I know straight away who it must be, and with that conclusion drawn, I can safely assume that the body curled in the opposite direction is Megan.
"What time is it?" I graze a hand over my face, wiping the last vestiges of sleep from my expression.
"Nine."
"Morning or night?" I suppose it could be considered a stupid question, but I have, on random occasions, slept through the entire day and woken up in the middle of the night. Not entirely helpful since my shifts often begin at six a.m.
"Morning."
I groan and start the process of sitting up, "This usually isn't so bad." I keep my tone low. She's lost enough sleep over me for two lifetimes.
The boss is silent as he gets up from his chair and guides me to the couch once again. He continues to stand, "Now explain to me how it usually is." I can see that he's trying to act as natural as he can. Poor guy.
"It's probably the cream." I sit back and relax a tiny bit, "Normally, it doesn't hurt. Then again, I like the sensations it gives me." I stop, breathe, and speak again, "But with the two of you here, I can't…it doesn't feel right."
"Okay." He's processing what I've told him. Dear God, I feel an interrogation coming. I'm not disappointed, "I can understand why you started, why you continued, but I don't understand why you are still self-mutilating."
Have I mentioned that I hate it people put it like that? "I feel."
"Feel what?"
"Feel. Period." I look down at my hands. I know he's getting more confused, so I try to explain further, "I feel pain. I feel release. When I haven't done it, I am dead. Emotionless."
He closes his eyes, rubs his face, then looks back at me, "Do you feel like that all the time?"
"Every hour of every day."
"Tim, please, let us help you." He sounds heartfelt…so I'm working on blocking him out, "Megan wants to come back. She wants to be here for you. And I know you don't think it's true but I do consider you to be my friend. I don't want anything to happen to you."
"I don't need help, H."
Oh, shit. Now he looks like he's going to cry. What am I doing wrong now?
Rubbing his eyes to cover the faux pas, he sighs, "Caelyn is expecting you at noon. And despite what Megan thinks, if you have to spend some time in the psyche ward, then it'll be done."
"Really? I wasn't aware that you are in charge of my life." Now I'm pissed. Calm to enraged in two-point-two seconds. I do not take kindly to people who think they can order me around because they're older than me or they're somehow above me.
"I'm not, but the state can force the issue if they feel your life is in danger. Or I could call your parents and find out what they think."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me." He's provoking me, then shifts forward and kneels in front of me, "Speed, I am lost here. I don't know what to do. I can't leave this alone, but you're not a child so I can't make you do anything. So tell me what to do."
I wasn't expecting that, and I know that telling him to fuck off is out of the question. I see the look of fear and hope plastered onto his face.
It's nearly ten years that Matt's been gone and, yet, I mourn him still. Ten long years. I don't care much for making new friends only because I don't want to lose them either. And then there's the fact that I'm acting like someone half my age. Then add Megan into the fray…all the pain I've caused her when she was trying to move on after Sean. I don't even know half my family anymore.
"Tim?"
I shut my eyelids, blocking out the light of the harsh reality I've found myself in, "Help me, Horatio."
His hand moves to grasp one of mine and I feel two warm tears slide down my cheeks. I haven't hit bottom. No, not yet. I'm still rational enough to know that I should be seeking help.
I can hear Megan trying to be soundless as she cries. It isn't working.
I just don't want to cause her any more grief. She's all I have left.
She walks into the room, her eyes already red, and sits next to me, "Oh, Timmy." Her arms go around me and I gratefully bury my face into her neck. She's whispering sweet nothings to me, H is rubbing my back. I don't know why this feels so good. For some reason it does, and that is slightly disturbing.
Shit, this is what it feels like when I cut. These are the emotions I'm normally devoid of.
I actually like it.
Too bad it's going to end soon.
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*v* Cassie Jamie *v*
cj.1@cassie-jamie.com