Beneath the Heap Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I am stealing another's creative genius.

Summary: Eight days later, cold again.

Rating: PG-13 for depressing angst

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Eight days later, cold again. But now the forlorn emptiness was no mystery, no shock, no exterior heart-wrenching force for which she had no reins.

"John," she'd said in a tone of unmistakable cool. Unbearable frost. One heavy word of stony cruel detachment, revealing all she felt, withholding only love.

He'd understood perfectly, one skill at which he was unnervingly undefeated. A paper grocery bag containing a shirt, a toothbrush, a razor, rumpled slightly as it was lifted from the counter and carried through the gaping doorway, pinned between his torso and left arm. The routine procedure of a child's lunch on its way to school did not convey the abnormality it was due.

At the time she'd sighed, and after a moment of extraordinary resistance, salty streams rolled their way down her cheeks, dripping off her jawbone with no thumb-dams to catch them.

Now she was done with such ordinary reactions. She was used to his exits, or should have been. Her final decision had been carried through. He'd answered all her inquiries truthfully, earnestly, eyes glistening with regret, hand reaching to grasp her, needing a handle on the edge of his cliff. She'd pushed him away repeatedly, hesitantly, convincing herself to ignore the turmoil the action induced in her stomach. He'd divulged the details of his secret willingly, but sadly. Where he'd gone (didn't remember, thought Connecticut, maybe), who he'd met (no one, save for a few amateur advice columnists in a bar), why (he didn't know, never would. Thought maybe out of fear or rage or devastation: something extreme, though her guess was as good as his). He'd known even while he spoke that she would not accept his return, that she could not overlook such a flaw.

Yet still he'd persisted, trying to convey how intense his regret was, coursing through the deepest crevasses of his core so much that he sincerely believed the force would shatter him. He'd pleaded for forgiveness, begged for her affection, promised his devotion, declared his love. He'd succeeded in stirring the slop of emotion she already had churning. But the striking reaction she had to his words only served to convince her of a truth she knew was etched into her eventual conclusion, though she knew not why: he had to leave. Ultimately she knew she could not grant his pleas.

And now, when a fleck of liquid arose in her eye, a finger shot to the crevice and vigorously rubbed it dry.

The first few nights he'd called, unwilling to give up his quest. But he'd come to understand that his persuasion was not what she needed to overrule her decision. The third night, his final attempt had been simply a muttered "I love you" as he brushed past her on his way out of the hospital, departing after a grueling ten hour shift. She knew the begrudging words had been a grey flag signifying his dismissal, a way to tell her he was giving up. She'd needed to scream after him, not a simple shout, but a trilling, racking scream expressing her dismay. Could not scream for a ball of tears clogging her throat, promising to spill out if she so much as quivered her chin. Could not let him see her cry. Instead, she'd shaken, violent seizures, forcing her against the wall, keeping her stationary in the muggy summer night air for minutes, pressed so rigidly against the surface, a pattern of rough brick appeared on one cheek.

His tactics were futile, he accepted. He did not know, though, what was necessary to sway her instead.

Nor did she, though she spent most waking moments considering her decision and wondering why she had done what she had. Mostly her analytical search was fruitless, causing only bouts of overwhelming distress, making her waver, frozen, for a minute, until she regained dominance over her emotions, wiped away evidence of grief, until ordinary flesh tones highlighted her face once again. In the hallway, the drug lockup, the bathroom, restocking suture kits. She did not know how to relieve the anguish, only that it must go away.

She did all she could to stay away from him, kept her head firmly facing towards the Earth's crust when she felt his presence prickling her neck. Direct acknowledgement was guaranteed to bring on the attacks readily, and in public, at least, it was more than she could bear to show.

Days grew to a week again, and she feared a relapse into her dead existence, but could do nothing to prevent such a thing. She slept whenever she was not at work (though at least, this time, unlike last, she was actually venturing out daily for shifts), for in sleep her torment seemed to subside. In bed though, before she could slip away, she could feel the heavy sadness pressing her organs to their lower boundaries, constricting her heart's beating, her lungs' breathing, her stomach's digestive churns. Each time, before she slipped into the protective black, she had an engulfing urge to cry out.

One night she indulged the craving and let out a wailing shout that sent blood racing through her veins. She'd jerked upright, pounded the bed frame. Pummeled furniture, decorations, magazines, stormed through the apartment, creating behind her a trail of clutter. Towards the kitchen, by far the most delicate room which would absolutely be the most satisfying to destroy. Plates crashed out of cupboards, smashed on the floor amongst shards of other dishes. It took a sudden sear of hot agony across a thigh to shock her out of her crazed turn as a wrecking ball. Morbidly ashamed, she surveyed the alcove, taking inventory of that which had been damaged. At least eleven separate pieces of dishware. She'd been on track to wreck her entire abode. Glanced down at the pain source to thank it for breaking the trance, and gasped at what she saw. A dozen rivulets of fire engine red, in addition to the larger torrent of the offending original laceration, trickled down her legs. Why hadn't the pain registered? A drop fell from an elbow, and a further check of her body revealed many more rips torn into her skin.

Someone well rehearsed in emergencies, she panicked. Could not remove her feet from where she stood for a moment, then began racing to the living room, the bedroom, the den, back to the kitchen, more pangs shooting up her ankles as she trod on the splinters littering the floor, until she remembered the bathroom was her intended destination. Sat down on the cold white tiles when she got there, the ceramic erupted in crimson polka dots.

Could not think what to do, but an overriding presence in the back of her mind told her she needed to relax. Of course. Why was she panicking to begin with? Inhaled and exhaled to her full capacity, cogs in rapid pursuit of some clue as to the next step. Shivering with anxiety, she could not remember. Thought, though,  that perhaps she needed help if she was unable to tranquilize her apprehension.

Although she could not remember first aid procedures that had been carved into her reality for years, she found the competence to doubt the outcome of a call for assistance. She was not weak. Not vulnerable. Not in pain. This was not out of rage. Not of despair or sorrow or regret. She was not hurt.

Instinctively reached a hand to discourage frustrated tears, as was her new habit, and found something warm on her palm. The polka dots had become an ocean. In a heart-stopping instant of alarm, it occurred to her that she might die.

Despite pride, she had to have help. Desperately. She stood gingerly and wobbled to the bedroom phone, leaving behind a faint path of brownish footprints. Dialed the number whose operator was the surest to aid of any she knew.

"Hello?" Groggy, it was late.

She hesitated. Then persevered in the strongest tone she could muster. "John, I need help." Still wavered a little. Hoped he would grasp the urgency.

"I'm coming," steady, unfazed by their first communication in days. Hung up the phone. Yes, he'd understood.

She made her way back to the cool floor of the other room, and collapsed against the wall. The four words had been the most blatant admittance of fault she'd ever uttered. Shuddered at such dismal records. Though reluctant, the words had been necessary.

He found her in the bathroom, defenseless as he'd ever seen, though this wasn't shocking, he'd been expecting urgency since the phone call, completely unlike her. Gently, he helped her to the bathtub and lifted the bloody nightshirt (his, though he did not remark) over her head. He ran a stream of cool water over her body to assess the injuries, ignoring the goose bumps. Reached under the sink to retrieve paper towels, and began mopping her dry and bandaging, tenderly, with a doctor's ease, one cut at a time.

By the time the last sterile pad was in place, she'd calmed enough to realize her life had never been in peril. Any shame at her desperation, though, was dissolved as he lifted her dry body out of the basin and carried her to the dent in the bed where she'd been lying before  the mania. Tucking her in. a clean shirt hanging silk-like from her shoulders, he sat beside her, stroking her hair with a rough thumb, as she fell quickly into the subconscious, exhausted.

Hours later, she arose to a growling stomach. Exiting the bedroom, she found a cleaned kitchen, all traces of a rage had been swept away, blood stains eliminated, furniture upright. And a man, presumably drained of energy, oblivious to her re-entry, beneath a blanket on the sofa. She had to smile a little at his serenity, until she recalled the tension in which they'd been existing for the last days, and powerful doubt rose in her throat.

"No," she told herself now, exercising newly recovered emotional control. "Later."

As she sat at the table in the afternoon sun, chewing a hunk of bread and meat and alphalfa sprouts, staring at the still form in her living room, small twitches revealed an auburn eye, then another. He set his features pleasantly. "Hi."

"Good morning," she joked.

An obliging smile, then, "how are you today?" serious concern automatically superseding babble.

She chanced a peak down, at a bandaged hand splayed on the brown kitchen table, then cocked her head back up at him, a genuinely encouraging upturn in her features. "I think I'm okay."

He nodded. "Good." His head turned to the right, apparently gazing out the window. From the side she saw his muscles tighten—a frown, though he would not have knowingly showed her.  He was clearly struggling; to keep up the pleasant façade, to refrain from questions he very much wanted answers to. The taut face relaxed slightly, his neck creases slid back down to where they normally lay. He'd come to his decision: he would not ask.

She'd known he'd be too considerate to inquire, but still needed him to know. "I uh, freaked out I guess." His head turned back to face her as she spoke, last traces of his disconcerted expression softening as she continued. "You know, went insane. Channeled my mother. One minute I was falling asleep and the next I was smashing around the apartment wrecking things."

She gestured, he smiled. "Yeah."

Gnawed on her lower lip a bit, unsure. Tried describing a state she could not quite recall. "And, I think, I scared myself more than anything. I panicked. I was helpless… and I told myself I was fatally wounded." Eyes rotated, grinned at the absurd notion. "And I called you." Mumbled, because she knew as much as he did how significant an action it had been. Dying, and her first instinct had been him.

Quiet for a moment, they seemed to concur on some unspoken point, both heads bobbing in affirmation. He ventured needlessly, only to create sound waves, "yeah, you seemed pretty upset."

Now she was the one to redirect her attention. Picked at the chipping paint of the plate where her half-eaten sandwich lay. "Mm hmm. I—" shifted slightly, jerkily, gazing at him with peripheral vision. "Thank you."

  Awkwardness remained floating between the sofa and the kitchen, an impenetrable cloud one would expect between two strangers, a rapper dude and the president, not between proclaimed best friends, once-official lovers. Unbearable. Both perused the apartment, never settling on a diversion until finally they shut their eyes, unable to allow themselves to see any longer for fear of seeing the other.

A long while later, breaking the ambience of shallow breaths, sighs, taps, shifting, "Abby." Slowly opening eyes caught a glimpse of another freshly ajar pair. Could not look away.

Fingers picked at each other, toes balled and flattened. Finally there was no other option. "Huh?"

"Should I leave?" heartbreakingly uncertain. Though reasonably so. She couldn't help smiling, warmly, at the pitiable demeanor. Smile faded to guilt.

"No." More callous than she meant, but she could not divulge excessive feeling. Could add a little though. "Please don't."

The words he'd been hoping for induced an unexpected reaction: fury. Tried to hold it in, she did not deserve the projection. Face contorted, flushed with blood.

"Then what happens?" a brisk bark. Any less repression and the shout would startle her. As it was, she rose faintly from her seat, locked into a classical straight posture.

"I…I don't know." So much more she wanted to tell him, but the surprise had caught her unprepared. The starting gun of a race when she had not yet mounted the winning race horse.

"Well neither do I." Bitter. Confused. Sad? Tried to keep his eyes from hers, followed suit and hoarded his emotions.

And suddenly she vaulted, frantic hope her mounting box. "We're going to try." Landed squarely on the steed, loped to the front of the herd.

He chanced a glance, a faint smile,  "yeah?"

"Well it'll be a whole lot easier than not trying." Smiling too now, anticipation flickering in her throat. Heard his knees crackle as he extended his legs and arose. Couldn't breathe or fidget or blink as he edged toward her, nervously giraffe-ish.

"Okay," a watery mumble, he had no other voice at the moment on account of his tear-teeming larynx. Rougher than he'd intended, his hand thrust into the lingering space between them. Hesitated at the ferocity, then, wobbling, a soldier, uncertain, offering his most prized olive branch, extended the hand to hers, still resting on the table. "I think we can do that."

Neither spoke, neither could, just stared at his hand lifting hers delicately, stroking the bandage, apparently detached from his will. She, too by no conscious attempt, clenched his offering, ignoring the pain. Relief set both too oblivious to register the nerve tinges contact generally caused, and they remained still, herons poised for a catch, for an immeasurable time.

At last, a squeezing struggle in her lungs spoiled the trance, and she drew a long stream of air, open-mouthed. His air puffed toward her upturned face, a warm ribbon of him, and she lowered her head so heat showered her hair part. No longer impeded by an oxygen defecit, one drip fell onto the wood of the table. Soaked in, dye on cloth, discoloring a small circle of the surface. Another drop. Another. One on her ear, and she swiveled to make eye contact, uninhibited for the first time in days.

She raised her free arm, cradled a sodden cheek in her palm, and lowered the extremity, never dropping the connection, as he crouched to her eyelevel. Would have chewed her nails had her hands not been occupied, such was the intensity of her adoration. Chewed a lip instead, shivered. Contracted, overwrought, as arms darted soothingly to loop her waist. Slid her hand from his cheek, across hair she'd been only dreaming of, and pulled his head to her belly, pressed it in as far as her ribcage would allow. It was of no concern he saw her tears now, he was a part of her, a piece due a clear view of its other half, a portion of an freshly unblurred whole.

Her stomach vibrated to his trembles, absorbed the residue from his silently leaking face. She sobbed, caressed his hair, his features, his neck, solemnly swearing never to let go.

"Shh, John, I'm here."

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Author's Note: Well, this is my final chapter of this unintentionally heavy story. I swear, I planned fuzz! It's unnerving how easily the angst comes. The next one will be a fluffy fic, mark my words! Anyway, this was definitely not my favorite chapter, but what did you think? Please review! And thanks for reading it all.