Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Thirty-Two: In the Morning
This was originally going to be the title of this story, actually, but then I changed my mind. I translated it in French to see if I liked it better but no dice. So, one day when I was flipping through my many sheets of music, I unearthed a song I hadn't heard in over a year: Smoke Gets in Your Eyes by Otto Harbach (words) and Jerome Kern (music). The words, needless to say, fit the story perfectly but I still couldn't get this title out of my mind. It's one of Norah Jones' songs on her new CD – the same one I got title The Long Way Home from :) – and I really love how it sounds. It's to be a woman singing about the guy she loves, but the way it's written, she almost sounds like she's singing about cigarettes or at least comparing her lover to them – y'know, they're an addiction, she can't just quit them and all that jazz. (waves hand dismissively) Eh, you'll see what I mean cuz I'm posting them in the upcoming scene u.u
VVVZebbidy had read far into the evening until the purple blanket of night faded from the sky and a brilliantly orange sun surrounded by soft, pink clouds took its place. Sands had fallen asleep only three minutes after she had begun reading, but she had continued on, hoping that her voice would somehow act as a dam and block the nightmares that were sure to invade him.
So far, her plan seemed to be working. The agent hadn't so much as twitched since she'd begun to read. His expression had been calm, neutral . . . Certainly not peaceful, but impassive all the same. The cool mask at least assured her that, if he wasn't content, at least terrifying illusions were not tormenting him.
Unlike me, Zebbidy thought, placing the book on her lap to rub her eyes tiredly. They burned and stung in protest, insisting that she lay down and go to sleep, but Zebbidy ignored her orbs' warnings. With one last glance at the sleeping man next to her, she set The Da Vinci Code on top of the nightstand and slid off of the bed.
With her eyes fixed on the door, Zebbidy was utterly unaware of the hand next to her. As she stood, it trailed down her arm as easily as if it were merely sliding off, intending to make a neat landing onto the bed. Oblivious, Zebbidy had to extinguish a cry of shock when a sudden tug at her wrist caused to her to halt where she stood. Twisting her head around she immediately found the source of the problem: a hand was grasping hers, and since it clearly wasn't one of her own, she knew it could only belong to one other person.
"Somethin' wrong . . . ?" Sands' lips were barely parted making him nearly unintelligible as he voiced his question, but Zebbidy understood his every word, no matter how slurred or dazed they sounded.
She smiled slightly and returned his hand when she made her reply. "No, just try to get some sleep, all right?"
He closed his eyes and, nodding slightly and letting his head drop back onto the pillow, obeyed her without protest for the first time.
VVVTossing uneasily, causing the sheets to snake around his leg, Sands buried his face in his pillow to smother a moan of pain. Zebbidy's tea had worked, but only for a little while. It had soothed his ailing body and mind for the few blessed hours when he had been rewarded with well-deserved sleep. Now, however, he was awake and it seemed as though his time was up.
I told you, you should have asked her for some drugs –
She doesn't have any drugs, Sands explained in a pathetically helpless whine. If she's into herbal remedies and shit like that, then I don't think she'll have anything like that.
Not even Advil? the voice asked skeptically.
Doubt it, he murmured, massaging his raspy throat. It had grown soar over the last few minutes, during which he had been clearing it continuously. Strange how it seemed that, no matter how many times he coughed, his throat remained clogged, his vocal cords stuck together with sticky mucus. Sands imagined that the wound in his chest may have had something to do with it, but he couldn't be sure. Lyn was the one who had almost achieved a medical degree, not him. He was sure, however, that clearing it too much and not drinking enough liquids had brought on the soreness of his throat, but he ignored the thought. At the moment, there were more pressing issues to be dealt with.
Shit, where the hell is Lyn?
Shot? Imprisoned? Dead?
Don't . . .
Don't what?
Don't even fucking suggest that, okay? Just . . . don't.
Don't suggest what that she's been shot, imprisoned, or de –
SHUT UP!!
Drained, Sands turned over on his side, his eyes wide, and curled up into the smallest form possible. Wrapping his arms around his legs, he shivered involuntarily as horrible images invaded his mind. While he laid their like some stupid, weak, unhinged blind man his sister could be out there being tormented with Christ only knew what or lying close to death in the moldy, rat-infested cell that Poisson called his basement.
That'd piss her off. She won't even stay at a Motel 6 for Christ's sake . . . Picky bitch –
Don't start with that.
What? She is a bitch. And don't give me that 'I'm-the-only-one-who-can-call-her-that' shit, because you're not.
I know, he snarled furiously, but that doesn't mean you can say that about her if she's dead.
Oh, so you admit that she's dead?
Sands froze. He stopped shaking, stopped thinking, stopped blinking and breathing. All movement stopped entirely as he tried desperately to recall what he had said.
I . . . no . . . I don't know that, so I'll never admit to it . . . not until I see a body . . .
And if the body isn't breathing?
Then I guess ol' Durang was right, huh?
And he promptly went back to shaking, the sarcastic retort not calming him in the least.
VVV
"I can't stop myself from callin'
Callin' out your name.
I can't stop myself from fallin'
Fallin' back again . . .
In the mornin' . . .
Baby, in the afternoon . . ."
The soft music filtered throughout the suite. It had begun in the kitchen, but slowly it crawled outside, spreading its melody into the living room, through the small hallway that stood between the four rooms the suite held until it at last slipped under the cracks and broke through the hazy atmosphere of the bedroom.
"Dark like the shady corner,
Inside a violin.
Hot like to burn my lips –
I know I can't win,
In the mornin' . . .
Baby, in the afternoon . . ."
Within the tiny kitchen, Zebbidy occupied herself with the stove, stirring up this, that, and whatever else she felt like throwing into the mix. She had ordered room service but kindly asked if they could send the food up uncooked, as she felt safer when she was her own chief. Considering who had raised her – If you could call that being raised, she snorted darkly – she felt paranoia was only to be expected.
"I tried to quit you, but I'm too weak.
Wakin' up without you,
I can hardly speak at all."
Although cooking had never been her forte, Zebbidy felt content whenever she was inside a kitchen. Perhaps it had something to do with the 'homey' feeling that they provided, even if the one she was in seemed rather cold and plain for a kitchen.
When room service had brought up her order, Zebbidy had wasted no time in ushering the young man out of the room and whisking off to the kitchen, tray in hand. She had carefully diced two oranges, shoved two pieces of bread into the toaster, and then set to work what was left. When phoning the front desk, Zebbidy had been sure to order nothing incredibly fancy for breakfast, knowing that, after what he had been through, it would be best if he ate something light for a while.
"My girlfriend tried to help me,
Get you offa my mind.
She tried a little tea and sympathy,
To get me to unwind,
In the mornin' . . .
Baby, in the afternoon . . ."
With a concerned glance into the bedroom, Zebbidy paused – her fingers balanced lightly on top of the surface of a delicate white eggshell – and wondered if her singing was disturbing the agent. From what she could see, Sands was asleep and, aside from the occasional shiver, all right for the time being. Breathing a sigh of relief, Zebbidy smiled sadly and continued her song.
"Funny how my favorite shirt,
Smells more like you than me.
Bitter traces left behind;
Stains that no one can see.
In the mornin' . . .
Baby, in the afternoon . . ."
Tongue poking between her teeth in concentration, Zebbidy broke an egg in two, watching as the orange-yellow yoke spilled into the pan below. She smiled in satisfaction when crack and sizz-sizz met her ears. She may have lost all sense of mind, but at least she could still cook and egg.
"You're gonna put me in an early grave.
I know I'm your slave whenever you call."
Sands stirred at the odd noise that came drifting through his bedroom door. He had hears something like it before – many times, in fact – but now he couldn't place the sound.
Losing your sight can do that to ya, the voice informed him in a tone so calm it had to be pure evil. Y'know . . . it's strange . . . they say that, when one of your senses goes, the others get stronger to make up for it. Think that's true?
No fuckin' way, he responded tiredly. He tugged a pillow over his head, not sure if he was trying to block out the sound or put a stop to the sudden dizziness that had overtaken him. He shut his eyes as if that would block out all sound – after all, everything was already dark when he opened his eyes; maybe it would work. It didn't. The sound, whatever the fuck it was (music maybe? That sounded right) didn't waver in the least and the lightheadedness continued just as strong as ever. Only now it was spreading throughout his entire body.
"I can't stop myself from callin'
Callin' out your name.
I can't stop myself from fallin'"
There it was again, that horrible, sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had been feeling it throughout the night, and he knew exactly what it was: nausea. It visited him every so often, coming and going as it pleased without a care as to what he thought. Each time it came, it had invaded his body, sending wave after wave of dizzying sickness crashing over him like an angry flood.
His thoughts were suddenly swimming in a limitless ocean, struggling to stay afloat and to maintain even a small grasp on reality. And each time the malaise departed, it left him unsteady and feeble, his head pounding and disoriented. Somehow, his aches had turned to pain, a breed so fierce it flared throughout his constantly reeling body, showing no mercy and thinking nothing of what he had already suffered through.
Pulling the blankets tighter around him, Sands closed his eyes again, willing it – almost begging it – to go away. But the illness that had infected his body was deft to his pleas.
"Fallin' back again . . .
Fallin' back again . . ."
He didn't know how much longer he could last. The voice had grown silent. Perhaps he simply couldn't hear it over the exertion it took to keep his mind off of the terrible feelings that rocked his body. Maybe the voice too was having difficulties controlling the same revolted urges he was having.
"Fallin' back again . . ."
He wasn't going to make it. He wasn't going to and that was all there was to it. But if that was true . . . he was blind . . . how the fuck was he going to know if he wasn't walking out onto a balcony instead of into a hallway . . . ?
'I'll be right back. I just need to get a washcloth to clean those wounds. If you . . . If anything happens . . . I'll be in the bathroom.'
Zebbidy's words were being chanted inside his head. For once, he was thankful for the repetition's inability to end. It jogged his cloudy memory from its slumber, demanding it wake up and snap into action. If he could just retrace her footsteps . . . that was all the direction he needed in case he – without warning, his stomach gave a horrible lurch. He got the message. His own innards were desperate to escape his body, and even if they had to fight tooth and nail, they would do it.
"In the mornin' . . ."
That was the last line Sands heard before he ripped the thick layer of blankets off of him, leapt from the bed, and bolted out the door.
VVVZebbidy's green eyes widened in shock as the distinct sounds of stumbling and banging resounded throughout the hotel room. She dropped the spatula in her hand and hurried to find the source of the unexpected chaos only to stop dead in her tracks when a figure darted past her. The shape was moving so fast it was only a blur, but Zebbidy knew it could only have been one person.
Sands appeared not to have seen, heard, nor felt her presence in his mad dash through the darkness that bound him. In his haste, he didn't bother with closing the bathroom door. He merely bent over the toilette and Zebbidy knew what was coming.
She shut her eyes and turned away, not because her own stomach was weak, but out of what she supposed was a kind of respect for the agent. She knew that, had he known she was standing just outside the door, he would have been humiliated at the very thought of being seen in such a state. So instead, she was forced to listen to the grating sound of painfully violent retching.
Dear gods, don't let him cough up any blood, she begged desperately, thinking of the bullet that had torn through Sands' chest and twitching her nose with worry.
The horrible sounds of projectile vomiting seemed to go on for ages and Zebbidy kept her head away the entire time. The excruciating qualms continued relentlessly, stopping only to allow a low whimper to escape the kneeling man and then starting all over again.
Sands gasped, his breath ragged, as yesterday's small lunch and pitifully meager breakfast left through his mouth looking nothing like themselves. But the terribly nauseating feeling was still deep inside of him, and so repeated the process again . . . and again . . . and again . . . choking out whatever little food was still inside of him until the awful feeling of revulsion had finally passed.
VVVA burning sensation ran from his guts to his mouth, but at least the worst was over. For now.
Oh God, I don't wanna do that again . . .
Chest heaving, throat burning, body aching, Sands pressed his forehead to the rim of the bathtub, letting the edge's cool surface be absorbed into his own enkindled skin. His stomach hurt worse than before now, but at least it was empty. There was no way he could so much as spit out anything now, and even if there was anything left inside of him, he didn't think he would have been able to muster the energy to lose any of it.
Funny how he couldn't recall the last time he'd thrown up. He knew he had before this . . . Probably when I was a kid and had the flu or something, he muttered, shutting his eyes painfully. I don't think I've ever been wasted enough to . . .
Letting out a slow, breathy noise that was a cross between a sigh and a moan, he pushed his head into the edge of the tub, willing its icy glaze to put out the fire that had entered his body. This only earned him a splitting headache on top of the two he was already enduring. He turned around, drawing his legs up so they could act as a resting-place for his head which had suddenly grown unbearably heavy over the past few minutes.
A hand had taken the side of his face but not roughly. It was gentle as it turned his throbbing head to the left and gentle still as its mate dabbed his temple with a moist, sweet smelling cloth. Gradually, he found himself leaning against the person as they pulled him towards them. He felt a feather-light arm drape across his bruised shoulders as the person carefully brushed a few strands of hair out of his face and continued to sponge the sweat from his forehead.
"How're you feeling?" Zebbidy asked finally.
"Like shit," Sands replied tonelessly.
That got a smile out of her; he could hear it when she said, "I figured that, but I thought I'd ask just to be sure."
"Mmmh . . ." was all he said as she charily touched the moist washcloth to his cheek. "What's that?" he wanted to know after a while.
"Oh," she started in mild surprise. "Lavender. I put the leaves into the cloth while I was folding it. It's for peace, happiness, sleep, protection . . . among other things. I'm just lucky Poisson had some in that oil painting he calls a garden."
Sands couldn't help but notice the bitterness her voice took on when she mentioned where she had gotten the little flowers. Édouard Poisson was not everyone's favorite person, but Zebbidy's words seemed to hold an exceptional hatred whenever she spoke of him. Zebbidy seemed to have noticed as well, and that put her on edge. Shifting in an almost uncomfortable manner, she laid her lavender scented cloth on the rim of the tub, taking care not to let Sands topple over. Her nose wiggling the smallest fraction, she gazed down at the agent through worried eyes and gave a sad sigh.
"Come on," she whispered, gently looping her arm through his. "Let's get you back to bed."
VVVJust as a note, there will be more childhood flashbacks in the near future, trust me. I originally had one scheduled for this installment but I wanted to get all of this out in one chapter without having to extend it into two, so I cut the dream sequence and am throwing it into the next installment instead.
Sands: So . . . in a way . . . you are extending this into two chapters.
Sidney: But not really.
Sands: (skeptical eyebrow-arch) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sidney: But I kinda am.
Sands: (still the skeptical eyebrow-arch) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Sidney: . . . . . . I don't know. e.e
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
Dawnie-7: Yeah, taking her leg . . . XP It's so very wrong . . . and Lyn's none too happy about it, although I think the voice might be angrier. But how did they know about the leg??? (shifty-eyes) I shouldn't've brought that up. It invokes suspicion, but oh well. I dunno if I'd really call it bonding but then I don't know what else you would call it, so I guess that works. :) And I'm with you. Sands may not like pity, but after what he's been through . . . really, what more can you say?
Lynx Ryder: It's a good play/monologue, definitely. I highly recommend reading it. u.u lol, that's probably the only way Lyn would admit to liking anybody: by telling it to them in a pure, flat-out threat. Sands admitting defeat? Nah, not gonna happen unless he's saying it to trick somebody, which, if that be the case, I can totally see him doing. Blah, herbal teas . . . XP Never liked 'em, don't know if I ever will. Putting mint in tea isn't bad though, I've gotta admit, but then again, I'm like addicted to all things mint so that probably has a lot to do with it. u.u Yeah, Sands is such an ungrateful creep at times – make that all the time, but isn't that why we love him?
Sands: (is doing that skeptical-eyebrow-thing again) -.9
Sidney: Maybe, maybe not. And I thought that reading to him was a relaxing idea too, so I'm very glad to hear that from you :D
morph: Don't worry, everything should be okay in the end. And there will definitely be more mind-reading to come u.u Oh, and . . .
Sands: (does an offhanded wave while making a tequila) u.u
Sidney: (apologetically) Eh . . . that's about as enthusiastic as he's gonna get. Sorry. Hmm . . . maybe I should try getting him high again . . .
Sands: -.9
Sidney: o.o Or not.
fanfiction fanatic: lol, yes, learning telekinetic abilities is a time-burning to say the least. I know it's taken me a good portion of four years to get mine down and they still aren't that great.
DragonHunter200: Liam's gonna be in the next chapter a lot! Don't worry! :) I still think it's so sweet that so many people like him. And there will be a childhood moment, too, like I said above :D o.o And I will have to get that copy of Rolling Stone. I just ordered The Rum Diary from the local bookstore but it won't be in for another week or two, geh . . . but hopefully if I'm able to snag a copy of the magazine, it'll make waiting easier.
o