Chapter 24) Damaged goods
.-.-.
Maria overheard the frustrated shouts from Polly when she took halt at the doorstep of Watery Lane. A nasty lump inside her stomach grew in size, today was going to be a very long day by the sounds of it. The urge to spin around and spend her time elsewhere seemed almost too tempting. But since the lives and the wellbeing of her family rested on her shoulders as an anvil, there was no escaping Watery Lane's fury.
At times factory work from sunrise until sundown seemed like a vacation.
Still unaware of the root of the problem she softly knocked on the door.
Immediately the door shot open, nearly torn from its hinges. Polly's overall appearance wasn't as impeccable as the usual unattainable bearing she carried herself with. Her curly hair made a great resemblance with a birds nest and she was still in her bathrobe and slippers. Her stern and most calculated gaze, which seemed to run in the family as a blessing and a curse, flickered with what her uncle would identify as devilment.
"Get in!" The older woman spat at her yanking her over the doorstep by her elbow.
Inside stood Tommy playing marble, eyes as an furies deer caught in headlights. By the looks of shards of broken porcelain he hadn't been able to keep his temper down.
When he took sight of her, the deer morphed into a wild cat trapped in a corner. Without even acknowledging her, Tommy marched up the stairs. Two seconds later the loud bang of his bedroom door shook the entire house.
Rage seemed to sinder off Polly who abruptly let go of Maria's elbow and started sweeping the cluttered shards of a teacup together.
Maria stood there watching and suppressing the enormous urge to quietly sneak off and away now that she was no-ones centre of attention.
"He has an appointment at the hospital," Polly informed her matter-of-factly, picking up the pieces. Maria thought of it as a bitter metaphor, somehow Polly always seemed to picking up someone else's pieces.
"But of course he refuses to go, the bloody idiot," Polly hissed through gritted teeth and cursed something in Romani.
"There is a doctor, who's specialised in war trauma. He travels through the country to study ex soldiers. Tommy is a subject of interest and volunteered when he was recovering in the hospital."
Polly carefully took all shards of porcelain and placed them on their kitchen table. Rummaging through drawers she retreated back to the table with a tube of glue.
"Maybe there is a cure, there must be more cases like Tommy's. He can't be the first soldier to lose his speech. There must be others. Maybe with the right treatment…" her voice drifted off as she occupied herself ordering the shards.
Maria hadn't been aware that she'd been holding her breath ever since the moment she was dragged into the kitchen of Watery lane and dared to let her guard down now that she knew she wasn't the source of Polly's dread.
It was painful to see how the woman yearned for the old Tommy to return. Maria did not have the heart nor the guts to tell her that she highly doubted such miracle would happen. And along the line of her sympathy for the older woman there was a shard of anger. Tommy's disability came close to home. Her mum suffered from the same handicap. For some utter fools, an even severer one. Deaf, disabled therefore cut from society.
It hurt, because during her carefree childhood and adolescent she'd never seen her mother as one with a disability. Her mum was just as strong, kind hearted and loving as every other mother and would fight with her bare hands to keep her children safe.
Maria never understood where Tommy's utter hatred for his muteness came from. In her eyes there was nothing wrong with him. To her, he did not lack anything. On the contrary, he'd faced the war, looked it in it's eyes and came back. He was able to continue as an asset in his wicked family business.
As his speaker she started to notice how his relatives depended on him. How he wasn't able to fulfil his old role because every single one of them wished for the Tommy 'before the war' to return.
It wasn't fair for them to wish his muteness away, it was as if they expected him to cut his right arm off. His muteness was a part of him. In order for him to accept that, they all needed to accept that.
But Maria didn't think it was her place or a wise thing to be the one to tell Polly that. So she remained quiet, biting her lower lip.
"He has an appointment this morning at ten o'clock at the Birmingham State Hospital with Dr. Rivers. Since he's gotten so particularly found of you, maybe you can talk some sense into his thick skull," Polly spat with a clear hint of envy, connecting two pieces of porcelain.
Maria took that as a cue to dispose herself from the kitchen and gladly retreated into the hallway. The first dragon did not bite her head off, she wondered what the next one would do.
The walk up the stairs seemed to take an eternity in which she collected all her courage to knock on his door.
Without expecting an answer she cautiously peeked around the corner, aware she could earn something heavy being thrown at her head, for being there.
Tommy sat on his bed, hunched forward with his hands in his hair. To her surprise, he didn't appear angry at her presence, he seemed too occupied with his thoughts to tell her off.
Without his three piece suit, trademark flat cap, the grandeur of a cut throat gangster, he almost seemed fragile. Disheveled from his pride, and worn by the everyday challenges his muteness brought along. In front of her sat a damaged man doing his absolute best to keep his head up in a world that didn't acknowledge him for who he was.
Don't, he mouthed at her when she opened her mouth. Angered he ruffled through his hair, fingers freezing on the thick lines of scar tissue. Filled up with self-loathing that he yanked his hat from his nightstand and pulled it firmly over the root of his misery.
You honestly believe there's a cure for this? He signed unable to keep his face clear from frustration. The prominent lines between his eyebrows sat deep and for a moment Maria honestly believed he wanted her to say yes. That yes there was a magic pill, a special treatment or one of God's wonders. That praying helped, that a thousand hail mary's would do the trick. That one day, he would be good enough.
"No," She answered honestly.
Anguish swept over him like a curtain of black and he dropped his gaze. His jaw clenched and he grunted through his teeth.
"I don't think there is a cure," Maria whispered and slowly stepped into his room and closed the door behind her. She still remained awfully intimidated by Polly and would rather have this conversation in private.
Tommy succeeded to wrap all his darkness and pain away and she met his icy cold stare as he signed to her. Then why go to a hospital? Do a few tricks like a fucking guinea pig, for what? Nothing!
Becoming the centre of his attention made her awfully aware that in fact, he was opening up to her. Maybe not in a healthy way, but a layer of his usual indifference peeled off.
She threw her gaze down and was afraid for his reaction but felt the need to say it out loud. "I don't think you will ever get your voice back." Peeking through her lashes she noticed the change in his bearing. Swallowing thickly he scrunched his nose and desperately tried to keep his trademark stoic face up.
That makes two of us, he signed with twitching fingers and he stared at her, almost daring her to say something that would cut him even deeper. Showing her that whatever the world would throw at his feet, he'd bare it. Take the pain and bite through it all.
"But maybe, in the long run, the doctor can help others. Then maybe what happened to you, won't be for nothing," Maria whispered, aware she was testing his temper.
Tommy grunted low and gave her a vacant stare before looking at his pocket watch.
Resolutely he shot up, grabbed her by the shoulder and forcefully pushed her out of his room. The door slammed shut in her face as she shifted on her feet to maintain balance.
Clearly she pushed a wrong button and got out of line.
"Tommy, I'm sorry!" She apologized baffled by his sudden action. Highly doubting that knocking on his door would be a good idea, she dug her fingernails into the soft skin of her palm, questioning what to do next.
The choice was made for her.
Tommy reopened the door, wearing his coat and fumbling his notebook into one of his pockets. With a lit cigarette pressed between his lips he cocked his head into the direction of the stairs and pushed her forward when she lacked his demand.
Being pushed through the living room, she met Polly's worried frown but wasn't granted a moment to speak with the older lady. Tommy didn't give Polly anything more then a glare, huffed from his cigarette while he opened the front door and shoved Maria back into the streets.
"I'm sorry!" Maria repeated most apologetic, expecting him to slam another door into her face. But he followed her outside before slamming the door as hard as he could muster and cocked his head into the directions of his car, indicating her to keep walking.
For a moment Maria wondered if Tommy had been drinking and if so how much he'd been drinking. Apprehensive she waited aside the car as he fiddled in his pockets for keys.
She pursed her lips, the questions about his alcohol consumptions burning on her tongue, as he opened the passengers door for her and nudged his head into the direction of the seat. His eyes widened, indicating she had to hurry up when she didn't jump into immediate action.
"Are we going to the hospital?" she asked when he drove quickly over the bumpy road of Watery Lane.
Tommy gave her a long sideway look and scoffed, tapping on the steering wheel stating the obvious; his incapability to communicated with her.
Why was he always so awfully good at giving her the feeling that she was a stupid little git? Crossing her arms she decided that if he did not have the decency to share their destination with her she wouldn't try to have a conversation.
When they drove through the city centre of Birmingham, Maria realised that their quiet ride was probably what Tommy wanted.
If he wasn't puffing from his cigarette he'd be grinding his teeth and his eyes scanned nervously through traffic.
She studied him carefully through her lashes. He was more than nervous, the car slowed down as he took a turn and he didn't accelerate when he had the chance. He was delaying the inevitable without making it too obvious.
They both spotted the first hospital sign and Tommy's fingers clutched around the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. Maria shared Tommy's lack of enthusiasm. She'd never been to a hospital before, their small town only had one doctor who'd been present during her and her siblings birth. Besides a bad case of pneumonia, she'd hardly seen a doctor and the hulking majestic building made out of red brigs embedded a strange kind of fear.
Tommy parked the car and sighed deeply. Without being bothered by her concerned stare, he took a silver flask from his pocket and by the looks of it, drained the contents.
The hall of the main building was overcrowded with people, more then usual it seemed. At the reception was a long line of men, varied by age but all had one shared hell, the war.
A nurse was helping the receptionist, questioning the ex soldiers and scribbling down notes. The overall atmosphere was grim and although the buzz from voices echoed through the tiled halls their shared states of decay was deafening.
Tommy's utter resentment towards his appointment made complete sense to Maria. All these men were part of the same misery. Frozen to the floor Maria became aware she was staring in anguish at a soldier. His face must have been blown off by a heavy fire weapon. Medics had been able to sew it back on, but the damage was done. He was missing an eye, his nose seemed to be smeared on his face and saliva dripped down the corner of his bulky mouth.
Tommy agitatedly nudges her shoulder and gave the ex solder a compassionate salute.
Gulping Maria lowered her head in shame, that poor man had fought for their country and king. Had been through more sorts of pain then she wished never to endure. And all she did was stare at his disfigurements as if she was watching monkeys in a zoo. She wished to apologize, but feared her actions would make the matter worse.
Keeping her eyes glued to the tips of her toes she waited in line beside Tommy until a friendly nurse asked them to take a seat in waiting room three and fill in some forms.
Tommy kept the paperwork to himself after they took a seat. Maria occupied herself by counting the tiles on the floor, determined not to re-enact her regrettable acting in the hallway.
To her dread, the disfigured soldier was placed in the same waiting area. Limping inside he took a seat next to Tommy. Wheezing through his nostrils the soldier rubbed the sweat off his forehead, the stroll had taken its toll on him.
"Twisted thing ain't it," the soldier lisped towards Tommy, "us fight'n for honor and country. But givin' us social benefits is too much to ask." Saliva started to run down the corner of his lip and he quickly rubbed his wrist over his chin. "Was a gunner in Verdun, bastards shot me bloody head off."
Tommy observed the man with admiration and offered him a cigarette. The soldier took it eagerly and watched how Tommy brought his flatcap down to his lap. He scribbled down some notes in his book and showed it to the soldier and tapped to the damaged side of his head.
The soldier read his notes and sniggered cynical. "Well at least you still have your pretty face."
Intrigued Maria tried to keep up with the conversation without obviously rubbernecking.
I bet you still have a lovely singing voice, Tommy wrote down in his notebook as she glanced sideways over his shoulder.
The soldier started laughing, until coughs and wheezes took his breath away. "Fucking gas," the man panted, stomping on his chest. "We're damned brother, 'tell you that."
"Mister Paxton? Gerard Paxton?" A nurse read up from her forms and tentatively scanned the area.
"That'll be me," the disfigured soldier wheezed, cigarette dangling from his misshapen lips. He gave Tommy a meaningful lopsided smile and raised himself up from his seat. The soldier staggered off, taking the help from the nurse. His wheezing slowly echoed away through the long tiled hall.
Maria felt sick to her stomach. Not by the man's disfigurement, but by the injustice on his behalf. That poor man nearly gave his life for his country and didn't receive a penny. It was hard to guess his age, but he couldn't be far over his twenties. A bright and healthy future with a wife and children were literally blown to shreds. No women would look at him the way a man wanted to be looked at by the opposite sex. Besides disgust and pity there was nothing to gain. His body was failing him, making him limp and breath as a croaked eighty year old. Robbed from basic human rights he'd be forced to rely on relatives and charity.
Tommy seemed to be lost in his thoughts, his eyes vacant and probably reliving some things he'd rather forget. With an empty stare he sucked on his cigarette, jaw tightened and swallowing hard.
Since the moment Charlie had informed her not to ever mention France, Maria was intrigued to find out more about Tommy's ordeal in the country. Beside from what she'd picked up from others he'd never directly spilled a word over what had happened to him. She'd been bright enough to never raise a question, but that didn't mean it never kept her up at night. He'd been through something her brother and father hadn't been able to overcome. And therefore she felt the need to know more about his horrors in France. It would never bring her peace to find out what kind of unspeakable deeds of violence that had been brought from men upon men. But it would somehow make her feel closer to her father and brother. And maybe to Tommy.
She didn't know why she said it, but she felt obligated to say it.
"I'm sorry," she whispered and squeezed his wrist lightly through the fabric of his thick jacket, "I'm sorry you have to be here." She clarified herself when he flinched from her touch and jerked his head to her direction.
His eyes narrow, he could not read her face nor her intentions behind her apology. That plagued him, the thought of being pitied by her made him grow cold and distant. He yanked his arm back and retreated back to reading over his forms.
Her words had the opposite effect and it struck her heart. Coming here had been a horrible idea, honestly what good could come out of it? Facing a hundred different states of what could have been his? Comparing others misfortune and trauma with his own, what good could out of it? Reminiscing what could have been, what was the use of it?
"Mister Shelby? Thomas Shelby?" A nurse questioned and directed herself to Tommy as he stood up. The nurse asked the two of them to follow her and took Tommy's forms.
They were guided inside a cramped office and took place near a desk. The walls where cramped up with bookshelves, filled with medical studies and encyclopedias. It appeared more like a storage room then an actual office.
"Doctor Rivers will soon be with you," the nurse informed them and left.
Soon was a broad concept. Maria didn't dare to ask for the time, but it took Tommy three agitated glares at his pocket watch before a doctor came in. Politely she took off her bucket hat but did not receive a moment of the doctor's attention.
"Sorry for the delay," the doctor muttered apologetic, "we are highly understaffed and-" he cut himself off and took a handkerchief from his pocket. Taking his seat behind a desk he started to rub his small round glasses and pinched it back on his nose. Doctor Rivers must be near his fifties and gave a hurried impression. His eyes rushed over Tommy's notes and peeked over the forms to his patient.
"Mister and misses Shelby-," he started, staking the papers into a file.
"-I'm not-" Maria piped in. "-We're not married. I'm his speaker."
"Oh," the doctor seemed a bit dazzled and realised he'd skipped the introduction, "my apologize, it's been an awfully eventful day." Without addressing himself he continued.
"Mister Shelby, according to your files I've seen you just about five months ago. You've been dismissed from the hospital shortly after." His eyes fluttered back through the notes. "Since then, have you suffered from any more seizures?"
Tommy did his best at ignoring Maria's shocked expression and shook his head. Clearly the question rubbed a sore spot.
"No? No seizures at all since the major one you had after your surgery?" Doctor Rivers pressed firmly. Tommy shook his head steady.
"Good, excellent. That means your brain damage isn't as severe as we thought at first." The doctor skipped a few pages and started a cross exame.
"Has your speech returned in any form? Sentences, words? Anything?"
Tommy glared at him and pointed at Maria then signed. Do you think I'd be here with a fucking speaker if I'd be able to talk myself?
"No, else he would be here without a speaker," Maria neatly formulated.
The doctor nodded slow and scribbled down some notes. "Aphasia still fully present."
"What does aphasia mean?" Maria's question annoyed Tommy.
You're here to translate, not ask questions, he lectured her. She nodded quietly but peeked back up at the doctor for an answer.
"Aphasia is the inability to comprehend or formulate language because of damage to specific brain damage is typically caused by a cerebral vascular accident, also know as a stroke. Or in Mister Shelby's case, trauma of the head." Doctor River filled in matter-of-factly.
Directing himself back to his patient he clasped his hands together and looked over the rim of his glasses.
"Mister Shelby, it has been five months in which you've succeeded above all our expectations. I can honestly say I did not think you'd recover from your coma and would therefore remain in a catatonic state."
Maria's ears were ringing and she highly doubted that Tommy would have brought her along if he'd knew beforehand how to the point the doctor would be.
"But, it has been five months, Mister Shelby, and your speech hasn't returned. We've established early on that there is no damage on your vocal cords. " Doctor Rivers turned around and took a heavy medical book from the shelve. After flipping through some pages the doctor showed his patient a picture of cross section of the brain. A small part was marked with a red color, just above the temple.
"This is the Broca area," Doctor Rivers explained tapping his pen down on the marked area, "it's a region in the frontal lobe of the dominant hemisphere of the brain with functions linked to speech production. I fear that the trepanation, that saved your life, damaged that area of your brain. For good." The doctor cleared his throat.
"It has been five months, you haven't recovered any form of speech. I therefore think it's safe for me to say that you will never be able to speak again."
Tommy let out an inarticulate sound from the back of his throat and fisted his hands together on his lap. Other then that, no emotion crossed his face, blank he stared at the doctor and slowly nodded his head.
Maria did not dare to breath or even think of opening her mouth.
What must have been a few seconds seemed like an eternity. Tommy took a few deep breaths as if the awful truth had knocked the air out of his lungs. Unclenched his fists he leaned forward and tapped down on the file in front of Doctor Rivers.
"You want me to continue?" The doctor asked from clarification.
Tommy sank back on his chair and nodded dejected.
Doctor Rivers must have read the sorrow that washed over his patient after bringing such horrible news. But it wasn't the first and probably not the last time today the doctor had to shatter someone's dreams and hopes for the future. Pragmatic the man continued his list of possible physical symptoms.
"Do you often suffer from headaches? Fatigue or drowsiness? Do you sleep more than usual?"
Tommy shook his head and cracked his knuckles, although he was the centre of everyone's attention, his mind was clearly elsewhere.
"At times do you feel disoriented, confused of your whereabouts?"
Tommy nodded timid, craning his head to meet Maria's gaze and started to sign. When I can't sleep, at night. Sometimes I don't know where I am, he sighed dejected and continued, it's...not when I can't sleep, it's when I think I can't wake up. I'm -there-, I know I'm not there. But I'm -there-.
Maria took a moment to formulate his words.
"At the darkest of the night, he thinks he's in France. Partly he knows he's not, yet it feels as if he's back there."
A muscle in his jaw twitched and his nostrils suck in a large amount of air, yet he blinked his eyes and nodded. I hardly sleep, I drink until I pass out, that's when I sleep. It was like he used his confessions as a challenge, to see how much he could share before he'd make her flinch.
"He has difficulty sleeping," Maria stated aware that she kept his alcohol consumptions out of the translation, "he drinks. That helps him to sleep." she added with a small voice.
"-Insomnia, tendency to use alcohol as a coping mechanism…" the Doctor added to his notes.
"How much do you drink, Mister Shelby?"
Too much, Tommy answered honestly and rubbed the back of his scalp, too fucking much.
"A lot," Maria translated.
"How much? How frequent?" The doctor asked.
Tommy shrugged his shoulders and clearly wanted to skip to the next question.
"Whiskey, of and about every day," Maria gave away, souring Tommy's already tainted mood.
The doctor scribbled everything down and continued, "weakness or numbness in fingers or toes?"
Tommy nodded and signed to Maria.
"Sometimes his hands shake," She translated.
"Do you have difficulty paying attention?"
Tommy shook his head.
"Sudden dizziness, ringing in the ear, hearing loss, loss of vision or double vision?"
Again, Tommy shook his head.
"Suffer from depression?" The doctor asked next.
That was a subtle change in Tommy's bearing, Maria marked it as his way to raise his walls up high. Stoic he took out his notebook and started to write. His hurried handwriting filled up one and a half pages before he slammed the book on top of River's notes.
The doctor took the notebook, eyes running over the content and his right hand copying notes. Then River's closed the book and gave it back to its owner.
"Mind if I run one reflex test?" Rivers asked.
Tommy nodded, appearing bored but he was on edge, Maria noticed how hastily he stacked his notebook away in his pocket.
The doctor used the pupillary light reflex test and shone a light in his patient's eye.
"Excellent, I'd like to see you in five months. Try to keep your alcohol consumptions to a minimal and I'll give you a description for sleeping pills, they work miracles."
Doctor Rivers held out his hand and the description of the pills but Tommy didn't take neither one. Resolute he stood up and marched out of the office.
Maria's cheeks flushed and she awkwardly shook hands with the doctor and snatched the paper out of his fingers. When she reached the hallway her employer was already out of sight. Hurried she ran through the hallway, along the lines of ex-soldiers and noticed his trademark flat cap disappear through the main entrance.
She hesitated, aware of his current mood. Although Tommy never showed any hope for the possibility to regain his speech, the fact that minutes ago a medical expert flat out told him he would never speak again, was a rug being pulled from underneath his feet.
Maybe it was in both their best interests if she left him be for a moment. With the prescription from the doctor still in her hands she turned on her heels and walked towards the pharmacy.
.-.-.
He didn't feel anything. Not a thing.
Until he sat down in his car.
There the full blown truth hit him in the face. And the guts and the fucking balls. And he was breathless at first, then gradually unable to breath.
This was it, this was fucking it.
He collided his fists into the frame of the steering wheel and he shouted. He did not care about the absolute madness coming from his mouth. He didn't care about the bystanders speeding up their pass. He cried out on top of his lungs, for his loss. For his fucking injustice. And he let his knuckles turn blue from the repeated banging on iron.
It wasn't fair, it just fucking wasn't fair. He'd done everything. Everything they told him to do, he jumped through all their hoops, kept his temper down every time speech therapy felt like a major fail.
And then some fucking ignorant physician dared to flat out tell him he'd remain speechless for the rest of his miserable life. Didn't the man have any idea who sat at his desk this morning? Having the audacity to leave him waiting for twenty minutes? And then to sit there all smug and cocky, telling Tommy Shelby he would remain a voiceless infantile?
Tommy pulled his revolver from his holster and took the safety off. He was going to blow that fucking brain all across the fucking ceiling.
But that wouldn't change anything. Plastering that smug fucker's brain over the walls wouldn't change the fact that he would never be able to speak.
Fuck, the revolver trembled in his hand. Fuck, he was never going to speak again. That ship had sailed, curtain closed, end of the story. He was never going to summon up a word, nothing but animalistic sounds would escape his lips.
And he couldn't cope with that fact. He wouldn't, he refused to process that.
But what choice did he have?
Tommy stared blankly at the revolver in his hand. It could be so easy. Drawn to the cold metalic weight in his hand he brushed his fingers over the barrel. It felt strangely comforting. He made a solemn promise to himself when he witnessed horror after horror in the trenches. Desperate times needed desperate measure. And if that time presented itself to him, he'd grant himself a plan B. A loophole during the ungodly hours of the war, a safetynet. An escape.
If the walls were failing, if the enemy was cornering him as a hunter playing with its prey, he'd eat a bullet. The dead can't speak and he'd rather be useless to those fucking Huns.
Whatever happened below ground, he'd always carried his revolver on his body. Just in case.
He never would have thought that he needed that same comforting cold feeling to get through the day when he came back home.
But he needed it, for some reason, he needed it.
The cowards way out, it felt so tempting to just be gone.
Tommy's eyes darted back up, sensing someone approaching his car. Maria hesitantly tottered along the sidewalk, screwing up a forced upon smile on her face while her eyes sized him up.
Tommy reflectively shoved his revolver back in his holster and straightened his back. Fixing himself a much needed cigarette his speaker yanked on the door handle and stepped inside the automobile.
"I got you those sleeping pills," she mentioned ruffling with a small white paper bag, "just in case." Uneasy she pulled her bucket-hat firmly back on his head and twirled curls in her short hair.
He forced himself to nod, because the alternative was throwing the content of the paper bag directly out of the window. There was no way in hell that he would be using anything that doctor recommended. In fact, the moment he dropped holy Mary off he was going for a drink. And not just a drink, he was going to consume alcohol until every word of that doctor was washed out of his brain. It might take a while to drink himself into complete oblivion. And he needed to find a new place since Curly started working at the stables. Fuck it, maybe he would just book a room in a motel across town, lock the door and drown himself until he'd empty his guts all over the carpet. It didn't matter, his head was damaged goods anyway.
"I used to think my mum was the strongest woman of the world, you know?" Maria whispered softly, as if she was letting him in a secret no other soul could know. "I've always know how some of the women in my town looked down on her. Even when I was young, I could hear them speak about my mum, as if she was a simpleton. As if she did not earn her place, besides my father. I've been picked on by classmates, because of my mum. I've been called a retard, because of her disability. I've cried a lot about that and felt sorry for myself. But I've never felt sorry for my mum, because she'd always kept her chin up, shoulders back and head raised high. Because you know what, all those tittle-tattling fish-wives needed my mum's skills. She'd sew them their daughter's wedding dresses, Sunday's bests and Christening gowns."
Pride beamed from her eyes and spirit. "I once asked my mum why she'd always make her best effort on their clothes, because they weren't worth all those late night hours mum spent on them by nothing more then candlelight. She smiled and explained to me that you always have to try your hardest to succeed in life and that even though some people aren't worth the trouble, it's no good for the soul to deliver half work. It's a matter of pride and self respect, because she'd never sink to their level. Let them laugh at you all they want, but never let them under your skin, that's what she'd always press. And she's right, because those ignorant gits aren't worth to spend a second of your thoughts on."
It was strange to see the working-class girl rise from her poor status. With a thrust-out chin and voice filled with adoration for her mother's strength.
"My father loved her for who she was, not for the small part she lacked. He'd joke from time to time how convenient it was to have a wife that didn't nag about him snoring. At times my parents struggled to make ends meet, but I can't remember a moment where my father blamed my mother for that. They had an equitable and caring relationship as husband and wife."
Tommy wished she'd stop speaking, because he did not want her words to get underneath his skin. He'd excluded the thoughts of ever having a meaningful relationship, figured such future didn't exist for someone with a severe handicap like himself. And it was easier accepting that, then to dwell on hope.
He'd closed that door and locked it, figured he'd be paying for affection for the rest of his life. But not all the whores in the world could fill up the gap inside his aching chest.
Her words cut him deep, cut some old scars back open and besides distancing himself from those feelings he didn't know how to coop with a spark of hope.
"You aren't any less then the person you where before France," Maria told him straight from her heart, "you survived, you deserve to be here."
Intuitive his fingers found the thick lines of scar tissue, the source of all his shame and self-loathing. It was there, it was always there, out in the open, marked into his skin. The urge to hide that part and shelter himself away from his family, people in general, it was overwhelming and always there.
Her fingers drifted slowly over his and connected with the damaged skin of his scalp.
"You deserve to be here," she promised him again, as her fingertips run soft over his hairline, following the trail of scar tissue.
The impulse to yank his head away as if being touched by fire didn't triumph over a stronger urge to remain perfectly still. The sweet sensation of her fingertips brushing over his shaved hair was suiting and strangely comforting. He couldn't remember the last time that someone touched him with such care and for a moment he dared to close his eyes.
Her fingertips flinched and he heard her gasp. Clarifying her sudden behavior he figured she'd panicked by his disfigurement.
When he reopened his eyes he noticed how terror overtook her face, but it wasn't his battle scars that cost her fright. Something behind him had alerted her and before he could reach for his revolver the door handles where yanked open. Two strong arms grabbed him by the throat and without being able to spot his attacker he was pulled out of the car. Before he could recover and fight back a blunt and heavy object collided with the back of his head. Within seconds his vision blurred and he drifted into thickening darkness.
.-.-.
A/N: Well, this wasn't a walk in the park to write, but I absolutely loved it. I've done some research about WWI soldiers who suffered from PTSD and handicaps. Doctor Rivers is an actual person, very interesting to read about. The Bronca area is a real thing too and (freak fact) was discovered before 1920, so yes it's possible for the doctor to look it up, show it to Tommy and be able to label his muteness to his brain damage. The brain is a miraculous thing and is able to take over damaged parts. I work with people with brain damage and it's possible to regain speech, bladder control, balance, ect after months. Speech, or muteness is a very interesting subject.
Besides that I really loved writing the dynamic between Maria and Tommy and gosh, is it just me or did I notice a little spark?
But yeah, before this story can get any hint of romance, I'm going to torture Tommy. No, I don't mean that in the figurative sense.
Keeping up the suspense, my work is very hectical atm, I've started a new education with more homework than I expected. Oh and yes I forgot I have a course in two weeks for medical training… So, next chapter might take a while.
But it'll be worth it, because it's going to be good. Well not good, because a lot of nasty things will happen to Tommy.
Mwhahahahah….
Xoxoxo Nukyster
