...cold hands
It wasn't fair......could talk to Chris...
headache...cold hands...
...should talk to Chris...
It wasn't fair...
Vin didn't use the room at the boardinghouse much; he kept it because it was part of his wages, but he only spent the night there when the weather was too bad to sleep anywhere else. Even then, he'd mutter to himself that he was getting soft and sleep on the floor. Beds were for being sick. Or dying. You get too comfortable and you stop paying attention. You stop paying attention, you stop living. He'd put a nail in the window frame so that the sash could only be lifted a few inches, enough for some air but not enough for a hand to reach through. And always a chair under the door handle. Nobody was going to surprise him.
He went there now, to the room at the boardinghouse. He put the chair under the door handle, tossed off his hat and jacket, slung his holster over the bedpost, and sat on the floor under the window. He covered his face with his hands. His ice cold hands. His head hurt so bad he thought he was going to be sick, and his hands were so cold it was painful to move his fingers.
It wasn't fair.
Vin wondered if he should talk to Chris. At the cemetery, after his Ma's service, Chris told him, if he ever felt so bad, he was to come talk to him. But what was he supposed to say? "I been feeling dead as mud lately 'cause the O'Brien's are being nice to orphans..." Yeah, that made a lot of sense...
He tucked his hands under his arms to try and get them warm, but the light made his headache worse so he covered his eyes again. He thought about the bed, but beds were for being sick. Or dying. Well, his head hurt so bad, maybe he was dying. It was sure making him sick anyhow... He pulled himself up and clung to the headboard a moment till he was steady, then using his hands for support, gently lowered himself on top of the covers.
The bed was the most comfortable place he'd slept in a long time. He pulled the pillow over his head to block the light from his eyes; after a little while, he didn't feel quite so sick. A little while after that, he managed to fall asleep.
M7*M7*M7
Inside the church, Chris, Nathan, and Josiah stood discussing their friend and his recent low spirits. "I seen somethin' was wrong when we was at the O'Brien's." Nathan said. "Had a look on his face like I never seen on him. Sad, almost angry though, somehow..."
"The family treatin' those kids right?" Josiah asked. "I think it'd be natural for Vin to get upset over something like that."
"Angry, yeah." Chris said. "But not this. If they were mistreating those kids, Vin'd be all over 'em."
"Anyway, they treat those kids real good. Wouldn't know they weren't their flesh and blood the way they treat 'em." Nathan searched his mind for any bit of information that would help. "He's acting like something went and died inside of him. That's harder to treat than a gunshot wound. Harder to survive sometimes too..."
Chris didn't like being in a situation where he couldn't see every angle. "JD said Vin ain't been sleepin'. Said he told him that today..."
Josiah didn't think that could be it. "Vin's been exhausted before...he's been tired, hurt, angry - never took him this low."
"Thought maybe he's thinkin' on his Ma." Nathan said. "But even when we had the service, he was still talking to folks...he ain't hardly said a word in days..."
"Hardly ate anything today either..." Chris agreed.
Josiah wondered if Chris actually didn't see the obvious, or was purposely avoiding it. "Seems like the only path left to us Chris is the direct one - ask him. He's no good to the town the way he is, and he sure ain't doin' himself any favors..."
Chris had been trying to avoid talking to Vin about what was going on - and he didn't know why. He told Vin he could talk to him, and he meant it when he said it. He'd put his arm around Vin and held onto him when he was crying for his Ma at the cemetery. Chris'd been the only one there with a clean handkerchief to offer - even Ezra had come up short on that. All Chris had to do now was say three words: "What's wrong, Vin?" But for some reason, he didn't think he could bring himself to say them.
M7*M7*M7
Footsteps.
Vin sat bolt upright in bed, heart pounding. The pillow fell to the floor but he didn't notice it. His whole concentration was focused on hearing if footsteps were coming down the hall to his room. The chair was at the door, and the door handle wasn't moving - still, it was several moments before he was sure nobody was coming after him. As the anxiety passed, his headache pulsed even more insistently. That was part of the problem of a staying in a boarding house: too many damn people walking around all hours.
Damn boarding house. Beds were for being sick. Or dying. He'd never slept in a bed that was better than sleeping under the stars...'cept maybe the one he had when his Ma was still alive. Didn't remember ever having trouble sleeping then. Mornings were bright and happy, his Ma told him that God painted a new sky every morning just for him, and Vin believed her. Back then beds were for being read to at night, and jumping on when you was so happy it just seemed the thing to do. Bed was for learning all the colors in the quilt, and warm kisses goodnight.
But it changed. Towards the end, bed was for listening to her breathe, being terrified when it was too long between each breath. It was the place for being quiet when she couldn't sleep, learning to keep still no matter what. Even so, back then it was still the place where all his dreams had happy endings.
But that changed.
He learned that beds were for sitting up all hours, tracking every corner of your brain to figure out if you'd done everything you were supposed to, wondering if tonight he'd walk past the door and not come in with his belt or his fist to wale the life out of you for any reason, or no reason. Beds were for counting footsteps "- just one more - PLEASE - PLEASE - one more step and he's past my door -" For gritting your teeth and not crying out, learning to keep still, no matter what...
It wasn't fair...
tbc