Sixteen Shades of Red between the Clock and the Bed
The steady persistent ticking of the clock was beginning to set Molly's teeth on edge; a harsh reminder that time is a precious commodity that waits for no man. Not that Molly needs a reminder. She is fully aware of how fickle a mistress time can be when it comes to measuring the worth of those lives at war. The hands keep turning and life keeps moving ever steadily forward. No matter how desperately we wish to rewind and return to when everything was normal, the sands of time continue to flow as bitter as the ashes of regret and guilt until we're left with nothing but our mistakes and regrets; a handful of useless maybes and what ifs.
Shifting uncomfortably on the stiff leather sofa, Molly grips her pencil tighter as she does her best to avoid meeting the steady, almost penetrating, gaze of the therapist sat across from her as she ignores another probing question. Instead, Molly draws absently on the piece of paper in front of her in a bid to block it all out. She's gotten pretty good at this game of pretend of late, wielding her silence like a weapon against the terrors that lurk within the shadows of her subconscious threatening to shatter the fragile silence around them the minute she opens her mouth. What good will talking about it do anyway? It won't change anything. "Molly? Do you know why you're here today?"
Molly looks up from her sketch pad and rubs her face wearily. She'd slept fitfully since she'd been home, her mind refusing to switch off as memories repeated over and over in her head. Her voice was flat and matter of fact as she mutters, "Caz Major Beck think's I'm mad. I ain't though. All I meant was if I'd got shot then everything would have been alright. It were my fault."
"Sometimes when we've been exposed to a traumatic event or witness serious injury, death or the threat of serious injury or death, we experience an overwhelming array of emotions that we can't always process and deal with at the time. Helplessness, guilt, horror or intense fear for example. Can you think of a particular event that may have caused you to feel any of those? Something that may have ignited worry or concern in Major Beck, resulting in you being here today?"
"I ain't bein' funny or out but it's war innit. It's all bleedin' traumatic. That don't mean I'm incapable of doin' me job." Molly's response was dismissive and cold. Her defences had come up, her emotions locked behind a solid wall of indifference as her hand moves faster over the page in her lap. The therapist probed gently, her eyes remaining focused on the micro expressions of Molly's tense face, looking for any changes in her expression that might give a hint as to how Molly was feeling. With a soft defeated sigh the therapist opens Molly's file and begins to skim its contents. "Nobody is saying you aren't good at your job. We have a duty of care to make sure you're mentally fit enough to continue performing your duties. This is just routine. You've had a tough few months. We just want to make sure you're alright." Massaging her forehead the therapist sighed, choosing the next few words carefully. "Ok. Clearly talking isn't getting us anywhere. You're CO has suggested we try a different approach that might be more beneficial to you. What do you say?" Molly's head snaps up in astonishment, a spark of fire ignites in her eyes, the vibrant sparkle returning once more to the vivid green irises.
"The Bossman? He's alright? What did he say?" Fearing she'd somehow given too much away, she snapped her mouth closed and regarded the therapist wearily. "I'm not your enemy Molly. Whatever you say within these four walls is in the strictest of confidence. Captain James happened to mentioned in his report that you're an artist and you find it helps you cope when you're stressed. Do you find drawing helps you make sense of the things you saw when you were deployed?" Molly gives a hesitant nod as she pulls her sketchpad towards her protectively. "I've always loved drawin' like. Back home, when things got bad, I'd be able to draw to help me forget. I dunno how but as soon as I pick up a pencil or whatever, if feels like it's a part of me. It's like the world around me no longer exists. What's important is just me and the image of what I'm creating. Everything else just fades away. It happened out in Afghan. There was an incident, a green on green up in the mountains and I had to identify some bodies, just kids they were. I couldn't switch off at night and ended up sat on the roof of the shitter looking at the stars. One minute I was staring at the darkness, the next, the Bossman was there and the entire floor of the roof was covered in my drawings."
"Sometimes when we experience something traumatic, we tend to react just to get through the experience without giving us time to process and deal with the emotions we felt. What you've been doing is your way of reacting to the trauma. You're unconsciously triggering sensory memories when you hear particular sounds, smells or sights that are reminiscent of a trauma you've experienced. I don't know if you've realised but as you've been sat here you have been drawing shapes and lines in your pad. Were you aware you were doing it?" Molly blinks and stares in confusion at the page in front of her. It takes her a moment to realise that the strips of green and black and the jumble of circles, lines, letters and numbers do actually make sense. O+ Capt JA9253. Well shittin' hell. How was she going to get out of this one? Molly's eyes fly up to meet the therapist's knowing gaze and she swallows nervously. Ignoring the exchange, the therapist regards Molly thoughtfully for a few minutes. "Molly? Do you think you're up for trying a little experiment?" At Molly's hesitant nod she continues. "I'm going to say a few words to prompt you and I want you to draw whatever comes into your mind. I'd like to see if we can identify some of your triggers. Then when you're done we'll look at what you've drawn and try and unpick how you were feeling. How does that sound?"
"Sounds alright. So you won't ask me no more questions?" The therapist smiles sympathetically at her. "Nice try. I promise I won't question you whilst you're drawing but we are going to have to talk me through your drawings, explain how you were feeling or thinking at some point. What do you say?" Molly chewed her lip thoughtfully as she eyed the pile of paper the therapist has placed on the floor in front of her. Molly could almost hear it calling to her and she began to feel the familiar itchy feeling in her fingers. "Yeah alright. I ain't got nothing to lose have I?"
Knowing she would have to face the memories all over again made Molly feel slightly restless and on edge, as if she were a bird trapped in a gilded cage, beating her wings helplessly in a bid to escape and be free whilst the walls slowly close in preventing her escape. Her attention is drawn to the window where the edges of Union Jack are visible as they flutter in and out of the window frame. The unmistakable blue and red merge together as it unfurls gently in the breeze reminding Molly of the once calm blue streams of Afghan as they run crimson red with blood. The therapist, sensing a shift in Molly's mood asks gently, "Molly? What happened at the checkpoint?" Molly's eyes remain fixed on the flag, barely registering her question. As a shaft of light reflects off the window pane, momentarily blinding Molly, her mind's eye sees an entirely different flag fluttering in the breeze against a clear blue sky. Without warning, the walls of the therapist's office melt away and Molly finds herself back at the check point.
Molly finds herself once more treading the warn uneven path of the bridge, the metallic clink of metal rings that bind the flag to the pole echo in her ears as she looks about her remaining alert and focussed as she assesses the terrain for danger. Her stomach twists with unease, the air feels thick with tension as she makes her way towards the truck. She can do nothing but watch helplessly as events unfold in front of her. She's become the heroine of her own nightmare, knowing how the plot of her story unfolds, but is powerless to change an ending that has already been written and set in stone. Molly's body is rigid with tension, the adrenaline surging through her system, quickening her heart beat as her eyes rove over the occupants huddled in the back of the truck, their eyes fixed on the ground as she searches for any trace of the cold calculating eyes of Badrai.
The therapist observes Molly with interest, looking for any signs of distress as her skilled fingers fly across the pages as an unconscious flow of images slowly begin to emerge and take shape on the paper. Some images were fully formed, others were simply shapes and splashes of colour that Molly would leave unfinished in her haste to capture another image her mind has conjured for her. Molly didn't seem to have any control of what came through her pencil next. It was as if the drawings started forming on their own. She didn't fight it or force it, letting the chips fall where they may. At some point Molly had moved from her position on the coach to kneel on the floor, bits of paper scattered around her as the key events of the check point slowly begin to emerge.
Molly's blood runs cold as the sound of a single shot rips through the air, shattering the stillness. A cacophony of sound rises like a tidal wave as the frantic shouts and screams role over each other as soldiers and civilians struggle to find a semblance of order in the chaos. Her hands sketch Smurf's face, rigid with anger, his eyes wild and desperate as he screams words of resentment and hate at his former hero, all semblance of the once rational and professional soldier now gone as he refuses to listen to reason. Next, Molly outlines the cold, calculating gaze of Badrai, the glint of recognition in his eye that has him reaching for his riffle as the air around her begins raining bullets. Her desperate shouts for the Boss come too late and her hand begins to shake as her page is streaked with red and white signifying blood and bone as the bullets tear through the Boss' flesh as if he was made from nothing more than layers of fragile tissue paper.
The therapist leans forward in concern as she watches Molly's hand freeze halfway across the page. The streaks of red come to a jarring holt as the fragile led breaks from the pressure of her hand. It doesn't take a genius to work out what that signifies. Just as she was about to ask her to stop, Molly's hand begins to move again as she traces a figure crawling across the ground, arms outstretched as he grapples for a nearby riffle with the intent to kill. Still Molly's hand keeps moving as her own face, in striking detail, stares back at the therapist from the page in varying shades of blue. Her arms are stretched out in front of her, her gloved hands gripping a hand gun so tightly her knuckles are white. Her green eyes are wide with horror as she stares straight ahead, a haunting realisation in her tear-streaked eyes that leaves the therapist in no doubt as to how the story ends.
"Molly? Stay with me Molly. You're alright." Molly gives a barely susceptible nod as she takes several steadying breath giving herself time to adjust back into the present. She throws the therapist an apologetic smile as she stares in awe at the number of drawings she'd managed to produce in such a short space of time. "I think I better start planting some trees or somethin' ay doc," Molly joked in an attempt to regain her equilibrium.
"Indeed. Though I have to say you are extremely talented. I understand what you mean when you say you focus in on yourself when you draw. You barely moved unless you were reaching for more paper." The therapist reached for a piece of paper and handed it to Molly. "You drew sixteen streaks of red on this piece of paper. Any idea why?"
"It took sixteen seconds for him to rip two bullets into the Bossman and one into Smurf. I don't know how I know that."
"You told Major Beck that if you'd been the one who had gotten shot then everything would be alright. Why do you think that?" Molly sagged against the arm of the sofa as she let her head fall to her knees. "It were all my fault. If I hadn't got involved with Bashira then none of this would have happened. The Bossman and Smurf would be alright, not stuck in hospital with their careers in shreds."
"Molly nobody could have predicted the outcome of that mission. What happened was nobody's fault." Molly looked unconvinced as her eyes drifted to the image of Smurf buried under one of the bridge at dusk before she looked away hastily. "How did you feel at that point?"
"You said earlier that during a traumatic event we might feel hopelessness, horror, fear or guilt yeah? Well if I'm honest I reckon I felt all three."
"How so?"
"I guess I felt fear at not knowing whether we would actually get out of there alive. I know we're meant to act all brave and that but I was absolutely crappin' meself. Guilt, well we've covered that already. I felt helpless watching the two of them lay there stuck in the crossfire knowing I couldn't do anything." Molly broke off quietly, unsure of how to continue. "uhh see it all makes sense in me head and when I draw it, but when you ask me to explain why I drew something I can't find the words. They just ain't there."
"You said you felt helpless. But you forget, without your quick thinking and your ability to stay calm under pressure, there was a very good chance that the two of them wouldn't have made it. You saved them Molly. you were anything but helpless. Don't overlook that." The therapist let that sink in before she asked her next question. "What about horror? Did you feel that at all?" Molly's eyes moved of their own accord to the picture of Badrai and the image of herself aiming the riffle. "I killed him. I shot a man and I didn't even think about it. That bit is still a bit of a blur. I remember bits and pieces but it all gets a bit fuzzy in places."
"That's normal. Do you remember how you felt at the time?" Molly stared down at her hands as she felt the weight of the gun once more in her hands. "It felt like time had suddenly stopped. Like I was frozen in place, unable to move as I waited to see if I'd hit him. I remember feeling cold as the adrenaline left me system as I realised that the shot actually killed him. Then the feeling of horror came when it dawned on me that I'd taken a life. Me! I'm trained to heal not… I barely had any training with the blasted thing. But I'll tell you one thing, in that minute I've never felt so focused or alive. How's that normal?"
"Is that why you chose to shade your portrait in blue? Because you signify those shades with coldness?"
"Yeah I think so. I'd never thought about it until you said it."
"See, you don't realise it but you are actually decoding your drawings and getting to the route of your emotions when you talk me through everything. I know it's hard, but try not to shut others out, especially those who have been though the same things as you have."
"Yeah alright. I'll try."
"That's all I ask Molly." Molly grinned as she stood up to shake the therapist's hand.
"Does that mean you'll tell Beck I ain't mad so I can go back to me duties?" Molly asked cheekily as she gathered her papers and headed to the door. The therapist shook her head as she opened the door for Molly. "I'll see you next week Private Dawes. If you do any more drawings make sure you bring them with you. Ohh and if you're very quick, you still might be able to make the hospital visiting hours. Now off you go."
Molly shifted her sketch pad under her arm as she peered tentatively through the window into the ICU. Her face breaks out into a grin that grows into a brilliant smile when she realises that the Bossman is awake and alert. Catching her eye he jerks his head gently in invitation as she slips quietly inside. "I weren't sure you'd still be awake," She whispers shyly as she comes to stand at the foot of his bed. "I'm not sure I am Dawes. Though if I am dreaming, I'm slightly disappointed about the uniform. I imagined you wearing a uniform of an entirely different kind."
"Oi, less of the cheek Boss," Molly blushed in embarrassment as she reaches to place her hand in his, letting him tug her forward until she settled herself beside him on the bed. They lay in silence, eyes drinking each other in, neither quite believing that the other is there. "What did the doc say?" Molly asked quietly as she laced her fingers with his, careful not to jar his side. "They didn't expect the latest bleed, but so far the signs are all looking good. I'll be glad when I get out of here so I can have a proper wash. I swear I've still got Afghan grime in my hair." Molly chuckled lightly as she reached up to run her hands through his dark curls. "You wrangling for a sponge bath now an all Boss?"
"Charles."
"Charles?" Molly eyed him in amusement at his affronted look.
"You're smirking Dawes. What's so fuckin hilarious about Charles? You can't call me Bossman for the rest of our lives." Molly couldn't hide the look of surprise on her face as she uttered, "Bit previous there weren't you?"
"Ah well it's chemistry." He smirked as he reached out to gently brush her hair aside.
"I failed that." Molly muttered trying to hide a yawn. Charles grinned as he watched her fight to keep her eyes open. "How did it go with the Doc? Please tell me you went?"
"Course I did. I've got an entire book of drawings to prove it. I got a bit lost in me head again though. I think I used an entire tree with the amount of paper I used."
"Do you think it helped?" Molly sighed as she met his reassuring gaze, remembering the advice the therapist had given her. "I think so. She didn't make me talk much which was good. Thank you for giving her the heads up about the drawings by the way. It helped to have something to talk about I s'pose, sort things out in me nut."
"You're welcome," he whispered, seeing her eyes droop. "Hey Dawes?" Molly shifted slightly as she mumbled a sleepy yeah. "Have you ever been to Bath? The city? My parents have an old house there. It's where I grew up." Molly shook her head as she burrowed closer into his warmth. "No but it sounds a bit shit," she murmured. "No it's perfect and before you start, yes perfect does suit you. You'll love the house. It's magical at Christmas I promise." Molly lifted her head to meet Charles' gaze, unsure her sleep addled brain had heard him correctly. "Are you inviting me home for Christmas Boss.. oh sorry Charles?"
"What do you say Dawes? Fancy spending a perfect Christmas with me?"
"Yeah, it would be my pleasure Boss." The two of them drifted off to sleep wrapped in each other's arms, their first peaceful nights rest since they'd returned home.
A/N: Thank you so much for the positive feedback for the first chapter. Some of you have requested a follow up so here it is. Please R and R. you're support and feedback is greatly appreciated.