Note:Warning: PTSD is mentioned as Battle Fatigue and described in fairly great detail. Details of gory battle scenes also given some ink-just wanting to make you aware before reading :)
Chapter 33 Now I Lay me Down to Sleep
Roger wasn't sleeping, Belle noticed at an ever alarming rate. Each morning his dark circles just became darker and no amount of bitter black coffee in the morning or strong afternoon teas could completely override the effects it was having on him. If he closed his eyes to succumb to slumber then he would see Cassidy again, and often, she was there, battle scarred and always from some fault of his own-she knew this because of the things he had shouted at the darkness. Since he knew that sleep only opened the door to all these horrific images he slept less and less. He did sleep, in exhaustive spurts, she knew this because the process of calming him-of saying his name in soothing tones and pulling him out of his thrashing nightmares had become almost routine in the weeks since the battle in Germany had begun. It broke her heart to see him shout for Cassidy to get away, for him to cry her name out in painful terror.
The sleep deprivation was causing other things as well. School had begun again for him and he was struggling to stay awake during classes, terrified he might have one of his nightmares in public. This made him nervous, skittish, and once when she had accidentally dropped a spoon on the tile floor, he had attempted to jump up from his little workplace at the kitchen table and had tripped instead, sobbing as he was sent sprawling to the floor, his prosthetic ramming into his leg and caused him to be bruised for days and limping heavy on his cane. It was gut wrenching to watch her strong husband begin to weep on the floor. She had followed him there, cradling him in her arms, saying nothing, but giving him space to grieve, for that was what this felt like.
He was grieving his leg-it had been a year since it had happened, and yet he still struggled with acknowledging it. He was grieving the ones lost on the battlefield, and he was also grieving the part of himself that had perished the day that he had stepped foot on foreign soil and come face to face with death and destruction. He did not spell it out for her, but she knew, and she knew that although he did not speak out in vitriol hatred of himself in these moments, and that was encouraging in and of itself, it did not take away the pain he felt over his losses.
When he got his first bad grade back and buried his head in his hands, his eyes bloodshot and beyond tired, she could stand it no longer.
'You need sleep.' Belle sighed, as she saw his head almost bang against the table because he had begun to doze even while chastising himself over the grades.
'I am aware, sweetheart.' The tone was biting, nothing like Roger normally was and the words stung, though she would not allow herself a biting return, for she knew it would not help, and Roger was not quite himself at the moment. Instead she raised her chin ever so slightly and answered as softly as possible.
'Then we need to figure out what to do to give you that sleep. Would getting some sort of sleep medication help, do you think?'
His once drowsy eyes snapped cold and clear on her. He was not angry, he was afraid.
'A doctor is needed for that. D-do you think I need to be seen by a doctor?' A rise of panic, for reasons she could not understand was clear in his voice.
'I don't know, all I know is that you cannot go on like this!' there was some panic in her voice too, though she tried to reign it in. It hurt her to see Roger so worn and haggard.
'Ye donnae understand, Belle! I knew boys who needed to speak with doctors, the ones with Battle Fatigue. It's all long sessions in an office talking about what happened, which I donnae want to do. I saw the boys who needed the medication-I cannae be one of them, can I? I always thought, during that time, that I had some control over it, that sure I jumped a time or two, but I was no' the same as the boys who cried out and needed a hand to hold.
His eyes pleaded with her to tell him that he was yet not so bad off, but her eyes would not lie.
'I donae wanna be medicated, sweetheart.' His voice was calmer now, resolute, insistent.
'There's no shame in…'
'No!'
Belle jumped at the suddenness of it and Roger began to scramble up off the chair.
'Forgive me, Belle. I'm no good to you, am I? I know you are only trying to help. I'm sorry, so so sorry.' He kissed her on the forehead, pulling her towards her like she was some sort of phantom that might disappear into thin air and be gone for good. Perhaps he was worried about that. Roger had, and not just once, given her a way out before they were married, and then had made mention that if she were free she could have more, better options than him. That she was with him seemed a constant surprise to him, that she wanted to be with him, an even greater one. Perhaps he was worried that he would snap at her too sharply and that would be it, she would go back to her little library in Storybrooke and leave him there. It seemed ridiculous to Belle, but looking into the panic stricken eyes of her husband, she saw that it might not be so to him-especially as tired and sleep deprived as he was.
'I'm alright, Roger, I'm just worried about you is all.'
'I know.' He sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He could not focus enough to study, he could not even coax enough energy to work on one of his most recent finds, to suggest going to bed at an earlier hour would do no good, she knew, yet she didn't know what they could do. 'I thought that once we got that letter from Jeffries, telling me he was still alright, when I finally heard that the battle was over and I knew the men over there were getting a small reprieve, I thought-I thought things would get better. I try not to think about those things, about the things that happened, and yet, every time I close my eyes, they are always there.'
'Then we will just have to find a way for you to be able to go to sleep-but we must try something, Roger, you are just so worn out.'
He had wearily nodded his head and said something about loving her optimism in believing that they would find something, smiled, yet not knowing exactly how to proceed.
Belle decided that they would just try different things and hope that something worked. She began that night by suggesting that she perhaps read to him as he went to sleep, hoping that it would get his mind off of the horrors that greeted him when he closed his eyes. He had worried that she would be up reading all night, as it would sometimes be well into the wee hours in the morning before he could fall asleep, but she had insisted that she would stay up and try it. It had actually worked to help him fall asleep the first few nights. She had switched to poetry by the second night so he wouldn't have to worry about losing where he was in a book, and she thought poetry would be much more soothing. He had gone to sleep in less than an hour and she thought that perhaps they had found their epiphany. It was shattered only a couple hours later.
'Belle! What are you doing there? Get out, get out! Belle! No, no, no, Belle, no!'
The panic and fear in his tone startled her awake at once and she turned over only to be shoved hard enough to fall off the bed with a loud 'thump', her attempts at saving herself from falling only seemed to make her fall harder, bringing her blanket along with her. Normally she tried to wake Roger through soft, soothing words, but this time the commotion that came with her own awakening, had woken Roger.
'Belle?' came a worried plea.
'I'm, I'm here, I'm alright.' She spoke with her own sleep riddled voice, trying to pull herself up off the floor with as much grace as she could.
'What were you…' It was too dark to see what he looked like, but she could almost hear when he realized why she was on the floor. 'Oh Belle' was his broken sob, and she knew she must do her best to calm the terror and hatred that would follow or he would once again believe that perhaps he had taken a step too far and she would be gone for good.
'Hey, I'm alright, shhhh, it's okay. Here, why don't I recite some of the poems I know and see if that doesn't help you fall back to sleep, hmmm?'
'What's the use, Belle?' Was his broken reply. 'I'll only have another episode. ' the word was spoken with such hatred towards himself.
'Perhaps, but you must try-please? For me? I just want to see you get a few more hours of sleep.'
'Alright.' It was a defeated, half hearted answer, but she took it for what it was, put her fingers through his hair and began to recite one of her favorite poems that had made its way into so many of their letters.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
As she heard the gentle sounds of her slumbering husband, she was determined to help Roger find a way to live life to the fullest-that this fear and terror that invaded and siphoned away his sleep would be but a fleeting moment in a life of purpose and joy. It could not last forever, and she prayed that night that it would be of short duration-she prayed for guidance and an answer. That night he slept better than he had in weeks, but it would not be the last time that his sleep was speckled with interruptions and she still hoped and prayed for answers.
Two weeks earlier, when his nightmares began to get more frequent and she had started to worry, she had written Ruby about soldiers with Battle Fatigue, hoping that her nurse friend could help her. A reply came a few days after she had recited poetry in the dark.
'Mrs. Gold (ha! I had to use it, you sound like quite the old lady now-although I will not tease you about your last name at all, lest you tease me for my future one-Hopper! What a surname! But I gladly take it when it means I get my Archie-),
I am doing well, busy, as you may well believe. What I would give for one of Granny's casseroles at this moment, and to share a bit of pie with you. I am so tired, my days and weeks are always broken up into shifts, but my poor soldiers occupy both the work and the downtime and I find that it's hard to sometimes separate the two.
As for your question, Oh, my poor, dearest Belles! I feel for your lonely soldier. Him being lonely when he started out probably has something to do with all this, though I've seen that it has affected so many of our good men of all backgrounds. For some men here, I've seen them suffer with it for a while, good rest being the key to it going away, for others, it doesn't go away before they are sent to a different area to try to recover. Archie spent a good six months away from the front in an attempt to help the symptoms. He now wants to help others who suffer like he did, and I love him all the more for his beautiful heart. He tells me that for him, speaking to someone about his dreams, what happened on the battlefields, and what has happened in his past (and this is quite a difficult task, I can assure you) helped him process things better, helps the past stay where it belongs, the past. He says that the more he talked through things, the more improvement he saw in his symptoms. I cannot say there is a cure, but I will pray for your Roger and that he will be better soon!
Your Friend,
Ruby'
Armed with her new information, she began to try to ask Roger questions about his dreams, about the people in them, his fears and worries. At first she thought she had ruined things. He became quiet and would not speak to her more than necessary the rest of the evening. It frightened her. She felt nerves build up beneath her chest and she came to him with her letter folded in her hand.
'I wrote to Ruby. It was when things weren't quite so bad, and I did not tell her much besides that you were dealing with vivid nightmares.' She tried to explain herself when his eyes went large. 'I'm sorry.' She spoke with downcast eyes, worried to see anything more than surprise written on his face.
'What did she say? Was she the one that suggested speaking about…'
Belle looked up for a moment, his voice quiet, but not angry. She nodded.
'She said that Archie, her fiance, is trying to help others-learning from what he went through to help other soldiers. You're not alone, Roger.' She put a hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. 'And he seems to think that speaking through what you went through, what-has happened to you in the past.' His body stiffened, his mind still rejecting the idea of speaking any further than he already had of his past. 'That there seems to be a correlation to things perhaps getting-better.' She looked at him pleadingly. 'Surely it's worth a try.'
He closed his eyes as if she had pained him and it pained her own heart at the sight.
Two days and another harrowing nightmare later, he haltingly began telling her snippets of his nightmares. Even through her half asleep mind, she realized the trust he was showing towards her, even while speaking to the darkness of the night, and she was grateful for it. She held his quaking body as he began giving her the gory truth.
'Arms, legs, corpses all of them but the faces are the worst. The faces are always recognizable. They are men that I saw gathered around a fire, swapping stories of their girls, or wives, or even their children.' Each description told with more trepidation, she squeezed him tighter, wishing she could take those images from him. 'I was no social interloper, I didnae have the desire to swap my own story-such as it was, but I heard the others all the same-and they are always there! Always there with some limb blown off, or gaping hole in their chest. The nightmares always seem to end with Cassidy, and I'm never quick enough to save him.' He was crying in earnest now and Belle soothed him the best she could, gently brushing her hands against his tear stained cheeks, weaving them through his hair. 'The worst nightmares are when Cassidy is traded for you, and it's you that I'm never too quick to save. Blood, so much blood and your blue eyes go all glassy and unseeing-though before they do it's as if you're disappointed in me and perhaps that breaks me more than the blood does.'
His words melted into weak sobs, while she soothed and shushed, telling him that she's there, that she's alright, that she will be there when he wakes up and will always be there for him when he wakes up, and at some point he cried himself to sleep, and so does she.
When she wakes up the next morning, the first thing she notices is that she is very uncomfortably half sitting up, half laying down. The next thing is that Roger is sleeping as peacefully as she has seen him in days and days, his face looking calmer, younger, somehow. It was a work day and a school day, so unfortunately she would have to wake him, but not before she soaked in this moment of peace.
'Hey.' Brown eyes blinked up at her, confused and then soft and warm.
'Hey.' She smiled down at him before kissing him.
'I am sorry to have to wake you, but I'm afraid we must hurry if you are to make it to school on time.'
'No, it's 'lright, I just cannae believe I've slept this long, cannae remember when I last did that-and to see your bonnie face when I first wake up.' His warm smile melted her heart and she was about to plant more kisses on his face when he became serious. 'Thank you, Belle. I-I know, last night.' His head went down, as if in shame as he remembered the events of last night. 'It couldno' be easy to hear, and I know you couldno' have slept well like that.'
She opened her mouth to protest when he shook his head to continue.
'But I want you to know how much I love you for how much you care about me. I'm no' very used to it, but I'm grateful for it, all the same.' He sounded as if he could cry again, but Belle, with him now sitting up, plunged forward and wrapped her arms around him.
'I'd do anything to help you, Roger, anything.'
It was not the last episode that Roger would have, but that night marked a certain shift in his recovery from this bout of battle fatigue. Belle read to him each night, and when he woke up from a nightmare, she would soothe him, tell him stories, recite poetry, and on the hardest nights, he would talk. He didn't want to, but the darkness and his bone weariness coaxed the words from him. He spoke about his insecurities growing up, not that he said that in so many words, but she knew-she now realized just how far the sins of his father carried on to the worries of the son. 'My father couldnae bear to look at me unless he was too drunk to care. Would rather give his boot to the back of me rather than see what a scrawny thing he had sired. I was no good to him, he always said-no good to anyone, he always repeated. And, I suppose, I've always half believed him.'
Belle did her best to soothe those thoughts away too. The well of Roger's self loathing was deep, and she only saw glimpses of the confident man he had grown to be when he was working with his hands on a treasure they had found, or had helped give his two cents on a case that was being worked on. She wished he could see what she saw in him, and she did her best to make her own case.
Nights turned into weeks, and slowly, through long nights of reading, and talking and crying, and soothing, the nightmares became fewer and further between, until the circles under his eyes became less noticeable and his focus became sharper, and his nerves less on edge.
This meant that the day he walked in from work whistling she was caught by surprise, but happy all the same.
'Belle!' He called to her happily and she rushed to greet him, setting down the garlic bread she had toasted.
His wide, happy smile, reaching all the way to his handsome brown eyes meant she couldn't help smiling in return, so happy was she to see him looking so. He pulled out a notebook she recognized as soon as they had kissed each other in greeting.
'You never put this back away, and I may have taken it to Dove after doing some research.' He said a bit sheepishly as she looked at her father's notebook curiously. 'The inventions are dated on here, and signed by your father and him alone-I suspected that your brother may have not been as forthcoming about his own role in the inventions, thus essentially stealing the intellectual property-your father's name is on some of the inventions with his, and so it might be hard to prove that your father was the sole inventor, but….'
Belle felt those twinges of dread and worry, somehow as he spoke. '...you think something might be done.' She said quietly.
'Aye, though it's beyond my ken on what. Dove made the comment that where there's smoke, there's fire. That if your brother would essentially take credit for your father's inventions, that he might have done other things, easier things to prove and follow through with an accusation.'
'And did you…'
His smile somehow went even higher, his eyes sparkling and almost mischievous. Such a difference from a few weeks ago! This should have made her happy, yet all she felt was that sinking feeling in her chest.
'Aye, that I did…come.' And he led her to the kitchen to show his findings.
Author's note:
History Stuff: I tried to read as many first person accounts, thoughts on Battle Fatigue (PTSD) at the time, what worked best to help soldiers with PTSD, how it would have been viewed, options that could help them, etc. It's a delicate subject to get right, and I was glad to be in Belle's head this time with it, seeing it as an outsider, per se, since I am as well. However, I did try to make it as realistic and historically accurate as possible. The night terrors, anxiety, jumpiness, snapping at the spouse-having relationship trouble because of it all are all symptoms that can happen. I could see it making Roger anxious-snapping because he is tired, yet hating himself for doing so the second he does. Belle being a very forgiving, awesome Belle, would be there to reassure him she is not going anywhere. Perhaps it would have been better theoretically if he had someone else to go to, however, I felt that it wasn't in character for Rumple, and therefore Roger would not have done so-telling his troubles to Belle and that helping him seemed much more feasible to me than him agreeing to see someone. I took a couple of semesters of Business Law in college, but my knowledge of patents and inventions is limited to say the least. However, I am researching as I go, trying to make things as accurate as possible. It is possible that too many years have gone by to do anything about the patent being in Belle's father's name alone in his main notebook. Different states have different time periods. Instead of having to worry about all that-I am going in this new direction...which will be talked about in the next chapter :) Story Stuff: Poem is the same one I have quoted from before: A Psalm of Life by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ken means know in Scottish dialect-I've wanted to use it for so long, but also didn't want to sound ridiculous. This seemed like the right moment, lol I am not sure how soon I will be able to update the story. My personal life is taking its last busy turn for the summer. I am hoping to type enough over the next couple of days that I can just edit in my down time and post when I am able, however, I am just not sure how it will go. My apologies if it's a week before I can get anything posted. As always, thank you so much for reading and I love, love, love, all your comments-they make my day!
