They started to head back. Shoes crunching against the soft greyed grass, he looked up to the grey skies hanging over humid air. The hospital was slightly small, its chassis resembling a short gothic church. Out on the secluded mountainside, the structure stood as a staple of its village.
Welcomed back to stale air and white drapery, Florence walked down the peer in the wooden laid reception area. The nurse standing before two doors on either side pointed Florence to her left. The dark was unwelcome, more so than the rain or the humidity. Grey may be dreary but at least it was not opaque. Unveiled from the shadows, pushing past a silk curtain, Florence stood in a hallway. The ward consisted of suites on either side.
Florence walked to suite 202.
"Hey," he said, closing the deep spruce door behind.
The entire room smelled of pine. Its skeleton - the scaffolding, floorboards, upper and lower trims, and the chandelier from which the room was lit – was a deep brown wood. The bedrest sat at an incline in the center of the room. The mattress and the towels would have been pure ivory white if not for the permanence of spruce and yellowed light. They gave the bed and equipment a brownish tint.
Her clothes too,
"Hey, you're back." Sam still had those same black streaks, even in old age. Her hair, white (not due to age just how it always was) always had bits of deep brown grow in random patches. She would dye over the patches with black, which now served to make her look younger.
But she was not young, not at all. She was almost 90 years old at this point. For people as old as they are, more time should seem like a chore. Yet it was all he wanted.
He should be thankful that his age was not catching up to him, lest they die in two different beds.
"I sent word to nos chouchous; hoping they'll visit soon."
"I'd rather meet them back at home." Florence forgot how much of her Scottish accent had faded. He supposed the same happened to much of his French one. Both of their kids spoke like true Brits, a result of boarding education he supposed.
"Let's get back home then"
A knock rang through the door. A nurse was on the other side with a report ready… a bad one most likely.
But it was not a nurse Florence opened the door to. It was a nun, arguably even worse if now the staff turned to the lord for help rather than the doctor.
"Sam does not have anything jarringly wrong with her at the moment, but her body is very frail. I myself have never seen someone as old as her. Is she your mother?"
"She's my wife."
"You must like older women then," Florence would have been offended, but Sam didn't seem to mind.
"I want to pray for her, only God can truly heal the body. Her condition has alleviated, but medicine can only incline the body to repair itself. The procedure took a toll on her, so I feel this is necessary."
"Of course. Mon ange, do you agree?"
"Depends on how it goes."
Florence stepped out. The nun, quite possibly in training based on how young she was, prayed in Latin, hand-in-hand with Sam.
It felt strange. Florence and Sam were about the same age, and he still felt young. No creeks in his bones, no cracks in his neck. People age differently; one of the many ways for such life is unfair.
Days like this were sad, but nothing the two of them were not prepared for. The world belonged in the hands of their children now. But they held on for dear life.
The nun stepped through the doorway, nodded to Florence, and headed back down the hallway.
She left a cross on the tray beside the bed.
"Feel any different?"
"I actually do," Sam laughed playfully.
Florence looked down at the cross, inspecting it.
"Ah – shit!" Florence cursed under his breath. A burn was etched on his palm from where he picked up the cross. It clanged against the tray and fell to the floor.
"I should have warned you. Did you forget?"
"Forget what"
"Your eyes are doing it again"
"doing what?"
"They're red, someone might see"
"What?"
Florence looked to the mirror on his left. What the hell type of dream was this?
He was young, too young, much younger than he knew better to believe. Far younger than the years he had experienced would have permitted him to be. And his eyes,
They were crimson red with a thin black pupil stretched from eyelid to eyelid. Some brighter patches lined the bottom iris with a jagged stroma.
Florence touched his face all over. If appalling was appropriate perhaps disappointing was as well. He faced a glitch. The glitch of his foundation he so often conveniently forgot. Still, what the hell was happening? He turned, but the room was gone. He faced a grave. Ordinate with a statue of Sam in her early years stood atop a field of flowers, but in a spot no one would notice.
No one would really notice her - who was perhaps France's best clown. Or best jester if you asked Florence.
He stood on the dull greyed beach, looking over the momentous waters. The wind was picking up. He was home, or where home once was: on the Pyrenees mountains.
How he knew this, lord only knows. Maybe God answered the nun's prayers but was appalled seeing Florence, seeking his repentance over Sam's good health.
A child raced past, startling Florence, who looked in the direction he headed and then the direction whence he came. There was nothing on either side. And then the child ran past once more, startling him again.
He started after the boy, but he was fast. Florence broke off, trying to construe what was happening when the boy raced past once more. He followed further this time, along the edge of the woods that broke into the sand.
The furthermost layers of sand must have brushed on dirt over some odd years. That is the only way any shrubbery could grow along the bank like this. The kid was still ahead.
Florence raced after him,
"Wait!"
A shift in the woods, a twig broken. Not the response he expected. A spot of red, a dark tunic, and a grim stare. Florence looked at himself standing in the woods, eyes red, looking at him chasing a child who, as fated irony would have it, just whizzed by yet again.
And the child too, also looked like Florence. Dark skin, soft curls running over his forehead, and a French pattern braid behind the ears were all just like his own. Or not quite. The kid was smiling, and his eyes were brown as his should have been. While Florence could not see his own, he suspected the color did not change.
He entered the woods, now chasing the figure staring at him. That Florence only walked away, behind a tree, which, when checked by Florence – the only meaningful one at the moment – yielded no evil twin. He turned, only to see himself on the beach chasing a kid who, once more, looked like him.
The one standing on the beach looked back.
Then he looked behind him. He started back towards the grave, passed it, and continued. He turned away from the beach, looking at the mountainside, and the pass above in the distance. Years ago, a bridge was built between the two mountains separated by wood and beach.
The bridge felt familiar, for it was built by someone Florence knew, but it seemed not enough to name that person. But he walked towards it, passing through the woods until the bridge was overhead.
Florence forgot he missed this. The clear lake, quiet wildlife, vibrant greenery, and dynamics of this habitat must have been great to experience firsthand. Though, it felt borrowed in his mind.
On the edge of one of the mountains stood a crevice. It was just sizeable enough for a person to reasonably fit through.
It was a cave: empty, damp, and dark. A figure lay in the center, unmoving. And, of course, they looked just like Florence. He had to wake himself up.
His eyes flipped open; they were wet - wonder why. He rubbed them and sat up. Sleeping on the floor of a cave did wonders for his back. Only if the wonders of the world were the same as those that substantiated themselves in the depths of hell. Florence wished the roof caved in, given how horrible he felt, but he shook himself awake.
Getting up as best as he could, Florence exited the cave. The sky was a clear blue, the sun a bright white.
"How long was I out?" Florence said to himself, looking at the tourists overhead.
And was he more built than before? Most likely a result of whatever he was doing before he went to sleep. What was that again?
Maybe a better question would be: who was that? Florence seriously had to wake up. Dementia wouldn't be off the table for someone as old as him, but he doubted its involvement.
Stepping out under the pass, he took a peek at the beach.
Sam was still there, and two more graves too. A Remi and Claire Castanova.
Castanova, such a fitting name
"Is that my name?"
Are those my kids?
Jujutsu Kaisen: Castanova