The Mornings

John struggles with the loss of Cait.

Within hours Bravo would come into view, a homecoming of sorts, for some, a reminder of what was not to others. John looked into the mirror and washed his face with water cold as space itself, as if in the washing, in the splashing of pain, the face he knew, the face he remembered, would return. If wishes were horses and land was free he thought.

Pain came not in the night--and, contrary to belief, not in the constant and intense nightmares, each seemingly more vivid than the one before and all the more real with each re-dreaming of an event that would no more wash away than the blood from ancient cobbled streets--but in the mornings, in the mirror, when a face once familiar stared back as a stranger, and answers were as absent as the eyes grown weary in resistance and regret. In the night, the pain was sharp and quick, intense, wet and heart-pounding. But in the morning, in the mirror, the pain was nothing but endless dull grey, a heaviness in the gut, invisible to the eye but as real as the ticking of a clock, steady, consistent and as tortuous as water dripped on the forehead.

John waved his hand and water flowed, from where, to where, he did not contemplate. His white undershirt hung from his thin frame as from a wire hanger, clinging to skin as damp cloth is wont, a gift from the night, a reminder that all was not as it was. He washed his face again, slapping each cheek as a mendicant in supplication, hat extended, empty, again. Placing both hands on the lave before him, John leaned forward as if his back no longer could support the standing straight, as if judgment rendered a slouch he would wear for to stand straight was reserved for men deserving, his nose inches from the silver reflection, his breath as frost in the cold. Then as if his forehead was a hammer and as if he could bang the pain out of the likeness before his worn visage, head met glass and he never heard the knock.

"John?" asked Rog, knocking again, unsure of the odd noises from within. "John?"

The noise stopped. Yul looked at Rog. "Override the lock."

Rog fumbled the pad then reached for his las. "Put that away," said Yul, slapping the back of his head. "Frail, did you not learn anything from the last time." Offering no resistance, Rog stepped aside. Yul worked the pad, the door opened. "Oh my Janus. Go get Trev. And Rog, don't let Ariel anywhere near here until we can get this mess cleaned up."

Reviews

[AutumnStorm]

You could have dealt with this, the immediate after, first time seen alone, in so many ways, but I doubt anything could have been as raw and as real. The grey endlessness being the most difficult to deal with, the hunched back and the stranger's face devoid of answers. The inability to face what he sees and the need for release. All the greater for the relatively sedated movements initially such that his deed towards the end is shocking. Excellently executed.