The Cup

Another morning, Von discovers John at his worst.

The cup shook, as it had yesterday and the day before. The mornings were this way. A stalemate. Anger and despair intertwined and entrenched, their tentacles rooted in his very fascia. Where they ended and he began was no longer clear and, like a gardener before an untended vine, he felt the anxiety of being overgrown, overwhelmed, consumed.

He watched his hand; and the slight tremor, still there, as it had been for the last three days. He focused on stopping it, snizzle licking the sides of his off-white cup. Mind over matter, he told himself, evidence notwithstanding. He tried again. And then again. He thought of trying a third time before lowering the cup to the table, as if landing a helicopter in a storm, its ceramic base clacking to and fro on the metal tabletop. With the sound of failure echoing, he raised the offending hand, fingers limply clawed, palm inward, before his unshaven face and bagged eyes, the tremor as a frightened child before a scolding parent. (Looking with fatigue, his appendage looked back with all the intelligence of a loose shutter flapping in the wind.)

Kyra had vanished. Not a trace. Not a lead. He knew what had happened. He knew where she was. But there was no evidence. Just a knowing. And an imagination at play. They told him it was not his fault. He listened, politely. But their eyes did not match their words. Even through his own lens of self-crimination he could see that much. And they were right. He had pleaded. He had begged. He had convinced them on this course. So the words fell like so much virga, and tongues remained extended, parched, unsated.

Taking breath, he reached again, for the cup. His hand moving with the languid speed of a snake. Again, the table began to chatter and snizzle threatened to lap the white levees as the cup failed to take flight. Defeated, he removed his hand, withholding the dignity of a glance, locking fingers behind his back. Bending, he snuffled the cup, the aroma working as an elixir. Closing his eyes, to close the world, if only for a moment, he lapped his warm beverage as a dog before a bowl. Lost in his temporary universe, he didn't hear the door.

"John, what the hellocks?"

Startled, John jerked up and snizzle flew everywhere.

Von grabbed a towel, holding it forth at arms length. "Get yourself cleaned up."

John looked down without responding.

"I understand your grief. I understand your pain." Von hesitated and then lowered his voice. "But there is something else I understand too."

John looked up.

"Nothing you can do will bring back Cait." Again, Von paused. "But there is still hope for Kyra."

Standing, John thought to speak, but instead took the towel and turned toward the shower, his words beaten back by Von's unyielding gaze.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you might . . ."

"Might what?"

"You might want to try one of these." Von held out a straw. For the first time in three days John smiled.

Reviews

[AutumnStorm]

My gosh. Gosh gosh even. :-) Shaking my head in wide-eyed wonder, and in exasperation admittedly and already, optimist though I am, for this chapter is stupendous. Insight combined with keenness and an inspired portrayal, taking a part of the whole and showing the whole in a way all would never have done, it is chapters such as this one that pop-up terms like creative genius. Somehow you instinctively know, know how to communicate, through show rather than tell, through indirect (inspired) means but in the most direct of ways. I'm so in awe, so filled with admiration for what you have done here, that my mind truly is filling with that one word only. Genius. The layout, the pace, the vehicle. My first quote would be the entire two first paragraphs, personal preference what remained outside of the parenthesis, underlining for extra emphasis 'entrenched', 'the anxiety of being overgrown' 'Mind over matter..evidence notwithstanding' 'he raised the offending hand' 'before scolding parent', riveting wording, dazzling, this is the point where words rise to the heights of beauty seen. A pitiful figure depicted, an ache settles in the chest to watch him, to see him struggle, trying to put mind over matter, incredibly poignant throughout and as he bends to lap, as he admits defeat, painful as he realizes his action has been witnessed, but nothing is taken from him, on the contrary, in the form of a straw and a smile, there is a hand. Light.
Awed to new heights. Makes me want to squeeze you tight in gratitude for the chance to read something so wonderful, for having put it out there. Xs and Ys.