“Turn it off,” he said, more of an order then a request. I didn’t hesitate and kicked the cord loose from the wall. The immediate silence filled the room. I could only hear him breathing while I held mine, waiting for his next move.
He lay still, not showing any sign of wanting to move. “I’m sorry I lost my temper.”
“It’s ok. I’m not worried about the mess. Are you alright?”
“I’m better now. I really am sorry.” There was more empathy in his voice the second time, even as he remained motionless.
“Well, let me get you in order before I start cleaning up. It looks like you cut your hand pretty bad. I can call Sally to come–”
“No. I don’t want her to see me like this.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
I could hear how distraught he was over the tantrum he had thrown, even if I couldn’t see it in his eyes.
“I already saw, and I don’t care. Whatever happened, you don’t have to tell me. Just let me get you fixed up and if you want to be alone, I can leave. I don’t have to stay.”
I had already begun to pull the first-aid kit from its place under the bed, transferring it to the end so I could rummage for antiseptic and bandages. We were low on gauze and a few other supplies, but I managed to scrape together enough to cover his hand – as long as he hadn’t done too much to it in his rage.
He had moved his arm away from his face, holding it out, waiting for me to start. I positioned myself next to him on the bed and held his hand in my lap to get a better look. As he uncurled his fingers, I could see the large piece of glass had imbedded itself into his skin, across his palm. It wasn’t deep, but as soon as it was removed, it started a fresh flow of blood, filling up the hole it had left. I wiped away as much as I could before squeezing out a sample-sized amount of ointment into the hole and holding the gauze over it.
He didn’t flinch once during the process; he just lay there, watching me as I went along, taping up his hand. I finished the treatment, but didn’t let go of his hand, allowing it to rest in my lap while I continued to hold pressure. His hands were so soft, unlike most guys that had worked outdoors for years. Chase had calluses so thick I would catch him picking at them while eating dinner, making me cringe each time. Something was completely different about his. Job’s hand was so smooth I had to feel along his fingers to make sure I had been right. Even then I wasn’t sure and took a closer look.
“You don’t have any fingerprints?” I asked.
“What’s that?”
Apparently he hadn’t caught any investigative shows, where they would always dust for fingerprints to catch the criminal. I showed him my hand so he could see my fingers and the swirls of skin forming lines that only belonged to me.
He lifted his hand out of my lap, flexing his bicep to show me the back of his arm. I had seen them before, but never knew that the pattern of speckles that streaked down his arms was the same as my prints. I ran my fingers over them; they were just as soft as the rest of his skin. Being such a pale brown, I hardly noticed them against his tan skin. They were stunning, the way they gradually started at the shoulder and became more prominent along his triceps, fading away again just above the elbow. He could see I was intrigued by the design and smiled at me, pushing himself back up to a seated position and leaning forward so I could see the rest along his back.
There was another set of trails that started near his neck, following his hairline down along either side. Where his hair ended in a V between his shoulder blades, the tracks continued down to his lower back, joining together just before his jeans. They seemed to flow along the contours of his frame, emphasizing his muscular build even more than without them. I couldn’t help but lean in closer to trace my fingers along them, stopping just before they connected. The feeling must have sent a shiver down his spine, as he arched his back, drawing his shoulders up.
“Sorry. They are just so beautiful, much better then stupid swirly marks on my fingers.” I wiggled my fingers at him.
He smiled back at me over his shoulder, taking my hand to have a closer look. His soft finger ran over mine, sending shivers down my spine as well. It was hard to resist the urge to want to get closer and curl up next to him again. I had to distract myself so that I wouldn’t be so obvious.
“I have to ask. How do you have such nice nails? I have to work at it every day to keep them filed. Yours look like you had a manicure.”
“I’m not sure what a manicure is, but they don’t grow like yours. They are just there.” He showed me.
“And the hair? You don’t have to shave or get a haircut?”
“Nope.”
“And the glimmer in your eyes?”
“I can see in the dark.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m sure there is,” he replied, hinting that he knew more than he was letting on.
I could feel myself being drawn closer to him after each question, staring at his eyes again – his sweet breath on me, giving me more reason to be near him.
Before I could get too close, he turned his head away, laughing at my reaction. “I don’t want you to go. You can stay as long as you want.”
I knew this was an invite that had deeper meaning that just a simple friendly visit. I could feel the same emotion building up inside me – but it was abruptly stopped by the fear of giving too much of myself to him, just to have him leave me. I moved away from him, taking my hand back. I needed to keep my distance and he was making it that much harder. I knew that if I gave in, I would only be setting myself up for disaster. He couldn’t hide in my basement forever; he would need to leave, and I would be left alone to pick up the pieces. Already I knew I was going to have to live with losing him as a friend. I wasn’t sure if I could survive a loss greater than that. The last one had crippled me for over five years, and I was still coming to terms with the grief. I had no choice other than to stop it before it could start, and hope that he would understand.
“Job, I’m sorry.”
He looked back at me, smiling, but clearly disappointed. It looked like one of my half-hearted smiles I knew all too well. “Is it the…not human thing?”
He may have forgiven, but he did not forget. I still regretted having said it. I wished those words had never left my mouth. He had to have known by now that it made no difference where he was from. It was my fear that was stopping me from going any further.
“No. I’m just not…not ready.”
That still left the door ajar so that some hope could shine through for him. He looked satisfied with my answer, nodding his head with approval. It seemed to work for the time being, and I would be able to get through the next few weeks without hurting his feelings any further.
Before getting dinner, I helped him get rearranged on the bed so he could sit comfortably again. Sliding him back across the bed was difficult, and I wondered how he had gotten himself there on his own in the first place. My only assumption was that the task of taking out the TV had driven him to move that far, and he had only come to a halt when the pain overtook his anger, reminding him how bad of an idea it had been. I did the best I could to brace his leg so he could scoot himself back to where he had started, still leaving room for me to sit next to him at my leisure. I cleaned off the pillows and comforter, removing the slivers of glass that were stuck to them, and tossed everything back at him, letting him know that since he had figured out how to get his leg back up once, he could do it himself this time as well. A chuckle escaped him, knowing I was right, and I walked away so I didn’t have to listen to any more gasps as he maneuvered the fractured leg back into its resting place.
Carrying everything back down was a balancing act, between the dishes of food and silverware in one hand, a dustpan and broom in the other, and two cans of soda cradled in the crook of my arm. I thought briefly that I should have become a server since I had so much coordination. I wondered about the pay, and if it would be better than working at an inn. As enticing a
s it sounded, though, I could never leave Sally to run the place on her own. It was part of the reason I never got up and moved away like I had dreamed so many times. I was still hanging on to the only family I had left.
Dinner was mostly in silence, other than the occasional sounds of approval Job gave as he ate each mouthful, chewing slower than usual. I actually finished before he did for a change, and watched him take his last bite, leaving only the onions on the plate – the first time I had ever seen him turn down something I made.
“You don’t like onions?” I asked.
He made a disgusted face, as though the thought of them made him sick. It was funny to see how he turned his nose up at them. I made a mental note to exclude them from his meals from now on.
I set the plates down on the chair and picked up my broom, working my way around the room, sweeping together any pieces of glass or plate I could find and brushing them into the dustpan. It took me only a few minutes with such a small space, and I was ready to go back up and dispose of them. I could see Job had lost his humor again and was thinking hard on something, growing somber. I waited to see if he was going to say anything.
“I saw a news story on my people…the Sayner. They were showing things they had done to them. Some of them were being tor–” He couldn’t continue.
This had been the thing that had enraged him and caused him to act out so violently. It was tearing him up just thinking about it.
Some countries had found unique and horrific ways to dispose of them. A few had gone so far as to broadcast the slaying of the Sayner, which became very popular in most countries, prompting them to continue as their ratings grew. Others, like the United States, had enslaved them, forcing them to work the lowest of jobs. It was a sick world we lived in, and I had removed myself from watching it a long time ago. I had forgotten that he had no choice when he couldn’t turn off the television.
“You don’t have to talk about it. I can put the TV away so you don’t have to see it again.”
“NO! I want to talk about it. Even if I can’t see it, I know it’s still going on,” he said, enraged again.
“I know that we are not as awful as some other–”
“Yes you are. You didn’t see what they did. I was there. I saw it firsthand. I heard the screams every night. I had to sit and listen to them dissect us while we were awake.”
I was stunned; I had no idea their camps were so horrible. My understanding was that they had sat there waiting to be sold off to the highest bidder, and that would be it. I wasn’t sure what to say at that point.
“What happened to you?” I was afraid of the story he might give. As fearful as he was on that first night – being held down, forced to endure physical agony while we tried to help – I could only imagine what he had been thinking and why he reacted the way he had. I sat on the bed next to him so I could be close, in case he needed me.
“I was lucky. I came a few weeks after the first group. I’m not sure where we landed, but there were not many of us; only a few hundred.”
For weeks after the initial arrival of the Sayner and Vesper in Wisconsin, meteors continued to fall in various locations around the world. Each time, the local populace would hold their breath, nervously waiting to find out who had come. The “meteors,” as we would come to find out, were a kind of escape pod – similar in shape to an almond – with smooth, sweeping curves running along the sides. Although each device was only a bit larger than the average basketball, it could contain thousands of displaced beings in their sand-like form. As the showers dwindled, however, so did their occupants, until many pods sat unopened, showing no sign of life.
“We were taken to a camp set up to keep us from escaping, keeping women and children on one side and men on the other. They provided clothes, but the cell we lived in was cramped, and food was scarce. In the weeks that followed, I watched people starve to death as we fought over any scraps we could get. I managed to get enough to keep myself alive, but learned quickly to eat as fast as possible before someone else stole from you.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear this story, but I knew he wanted to keep going and I had no right to stop him. He needed to get it out. I was the only person he had trusted to listen.
“Some tried to escape and, looking for freedom, fought with guards. I stayed quiet and kept to myself, trying not to attract any attention. Sometimes when someone would die, the body was left in the cell with us for days so that we had to smell and sleep near it till they decided to remove it. Other times they would just pick someone to take and beat with copper weapons and put them back with us so we had to listen to them cry out as they would shift uncontrollably till the pain was too much and they would either die or they would pass out and one of us would end their suffering.”
He had stopped looking at me and stared at his hands again. He didn’t have to tell me that he had been one of the few to end a life.
“That was what you had gone through. The shift when you woke up. What does it feel like?” I felt bad interrupting, but I had been curious about the shift for a while.
“Usually it doesn’t hurt. I can control it sometimes and other times my body just reacts if it knows that I could get hurt. It doesn’t work if I’m unconscious. I’ve never felt pain until – that first night. I can’t describe it. It was different than what this feels like.” He pointed to his leg and pumped his hand open and closed, trying to show me.
“Throbbing?”
“And it was different than when you had to set it, and different than what being stabbed felt like. It would get worse each time till I almost couldn’t stand it. I wanted it to end, but it never stopped until you.” He had put his hand to the penny still clasped around his neck. It was the only thing saving him from enduring the constant shift.
“After a while, I could feel that there were less women and children on the other side, since the fear was lessening. They had been taken away or killed. The ones that started fights or caused problems were usually the ones taken for tests. I had been picked to be taken, but before I could be walked out, another person tried to run, and I was put back so they could chase him down. He never came back, but that night I could hear him screaming in a tent close by. He had taken my place. I should have been the one to suffer.”
He was so upset that I was waiting for tears to come. He had to stop for a moment and recollect his thoughts, but held back any fits of anger. I felt compelled to reach out for his hand, but was afraid he would stop if I did.
“What happened after that?”
“Some of us were shipped off to other camps. I was transferred around a few times over the years, till they had decided to make us slaves. By that point, I had been put in my own cell and fed better than before. Each of us took a turn meeting with someone who would ask us questions to find out how much we could say, and give us a name. The woman who saw me said she thought it was wrong what they were doing and thought we should have names from the Bible.
“After we went through, we were given our mark and sent back to wait. They gave us new clothes and shoes so we looked good when they sold us.”
“Does the mark mean anything?” I was looking at his hands. The pale raised scar on the hand without a bandage was not something he could hide. I could just imagine them using a cattle brand to give it to him; searing his skin and cauterizing before it could bleed all in one move.
“It’s the symbol of the Vesper; the eye that can see all. I would do anything to be rid of it.” He covered his other hand subconsciously as he spoke, trying to hide it from view. I could see that the shame was coming back again as he turned away in an attempt to avoid looking at me.
I couldn’t help myself; I had to do something. I knew I might send another mixed message, but I didn’t care. He had just spilled everything out to me and I didn’t want him to think that, just because I couldn’t decide how I felt about him yet, it didn’t mean that I didn’t want to be there for him. Instinctively, I pulled his hand from hiding and placed it
in mine, back on my lap. I traced the continuous line with my finger, running over the imperfect skin. He watched my finger intently, not pulling away.
“I don’t care if you hate it. I understand why, but it doesn’t change who you are. You are smarter than I think anyone has given you credit for. You make me laugh all the time. You keep trying to be strong even when you hurt. You’ve made me feel something I haven’t felt in years. Even with this scar, I think you’re perfect.”
Holding his hand in both of mine, I brought it up and kissed it, feeling his warm skin against my lips. It was a bold move, and I wasn’t sure what his reaction would be. I looked at him, waiting to see.
He was still watching my hands, finally bringing his eyes to mine. His caring eyes stared at me, almost longing to return the affection. Eventually he looked back down, smiling. It grew wider until I could hear him laugh softly.
“I’m not perfect. I have my flaws. I have a big scar on my side and a messed up leg and can’t even get out of this bed.”
“You will. It’s just going to take some time, unless you’re in a hurry to leave?”
There was an exaggerated sigh, but his smile remained. “Well, I guess I can stay a few more weeks, but only if you insist.”
It was funny hearing him pick up his own brassy remarks.
“And get me a remote.”
“Now you’re going too far.” I jabbed him in the ribs. As straight faced as I was trying to be, I couldn’t help but to smile. Even with how bad his history had been, I hoped that, going forward, I could help create some new memories he could remember me by. We still had time, and I was determined to make the best of it.
14.
Tuesday turned out to be far more manageable than Monday had been. With enough books to keep Job entertained for a month, coming home to a mess or screams seemed almost impossible to fathom. In over a week’s time, I had dealt with more drama then I could ever handle on an all-day marathon of movies revolving around the subject. I had felt every hard-wired emotion available in me, as well as a few new ones I had kept bottled up for years. Living with him had become a full-time job in itself and lent no room for anything else. I had figured out why Sally had been so insistent that I be the one to keep him, other than his injuries: he was a handful, and I had nothing better to do.
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