The Vaticinator

by Namita Singh

be alone with me and is therefore putting forth this reasoning. The thought makes me cringe inwardly.

  “I won’t know till I don’t go.” Aakir says, shrugging. “Besides my body is there. I won’t be exactly hiding if I stay here.”

  Neal simply nods at that. Aakir gives one look between Neal and I, then nods in farewell. Next moment, he is gone. Poof.

  The silence climbs up soon enough and so does the inevitable tension. Neal doesn’t heed me any attention. He simply turns about and keeps rummaging in the bag for some thing or the other. My headache worsens as I worry over the now uncomfortable air. I have been aware that these few hours will not be the best for me considering Neal is not exuding his aura, but I certainly didn’t want it to be this awkward between us.

  I find myself hunching even more and rubbing my eyes furiously. The throbbing aches force me to not entertain worrisome thoughts. In fact, it forces me to remain completely blank. But I find that impractical as Neal moves and stands directly in front of me. His shoes are the first thing I see as I am hunched over. I tilt my head to look up at him. His face is expressionless. He simply juts out his hands, one of which is carrying a glass of water and the other my medicines. I sigh and grab the medicines with my left hand first.

  My skin clashes with his, but this time there is no overflow of excited goodness. Yet, I feel tingling sensations working up in my gut and I am sure my face has started to burn again. Neal doesn’t comment. He patiently waits for me to take the pills. I take the glass from him next, careful to not touch him anymore. I swallow the pills with the help of water. Neal steps back, going towards the direction of the bag again. He is back in an instant, taking the empty glass from me. He hands over an ointment tube. I look up at him, slightly squinting due to the pain. I hope he understands my inquisitiveness.

  “For your freak of a face.” He says. He looks stoic, but his voice and words are oozing bitterness.

  I grimace at his antagonism. But without replying, I take the collapsible tube from him.

  “You might want to wash your face first. Clean up a bit.” Neal suggests, his voice slightly tamer now. He is moving towards the bag again.

  He is right. I can practically taste the grime covering me. Travelling for two hours in crowded and polluted areas will not give me a flawless, cleanest skin. Besides, I am sure there must be some dried blood too, thanks to the scratches on my cheek. Those will be requiring some cleaning. I haven’t seen a mirror yet, so I don’t know how bad they look.

  To be honest, I don’t really want to move from this place. Getting up to sit in this posture has already greeted me with escalated pain. Already, without movement, my body is being a pain in the ass. I don’t really want to stand on my feet and test my body more. But on the other hand, I am not in a position to expect Neal to help me. Asking out loud for help is out of the question.

  Sighing, I try to boost my courage. Keeping my painful grunts at bay, I force my body to stand. Immediately I feel my feet wobble. In my periphery view, I notice how Neal stiffens. He is still beside the table, his hands on the bag. But I can feel his eyes on me, his body rigid as he anticipates my next movements.

  I stand for a few moments, letting my feet get accustomed to the pressure. I move then, taking tiny steps towards the only door aside from the main door in this room. I manage three-four steps after which I feel my balance giving away. I immediately stop, rooting my feet to the floor.

  “Whoa, okay.” Neal says, coming towards me. I frown at him as he takes the ointment tube from me, “Just sit down.” He commands.

  A particularly bad pulse of headache shoots up as I deepen my frown at Neal. I grimace, complying with Neal’s ‘request’. Neal motions with his hands impatiently, silently indicating that I stay put. He disappears and turns up moments later with a wet hand towel. He hands over the towel to me.

  “Clean up your face.” He says, “Be light on your cheek and jaw.”

  I blink at him, “Don’t these need proper cleaning?” I ask, pointing to my left cheek.

  Neal rolls his eyes, “We are running on limited cash. I bought only the necessary medicines for you. Besides the cuts are not deep,” he waves at my cheek, “they are just red marks. I don’t think they’ll need an antiseptic.”

  I decide to agree with his judgment, mainly because I am really not in a state to put up contradictions or opinions. Clumsily, I wipe my face. I am not a lefty, so don’t judge me. It stings when I place the wet towel on my left cheek, but the cooling sensation is soothing. Without moving, I keep the damp towel along the cheek for several movements. I close my eyes, reveling in this little relief that I am able to grasp.

  After significant minutes, I feel a sharp poke on my left shoulder. I open my eyes, annoyed. Neal is frowning down at me.

  “Don’t sleep.” He says.

  “I wasn’t sleeping.” I mumble.

  Neal exasperatedly sighs, “Then hurry up, so you can sleep.”

  I comply, only because I do feel sleepy. My body is literally craving an endless sleep. I wipe my face, cringing as my jaw pains at contact. When I am sure my face must be slightly decent, I move onto my neck, wiping that clean too. I have a strong urge to take a bath. But I know my body won’t allow it, not now. When I am done, Neal is there in an instant. He opens the ointment tube, squeezing a little amount on his finger. He jerks my face up as I squint at him. He starts applying it on my left cheek. I grimace at first, hoping that my face is not turning red. Soon, a similar cooling sensation spreads across my cheek. It makes me sigh in relief.

  “Now, go to sleep.” Neal says, packing away the ointment.

  I suspire. I remove my shoes with difficulty. With greater difficulty, I make myself lie flat on the bed, watching the uneven ceiling above me. It takes me only seconds to succumb to sleep.

  When I wake up next, the first feeling to wash over me is relief. My body is not painfully aching anymore. There is stiffness and dull ache, but otherwise my body feels loads better. Most of all, I am utmost glad to be rid of the splitting headache. Without my mind bursting, I feel almost fresh. The only thing that can make me feel even fresher would be a hot bath. I can only pray that my body is capable of enough movement to accomplish that. I shift slightly on the bed, to check if there is any part particularly bothering me. But there is no specific pain from any specific part, except for my arm of course, which bothers on slight movement. I guess I’ll have to live with that. No complaints from my side, because even the bruises on my face don’t seem to be bothering me as of now. Plus, there is no headache, something I am the most thankful for. I suppose the medicines have worked their magic.

  I look around, tilting my head. I instantly freeze at the sight of Neal on his bed. Neal is sitting in his meditation posture- cross legged, hands on knees, palm facing up, straight back and closed eyes. I sit up, wincing at the stiffness of my body. At least there isn’t any throbbing ache.

  “Neal?” I say quietly, my voice hoarse from sleep.

  I am taken aback as Neal’s eyes open up at my voice. He doesn’t turn his head towards me though. He blinks slowly, as if coming out of a trance. He rubs his eyes with the palm of his hands once before turning towards me. He immediately frowns.

  “You feeling okay?” he asks quietly.

  Again, I am taken aback by his complacent, almost concerned tone. I simply nod at him.

  “You were meditating.” I state.

  Neal nods, his placid stance and silence slightly unnerving me. It’s weird how much I prefer the snarky Neal.

  “Was trying to see if I can project myself. Maybe change one or two things in our favor.” He reveals.

  Effortlessly, my face contorts into a scowl at that. He knows how much I despise this ability of his, but again, when does he listen to me? I believe I am being irrational by disliking something that can turn the situation in our favor. If we just patiently sit and let Neal envisage a view with no hardships for us then I should be encouraging it.

  But it’s tough to
encourage something that has landed us into this situation in the first place. I don’t want Neal to be an oddity. I don’t want Neal to envisage the future at all. It is not normal and sure as hell not something that should be encouraged. I simply don’t like Neal being something different, doing something so different, which will invariably make unwanted people bend in his direction.

  But sometimes it becomes essential to let go of the surprising, undesired turns of life and be certain of our wellbeing in the distant future. Our situation calls for such understanding. Yet, I find myself against Neal being the one to alter reality, to be someone who would always be looked upon as the oddity who changed the course of our lives, even if it is for the better. Because as far as I see, our betterment is capable of instigating resentment in a number of people. And I’ll be damned if I let Neal be at the end of the arrow poisoned with that resentment.

  Also, I don’t really underestimate us. I am optimistic, that somehow things will work our way. That we are capable of making our own future.

  “It’s good that you woke up on your own.” Neal says, driving me out of my reverie. “It’s almost seven in the morning. You’ve slept for almost eight hours.”

  I hum. With the harassment my body faced, I may have required twenty four hours’ worth sleep. But eight hours is keeping me satisfied enough.

  I look around