The Vaticinator

by Namita Singh

me. Or make him feel any less, that him being vulnerable enough to plea means nothing.

  “I am sorry.” I find myself saying. I turn to see Neal clenching his jaw, staring ahead, “I really don’t know what else to say, to be honest.” I mutter, “I am just sorry that you felt like that. It was never my intention to hurt you or anything. But,” I pause, stressing, “I am not sorry that you left the hospital instead of me. I’ll never be sorry for that. I just feel bad for hurting you…so, sorry.”

  Neal doesn’t reply, but he is not clenching his jaw or hands anymore-a positive sign in my opinion. I am sure he can feel my eyes on him, but he doesn’t turn or respond in any gesture. I sigh. At least he is not arguing anymore, and doesn’t seem – relatively – angry. I let a few moments pass, as I switch between looking out of the window and at Neal. When the silence becomes overbearing, I get up from bed. I casually fill a tall glass of water on the taboret and settle back on the bed, this time sitting beside Neal with my back against the wall and eyes trained at the door. The bed is small enough that our shoulders brush.

  I take a sip of water and bump my shoulder against his, making him give a weary glance in my direction.

  “Are we still fighting or what?” I ask.

  Neal rolls his eyes. “Finish your damned food.” He grumbles.

  I eye the half eaten tray in front of me and shrug, “Not hungry.”

  Neal narrows his eyes, “You haven’t eaten anything since morning. At least finish this.”

  “Is that a wish I am supposed to respect?” I mock, smirking.

  Neal gives me a dry look, “As if you listen to everything I say.”

  “Hey, I am sitting in this ship, aren’t I? I have a bad feeling about going back, that I have made a wrong decision. But I am still siting here.”

  To my utter surprise, Neal’s face becomes bright red, the blush even reaching the tips of his ear. He quickly brings a hand to run down his face, probably trying to hide the redness. I awkwardly glance away, repeating my words in my mind and wondering what has instigated the blush. I don’t think anything I said was blush worthy. Or is it the fact that I pointed out that I do listen to his opinions?

  Neal fake coughs, bringing my attention back to him. Astonishingly, he is smirking, though his face is still plenty red.

  “Why the hell are you blushing?” he asks and ends up laughing.

  I roll my eyes, discreetly blushing over the fact that I didn’t realize that I was blushing. “Just wondering what has you going all red in the face.” I grumble, “That’s usually my department.”

  Neal chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. He doesn’t say anything in response though. So he will probably not answer why he is blushing. He continues to quietly chuckle though, but I fail to see what’s so amusing.

  “Hey, Lichinsky?” Neal says after a moment.

  “Hmm?”

  “You’re very shy for a jock.” He blurts and bursts into another round of sniggers; as if that’s the funniest thing he has come across.

  “Not everyone’s Ray.” I quip.

  Neal makes a mock horror expression, “Nobody should be Ray.”

  We continue with our friendly banter through the rest of the night. Surprisingly, we end up laughing on more than one occasion. It takes another hour for Neal’s aura to return and the return is more than welcomed by me. Our feud gets several ages old as we converse through the hours. I am quite happy to be on comfortable talking terms with Neal again. His aura uplifts my good mood even more. Ignoring the warning my mind heeds, I find my shoulder smack against his. Even through the layer of clothes, his aura manages to be much empowering than it normally is.

  It doesn’t take long for Neal to realize why my shoulder is snuggling his. But he doesn’t say anything. I am glad for the understanding, where he has figured that he is radiating his aura again and that I am desirous of experiencing the potent form of his aura. He fidgets for a moment, making me think he is uncomfortable. In the next moment he motions as if he is about to grab my hand, to cause direct skin to skin contact. But he simply adjusts on the bed, folding his hands across his chest and continues to talk about the jocks in our school.

  The comfortable air and his aura, even throughthe layer of clothes, has me in an extremely pleasant disposition as we discuss our school, the games, the food and whatnot. Neal has a lot of in-news about some of the people in my group, the ‘popular’ bunch as Neal says. He even reveals the details about the whole Ananya-Duato case. Some information comes out as quite a shock to me.

  Neal is talking without restrains. I suppose we are past the stage where he has to warn me about not disclosing to other people whatever we discuss. It’s already understood that some things we discuss are not to be revealed to other people.

  Despite dark circles forming under Neal’s eyes, we manage to talk till pretty late this first night. I am sure he didn’t sleep last night and even today through the day he has been up while I slept. I don’t fret on it. We’re going to be in this room for the next ten days, without anything to do. He can sleep as much as he wants in the coming days.

  We get to do a lot more than just sleep in the coming days. Apparently, Neal likes to engage in games of poker and chess with random strangers that gather up in the evenings on the deck. He is definitely more social than me. He talks and jokes with other people, while I sit beside him and laugh with others. I should be more outgoing and extroverting, he says. When I express my desire to remain in my comfort zone, Neal gives me a dry look but lets me be.

  We also make a habit of hanging around the deck more often; just watching the passing shoreline and ‘enjoying nature’. We usually end up walking about during nights, before sleep time. It is less crowded, and the both of us get to talk without reservation. Being out in the open is better for my health, Neal says. But my health has not been a hassle past the first day. I do get drowsy after my dose, but most of the times I succeed in evading deep, endless slumbers.

  The matter of my arm is a different thing. Rough and quick movements are still not the liberties I enjoy. Neal has strictly commanded that my bandages be changed every two days. I don’t have a problem with that, considering Neal is the one who will have to change the bandages.

  The first time I am anxious as I worry over how ugly my burn injuries would be. Neal also looks positively terrified as he settles my arm firmly over the edge of the bed and makes me sit on the floor motionlessly.

  “Stay still.” Neal says again, removing my old bandages, a frown permanent on his face.

  “I am still.”

  “Don’t talk. It’ll make you move.”

  I roll my eyes, but let Neal do his job. The injuries are, surprisingly, not very severe looking. But it is enough a sight to make me cringe. The skin is uneven, whitish-pink, with red vein like scars that crisscross, like a web. On top of it, my arm is swollen red. At least it’s not absolutely grotesque, thankfully. But it is equally easy to make out that this is my under skin. My top, tanned epidermis of the skin is in the making. Neal heaves a huge sigh of relief when it’s over.

  “I know that I am not opting for medical as my major.” He grumbles.

  That actually makes me question on his choice of subject for college. Mass communication, I should have known. In the following days, it takes me by further surprise when Neal continues to express what activities he wants to perform once we are back in Latvia. He is awfully optimistic that we’ll return back. But he is equally worried about returning as well.

  He doesn’t want our return to be very late. He is much desiring to wrap up this unfortunate event of our lives and be back at school as soon as possible. He wants to make up for the missing days of school work and finish his last year at school in peace. He sounds undeniably morose and depressive when he reveals that he absolutely under no circumstances wants to repeat another year.

  A nerd’s honor is at stake, I suppose.

  At some point, we even start discussing our recent fight. This time the topic is tal
ked upon with nonchalance, with no hurt or guilty feelings on anyone’s part. I get something to make fun of when I resolutely point out how uncharacteristic it is of Neal to feel hurt, even over something this substantial.

  “I wasn’t hurt.” Neal is quick to reply, “I was just severely ticked off.”

  “Whatever floats your boat.” I mutter.

  “Well, stop looking over your pointed finger, and see that three are aiming right back at you. Your actions weren’t exactly in conformation with your character either.” He bites sarcastically.

  I know he is talking of the kiss and so I am quick to divert the talk, red faced. But not before ‘advising’ Neal to inform me of his mindset beforehand, instead of imploding like a fusion bomb in one go. He mutters something about sounding like a girl and starts talking about his favorite soccer team. Soccer distracts me easily.

  All in all, our days on the cruise are spent in relative pleasantness. A pleasantness, which heightens in the mornings when I wake up and find myself in contact with Neal, some way or the other. Our top and tail position provides us plenty space on the small bed, but we still end up physically touching. And though the contact is usually through the sheets we have atop, it still brightens my day. And since all of my inhibitions regarding physical touch with my partner have drowned, I find myself looking forward to when we sit together, side by side, my arm and shoulder