Listen To The Silence by Sheryl
Chapter 3 ...I didn't want it, I just need it to breathe,The voice intrudes, and for a few drugged
and slow moments he's not sure if it is real.
His name, faintly screechingly sounded, startling him out of what he supposes must have
been sleep. His awareness of himself is dim, red filmed and thick. Is he awake? He feels
his breath, in and out, even and easy, and sighs in relief. At least he isn't dead. Why he
would think that seems not to be a question.
Surfacing slightly he moves his fingers a little, surprised at the sensation that floods
him through those insignificant receptors, firing up his arm with an intensity that is
very nearly painful. With the flare of feeling comes a flood of reality, smells and sounds
overwhelming, carpet and cleaner and paint and perfume, the chemical scent of artificial
air freshener, bleached sheets and the sweetsalt smell of his own sweat, mingled with the
hiss of the air conditioner, muffled babble of television sound, faint clink of dishes in
the hall, driving away the vestiges of other awareness, and the voice comes again, too
stridently calling his name. His mother.
He forces sticky eyes open, red film dissolving into gold flecked white ceiling, and the
feather touch of a breeze against damp skin. He frowns, shoving sweat soaked hair out of
his face, rubbing itchy aching eyes. He knows this, recognizes it, this dull thudding
vaguely hangoverish headache, result of pushing his mind too far, too hard. It's very
familiarity saddens him, as he remembers the normality of it, of waking up to pain,
reaching blind, still 3/4 asleep for the bottle of painkillers on the bedside table,
always kept there with water, and the half hour of stillness, hoping nobody would come in,
speak, move the bed even a fraction of an inch. That it could have been normal, and that
he even now almost relishes its return causes a wave of depression so deep it is nearly
another physical ache. How could he have missed this?
He sits up slowly, and leans forward, aching head falling into waiting hands. He knows why
he missed it, he missed it the way an athlete misses the ache of overexercised muscles,
the way a singer misses the ache of an overstrained throat. He misses it because it's
fading, falling away, the thrill, the very feeling of accomplishment and completion that
make the pain worthwhile. The pain that meant he was alive, living to the fullest
realization of his being, it's absence makes him less than he could be. He nods, knowing
this road back has no turns. He won't back away again, he can feel it. Like a sober drunk
going back to the bottle, this second round will be even more intense than the first, he
can already see it coming.
The sheet is wet over his legs, and
he grimaces, touching lightly on the similarly soaked that he slept in.
"Sweating buckets, what was I doing in my sleep?"
He knows he was working, isn't sure at what, and sighs, rubbing away a little of the
headache, hating the burn his fingers leave against his face, salt fingers stinging,
eyes flicking to the bathroom door, wishing the hot shower would simply come to him, come
to him and warm away the aches, storm the tension from the back of his neck, rinse away
the sweat and sorrow.
He smiles a little, knowing that there is no power, no matter how strong the mind, that
will relocate the plumbing, and pulls himself regretfully from the bed, holding on for a
moment until balance establishes itself.
His eye falls on the phone, and a number rings in his mind, stirring the ghost of memory.
Jordan. Last night. Jordan's signal, received finally. Jordan who asked him for his help,
he now remembers. Jordan, so fragile, so easily hurt, so strong, responsible now for his
very existence.
How can he refuse him? He wouldn't even if he could, he knows that, remembers it all,
and reaches for the phone, pulls back, face determined.
Later. He'll call later, right now he wants that shower.
Shaking his head, holding the walls
for support, he makes his way in, calling out once to reassure his mother that he is up,
and alive. More alive than he has been in months.
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