Fiction at Courage, my friend

Jump to first

Winter Rain, part 77

He watches me quietly, his hand resting on my leg.  I hold his gaze while I consider his offer, one I absolutely cannot accept.  No matter how much I want to trust him. 

I know my duty.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” I breathe, shaking my head.  I pull away, and his smile drops.

“I can’t . . . .

“I can’t . . . . 

“I just can’t.  I’m sorry, Sir.”

“That’s fine, Tiergan,” he says, shaking his head slowly.  “But the offer stands, okay?”

I nod.

He takes back his hand and rises casually out of his chair.  “Come on,” he says, tilting his head towards the door.  “You’ve got to be getting hungry by now.  Let’s get you some food.”

I nod again, a little shakily.  He doesn’t show any sign that he noticed.

I lean forward to stand, and clench instantly as the dull pain in my leg erupts into flame.  I hear myself groan, and shift as much weight as quickly as I can onto the good leg.  The pain subsides again as I get upright.

I consciously unclench my calf—and, more slowly, my teeth—and let out the breath.

“That bad, eh?” I hear him say.

I shake my head, then meet his concern with an attempt at a smile.  “It’s just when I stand.  Put too much weight into the muscle, I guess.” 

I laugh, for real.  “I’ve done worse.”

His concern deepens to a frown.  “Hmmm.  Maybe you’d better let me see it.”

“No, Sir, no.”  I try to back away, but am stopped by the chair.  And another shock of pain in my calf.  “Ffffuck!”

He raises an eyebrow.

I make another attempt at a smile.  But I guess he’s got a point. 

I nod, and lower myself back down into the chair.  He kneels down in front of me, then carefully rolls up my pant leg and unwraps the bandage.  Needles jab as he pulls away the gauze, but I grit my teeth and bear it.  I grit harder as he tests around the wound with his fingers.

“It’s not too bad,” he says, at last, and looks up, nodding.  “You should be able to repair it.”

What.  Does everybody know about that stuff but us?

“You mean, you have some of that ointment, too?”

“Ointment?” 

“Keely’s mother gave me something, this morning.  Killed the pain, so I could fix some damage I’d done to my arm.  I don’t know what was in it, but if you’ve got some . . . . ”

He shakes his head.  “I don’t know what she gave you, Tiergan, but, you don’t really need any . . . ointment, for this.”

I don’t?

“I can’t, Sir . . . .  It’s too . . . messy.  I can’t . . . get close enough to the wound to fix it.  The pain’s just too loud.”

He waves a hand at me.  “Well, of course you can, Tiergan.  You’ve already done it.  Just a minute ago.  When you stood, and you reacted to the pain—you caught yourself and chose to let it go.”

“That’s hardly the same thing, Sir . . . . ”

He shakes his head.  “No, Tiergan—it’s exactly the same thing.  You just need more focus to get to it at this level.” 

He blinks at me, and shakes his head again.  “You really don’t know how to do this, do you.”

“No, Sir.”

“Huh. 

“I’d just always assumed . . . . ” 

He snorts, and cracks a smile.  “Well, no matter.

“I guess I can try to show you how to do it.  Um . . . .  Huh.  How do I describe this . . . .  It’s been so long since Father taught me . . . .

“You’re really stuck on the pain, right?”

I nod.  “Yes, Sir.  I can’t really feel anything else, down there.  It’s just one big . . . tangle of . . . ”

“Yes, yes, yes.  I understand. 

“Hmmm.”  He starts motioning with his hands.  “Okay, what we’ve got to do is . . . get it so you don’t . . . so the pain doesn’t drown out everything else.  We’re not going to be able to stop the pain, mind you.  The idea is to . . . to shift your focus around it . . . through it . . . below it . . . until you find the . . . the essence, the . . . the quiet, beneath. 

“Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

Shit. 

I think I do.

I nod slowly.  “Um, I think so.  Well, maybe.  I mean . . . sometimes, when I get really angry?  I mean, when I can’t do anything about it?  I, um . . . well, I hurt myself.  I mean, on purpose.  And, I don’t know, it . . . kind of makes me feel better, you know?  I mean, it hurts, but . . . eventually, if you just keep doing it you get to this place, where the pain just kinda . . . stops meaning anything, you know?  It just washes over you, like air . . . like water . . . .

“Do you think it’s the same kind of thing you’re talking about?”

I meet his eyes, and try not to read his expression.

Finally: “Yeah.  I think it’s the same kind of thing.” 

He nods slowly, then more quickly, “Okay, okay.  I think you’ve given me an idea we can work with.

“Okay, what I’m going to do is use my nails, and drive them into your other calf, right up against the bone, at the same spot, okay?  It’s going to hurt.”  He chuckles.  “Of course.

“What I want you to do is notice the pain in the left.  Focus on the new pain.  And I think you’ll find the pain on the right will be less noticeable.  So, on that side—without grasping at it, mind you—try to . . . become aware of the sensation below the pain.  Try to feel the muscle again—separate from the wound.  Try to become aware of the tissues.  Okay?”

I nod, and inhale slowly.

He reaches under my left leg, nods at me once, then sets in.  The pain is instantaneous, but not angry.  I focus inwards, into the muscle of the leg.  I make myself aware of the curve of each nail, each arc a sharp burning.  Four together, and one opposite.  And the muscle, squeezed between nail and bone, wanting to, thinking about cramping, from the pressure.

But the right leg is still louder.

“We’re gonna have to go harder.”

He nods, and I start to push my leg against his fingers.  I gasp as he shifts over and adds his weight against my shin.  “Okay, okay, okay!”  I start laughing—the halting, gasping laugh that only ever comes with real pain.

Okay, focus.  Okay, focus.  Inwards.  Inwards.  Inwards.

The pain starts to quiet—to deaden—just a bit.  Starts to flow around me.

And there, just on the right, just out of reach, I notice something.  The muscle.  Apart the pain. 

Carefully, as peripherally as I can, I reach for it . . . 

 . . . with my focus . . . 

 . . . and try . . . 

 . . . to loosen—

“Shit, shit, stop, stop, stop!

“Oh, fuckkkk!” I growl, as he eases back, and pulls his hand away.  “Oh, fuck, shit, sorry.  I lost it.  I lost it.

“But I almost had it.”

My giggling settles into an earnest laugh, as the pain in the left leg drains away.  “But I think I almost had it.  I think, I think I know what you mean!

“I’m not there, yet; I’m not there, yet, but, I think I know what you mean.  Shit!  It’s so obvious.

“Yeah!  It’s so obvious!  I think I know exactly what you mean!”

He nods, grinning with me.  “Good. 

“Good. 

“Ready to try again?”

I shake my head vigorously.  “No, no.  No.  Not yet.  Not right now.  I think . . . I think I need to let this sit for a bit.

“And then I probably need to try it again for myself. 

“Is that okay?”

He laughs, and picks up the wrapping from the floor.  “Of course.  However you want to go about it.  You just need to get past the pain, and you’ll be able to fix it.  Just like changing.

“Come on—let’s get you bandaged up again, then, and we’ll go get you some food.”

My laugh starts to settle into a smile, as the pain drops back down to a dull ache in the right calf, and a dull, burning itch in the left, and I get my breathing under control.

“Yeah, yeah.  Thanks.  I mean, thank you, Sir.”

“Shit, Sir,” I say, shaking my head.  “Shit.

“I don’t know why you’re being so kind to me, Sir, but . . . thank you.  I mean, honestly, Sir . . . ”

He smiles.  “Tiergan, relax. 

“I meant what I said.  You’re here for the night—if you want to talk, come find me.  Okay?

“And I thought I told you to call me Torrin.”

I nod, and smile, and refuse to let the tingling in my eyes spread any further into embarrassment.

“Torrin.

“Torrin,” I say again, like I’m tasting the name for the first time.

“Thank you.”

---