Hangman's Hour [Adam]

His feet met empty air, and it was at once thrilling and terrifying. His legs swung a gently rhythm, back and forth over the checkered tiles of the kitchen floor--once white and royal blue--though age and the copious amount of dirt his dirty boots brought in from outdoors had aged the white of the tiles to a dull sort of cream. The stool he sat on was, in many respects, much too high. He still needed the aid of his mother to clamber on and off--and how he delighted in it! The way his laughing mother would lift him gently, catching him just under his arms, lips sputtering the imitation of an airplane noise as she swept him through the air, until his shrieks of delighted laughter had to be silenced by a stern finger placed against her lips, lest his father--his father with a hangover this morning--the same as every morning, awaken. Making a game out of it, always a game.

He giggled, but more quietly, as she crushed him close against her, kissing his round cheeks with exaggerated noises until he squirmed, grinning and full to bursting with giddiness. And then she set him down with a quick ruffle of his hair. He watched the back of her apron strings intently as she set about preparing breakfast--diligently carving the thin brown crust away from his sandwich, to his soft inquiry of 'Juice, mama?' On the stool, he felt important. Safe. These quiet moments before his father stirred were special, something only they shared.

She turned from the counter, the soft and faintly sweet scent of her hair rising in a soft whisper of air around her as she set the plate in front of him. His small hands reached eagerly for the jam sandwich, the thick red easing from the sides in a slow, gelatinous pool. And suddenly his plate was awash in it. Not jam--blood. Flooding the edges of the pristine white, spilling onto the dull beige of the counter. The scent was nauseating, and the way it clung...poured, flowed. Into every crack, every surface. His cries were frantic, little-half sobs. 'Mama! Mama!' But when he glanced up, his mother was still smiling. Her face was serene, though blood streamed from her mouth, coating her chin. Her eyes were only hollow, bleak sockets, colorless and rust-red with the blood that flowed like crimson tears from their corners.

'Ma--!'

He couldn't breathe. Why couldn't he breathe? Something thick was flooding his lungs, thick and metallic in taste, making him gasp, struggle for air that would not come. Everything hurt. He didn't understand. Why couldn't he move? And then he was coughing. Coughing until his ribs ached, until their bowed points dug into the cavity of his chest, and everything was...

White. No blood. No kitchen counter. Thin, crisp sheets of cotton, tucked around a small, sunken body. Nothing but the thin rasp of his breath and the faint beat of his heart, echoed by the monitor at his bedside. The pain, at least, had stopped. The silence was broken by the hushed rise and fall of his mother's voice--in conversation or prayer, he couldn't tell. All that he could be sure of was the elegant curve of her fingers, the comforting weight of her hand around his.

'Mama?' And then her hand was gently brushing back his hair, a soothing, quieting noise escaping her. 'Shh, sweet boy.' He slept. A dreamless sleep. He slept for a long time. And when he woke again, he felt...different. Stronger. Closer to before. His mother was still at his bedside, but this time she read to him from the tattered copy of his favorite--and only--book. She looked different. Older. Fear and exhaustion had aged his mother--his beautiful, invincible mother--seemingly overnight.

'Can we go home now?' 'No, sweet.' 'Why? I want to.' She hesitated. That hesitation of grownups when they're keeping something important from their children. 'I want to go home,' he repeated, louder. 'I know. I know you do.' And those aged eyes of her were suddenly damp. He felt alarmed. He'd only ever seen his mother cry once or twice. Momentary, wracking sobs-minor breakdowns that never lasted long. Cold dread. He frowned, trying to concentrate. It was important, this thing that made her sad. He was sure of it. But why...

'Does...does Dem miss me?' Too young yet to ask if he'd asked for him. So sure he was waiting for him. And he certainly missed him. 'I'm sure he does.' '...I want to go home. I want to cuddle with D--!' 'Venka.' And her voice was suddenly stern--the tone she always used to silence him when he'd done something wrong. And he stilled, and was quiet. Confused, but quiet, eyes trained on her expectantly. 'You can't go home.'

And he wanted to ask 'why?' But the words were like a punch. Devastating, because there was none of her usual teasing behind them. And he didn't understand. All he knew was that home meant his mother. It meant Dmitri. And those things were being taken away from him, and no one would tell him why. What had he done? Was he such an awful child, that he deserved this? He frantically tried to rack his brain, to think of something he might have said, or dirtied, or broken, to make his mother so angry with him. When he couldn't think of anything, he wept.

'Mama doesn't like me anymore?' The heartbroken, sobbed words sent her arms around him in a flash, quiet, soothing words escaping her. But she couldn't weep. Just as she had no answers for him that he would understand. And...

A dim corridor, and hushed voices just beyond it. His mother's was the most prominent, low at first, rushed with pleading, growing sharper with her hysteria. He'd been coloring, slightly outside of the lines. It would build back his motor skills faster, they'd said. All he knew, was that it made him happy, tiny hand wobbling uncertain scribbles mostly inside of the lines, tongue tucked to the corner of his mouth in concentration. But the sounds of his mother's obvious distress caused him to stop, slowly putting down his crayon in the crease of his coloring book.

The door to the room opened, bringing with it strange men in suits that he didn't recognize. And though they smiled, he didn't trust it. Didn't trust them. His mother's lower lip quivered as they approached him, all soft words and forced smiles. And when they asked if he'd like to visit the play area, he couldn't help but nod enthusiastically, reaching his small arms up, momentarily forgetting his mother's distress as they lifted him from the bed and set him gently on his feet. Once they reached the corridor, it was the raw shriek of grief that startled him into turning around.

His mother knelt in the halls, sobbing and reaching out to him. He frowned, turning to stare at her wide-eyed. He couldn't make out her words beyond 'Don't take him, please don't take him,' running into a tearful incoherence. He broke away from the gentle grip of his hand, half-running, half-stumbling down the hall into her arms, clinging to her fiercely and dissolving into tears himself. Afraid. Confused. And then there were hands on him, yanking him back sharply. It hurt. And so he screamed, screamed himself raw, tiny fingers desperately trying to keep hold of his mother even as he was ripped from her arms.

And his mother grew smaller as they walked briskly from her. She got smaller, but her wails got louder, until the door swung shut and silenced them.



Ven woke up with the scream still on his lips, jerking upright with a violent twist of the sheets. His breath came in ragged gasps for air, his skin slick and beaded with a thin sheen of sweat. His fists balled in the sheets--the very sheets that he had twisted and clawed himself free of seconds before, striking out blindly, not caring who or what his fists hit. The room was dark, but it made little difference. He wasn't seeing it. What remained fresh in his mind was the afterimage of the dream, still playing out on the backs of his eyelids. He was shivering, his body jerking in small, aborted motions. His jaw ached with the pressure of which he clenched it, the strain making his teeth creak even as his breathing slowed.

His heart still beat wildly in his chest, fast and irregular. It was just a dream. Just a... Only it hadn't been. No matter how he tried, he couldn't shut out the past once his eyes closed. It found a way to creep in slowly. Often the same dream, with variations. Snatches of the life he'd lived, regrets, memories...some warped penance, he supposed, for his sins. The cold struck him then, and slowly, as if he were still caught in the fog of a dream, he drew the crumbled sheets around himself. But it did nothing to stave off the chill.

It was then that Ven remembered Adam, and his head turned slowly to his right. He wondered if he'd woken the man--and a twinge of guilt colored his thoughts at this. He got such precious little sleep. But by now, it was unlikely that all of Fulsi hadn't heard him. Steadying his breath to the best of his ability as the dream faded, muted at the edges, he slowly sank down beneath the sheets once more. Slowly, he inched over to the form of the other shifter, until he was close enough to tangle his arms around him. Pillowing his head on Adam's chest, Ven took comfort in his warmth and presence. And did his best to ignore the damp lashes that traced designs on the man's chest.




Ooc: ...1643 words. Dear god, I think this my longest post on TM yet. ...But I did warn you, Ali. Have fun slogging through all that. -dies, rolls to bed-