Freefall
oo5.
Aniston stands patiently at the window, gazing placidly out at the cityscape beyond. For a moment, he forgets about the other presence in the room, forgets to breathe in the stillness of the moment.
“She’s mean, Mister,” a voice reaches out from the shadows of the couch. It is pained, fearful.
Aniston feels his breath catch in his throat. This was a start, a path to be followed. “Who is, Ryan?” he inquires, not turning.
The atmosphere is heavy, foreboding, uninviting. There is no answer for a moment, and the air locks them in separate bubbles: so distant, frozen in time. Finally, “Momma…” The word is barely able to escape past his rigid lips, his voice too afraid to accompany it very far.
A fact clicks itself into place beyond the doctor’s eyes, like a key turning in a lock. Aniston slowly paces back to his desk, trying hard not to come off as too excited. His eyes trail up to land on the boy across the room.
Ryan is pushed far back into the cushions, finding no comfort in its plush fabric. His knees are pulled up to his chin, arms locked around them in a deadly vise, an attempt to keep hold of himself, keep his mind reined in. His eyes are hollow of life, just staring into some portal of his past set out before him. He runs his bottom lip between his teeth, grating it, unaware of the clear liquid that was slowly meandering down his cheeks.
“What happened, Ryan? What did she do to you?”
Ryan’s head snaps up, eyes flashing between terror and anger: a deadly combination. He shakes his head vigorously, claps his hands over his ears, while his eyes race around the room, following unseen demons.
Aniston was losing him, fast. “Ryan! Ryan it’s okay! We won’t talk about it! We don’t have to talk about it!” he pleads, voice growing higher, fighting to be heard over Ryan’s frantic singing.
Ryan rocks back and forth, clamps his eyes shut now too, and sings louder. Aniston rushes to his side, places a hand on his shoulder. Ryan’s words turn into gut-wrenching sobs as he pulls away, retreating to the other side of the couch.
“Hey, it’s okay, Ryan,” Aniston soothes, keeping his distance.
It continues, for what seemed like hours, though really only minutes: the sobs, the words of comfort, the battle between them. Finally, as if flicking a switch, Ryan’s tremors stop, his voice, though still shaky, turns into deep, calming breaths. It is over, and Aniston relaxes.
Then, as if he had no recollection of the day’s previous events, Ryan sits up, turns his tear stained face to the doctor, blue eyes twinkling like lights.
“Do you want to play a game with me, Mister?” he sniffles.
---
Two globes burn through the still gray of the night. A glaze lies over them, coating them in a placid restlessness. Two lips move up, down, form silent words to mingle with the air. Two arms wrap comfortingly around the small body. One boy is stuck presently in his haunting memories, helpless to their deafening voices, calling him, haunting him.
His brain fights a losing battle for control, tries to retake the lost ground of its host. He struggles to ignore them, struggles endlessly to make it stop. But, despite the efforts, the voices rail on, his lips form their words; his mind slips away, always slips away.
And another night would drag on.
“She’s mean, Mister,” a voice reaches out from the shadows of the couch. It is pained, fearful.
Aniston feels his breath catch in his throat. This was a start, a path to be followed. “Who is, Ryan?” he inquires, not turning.
The atmosphere is heavy, foreboding, uninviting. There is no answer for a moment, and the air locks them in separate bubbles: so distant, frozen in time. Finally, “Momma…” The word is barely able to escape past his rigid lips, his voice too afraid to accompany it very far.
A fact clicks itself into place beyond the doctor’s eyes, like a key turning in a lock. Aniston slowly paces back to his desk, trying hard not to come off as too excited. His eyes trail up to land on the boy across the room.
Ryan is pushed far back into the cushions, finding no comfort in its plush fabric. His knees are pulled up to his chin, arms locked around them in a deadly vise, an attempt to keep hold of himself, keep his mind reined in. His eyes are hollow of life, just staring into some portal of his past set out before him. He runs his bottom lip between his teeth, grating it, unaware of the clear liquid that was slowly meandering down his cheeks.
“What happened, Ryan? What did she do to you?”
Ryan’s head snaps up, eyes flashing between terror and anger: a deadly combination. He shakes his head vigorously, claps his hands over his ears, while his eyes race around the room, following unseen demons.
Aniston was losing him, fast. “Ryan! Ryan it’s okay! We won’t talk about it! We don’t have to talk about it!” he pleads, voice growing higher, fighting to be heard over Ryan’s frantic singing.
Ryan rocks back and forth, clamps his eyes shut now too, and sings louder. Aniston rushes to his side, places a hand on his shoulder. Ryan’s words turn into gut-wrenching sobs as he pulls away, retreating to the other side of the couch.
“Hey, it’s okay, Ryan,” Aniston soothes, keeping his distance.
It continues, for what seemed like hours, though really only minutes: the sobs, the words of comfort, the battle between them. Finally, as if flicking a switch, Ryan’s tremors stop, his voice, though still shaky, turns into deep, calming breaths. It is over, and Aniston relaxes.
Then, as if he had no recollection of the day’s previous events, Ryan sits up, turns his tear stained face to the doctor, blue eyes twinkling like lights.
“Do you want to play a game with me, Mister?” he sniffles.
---
Two globes burn through the still gray of the night. A glaze lies over them, coating them in a placid restlessness. Two lips move up, down, form silent words to mingle with the air. Two arms wrap comfortingly around the small body. One boy is stuck presently in his haunting memories, helpless to their deafening voices, calling him, haunting him.
His brain fights a losing battle for control, tries to retake the lost ground of its host. He struggles to ignore them, struggles endlessly to make it stop. But, despite the efforts, the voices rail on, his lips form their words; his mind slips away, always slips away.
And another night would drag on.