Ouroboros
One
I wake up in the middle of the night to screams and half choked sobs. The warm night air reverberates with terror and agony.
Judging by the fact he’s screaming, tonight must be a bad night. As I lie in bed at 2:17 the morning and stare at the ceiling, I wonder if it’s the pain or memories at the source of his shrieking tonight. I don't know which would be worse: I can't help with either, but they're different strains of helplessness. Bitterness wells up in my mouth, splashing against my clenched teeth, and comes out as a soft curse.
Is it bad I wish it's pain tonight? Am I a bad sister for hoping he's simply writhing in agony, rather than fending off demons?
A soft thumping noise sounds, breaking me from my thoughts, and then the night is quiet and peaceful once more.
Perhaps he hit the wall and woke up. Perhaps he’s pulled himself together. Perhaps it was just a twinge and it’s passed.
Or maybe he’s hurt himself.
Damn it.
I pull myself out of bed and shuffle into the next room. My hand pauses for a brief second, inches away from the closed door, before I knock.
No answer.
I knock again, and this time a choked sound filters through the door.
I swallow thickly and let myself in.
He’s up in bed; a knuckle shoved in his mouth to gag the worst of the screams, his bony knees (or rather knee, his right leg isn't flexible enough to do that) up to his chest, back pressed against the wall and tears glittering on his lashes. When he notices me, he glances aside, ashamed, and mumbles a weak apology. His whole body shakes, and it’s not because of the weather.
I ask him if he needs anything.
At this point, both of us know exactly what ‘anything’ means. In some long buried, drowned and gagged part of my mind, I know this isn’t healthy, and that same part insanely hopes every time that he’ll say no. But instead he nods silently, looking drained and weak, a corpse reanimated. I return the nod stiffly and we both make our way to the kitchen, his stride uneven and staccato. From there, I gesture for him to sit him down as I grab the vodka. It’s up on the counter, within arm’s reach, because we’ve got this down to a science.
Without a word, I hand the bottle off to him.
The way he desperately sucks down the liquid glass is less than healthful and more symptomatic of a far larger underlying issue. But I don’t say anything, because that’s what he trusts me to do, to enable his self-destruction and to listen to his sins.
Once he’s well and inebriated, once that telltale haunted look is replaced by an ephemeral veneer of intoxication, I take my first sip of the night; a twisted celebration.
“More of the same?” I ask, the tone carefully modulated. With the silence broken, he curls up, his shoulders bunching up around his ears. He looks like he wants to fold up and disappear, but this isn’t a new look for him, not anymore. I wonder if this is what happens when a man is turned into a battleground: the cadaverous bruises under his eyes are so dark that I doubt even a year’s uninterrupted rest could begin to erase them. Though the alcohol has done him some favors, he still has yet to stop shaking.
A dim memory of him standing tall and proud, his back ram-rod straight, flashes through my mind. I drown it with a blistering swallow of booze.
He finally answers with a dull ring to his voice, “More of the same.”
“Who was it tonight?”
He doesn’t answer for a long time. Instead he puts his hand out, wordlessly begging for another swig, and I comply. After three more for courage, his voice is raspy with fire. “Alix Bear.”
“Alix Bear.” I repeat the new name, testing how it feels in my mouth, how each syllable rolls to crack against my teeth. This name, like all the others, sounds bitter with sorrow. “Tell me about him.”
He looks like he doesn’t want to, which isn’t exactly unusual, but I feel, hope beyond all hope, that tonight will be the night he refuses.
Of course he doesn’t refuse. His mouth opens and, like so many nights previous, a story pours out.
Judging by the fact he’s screaming, tonight must be a bad night. As I lie in bed at 2:17 the morning and stare at the ceiling, I wonder if it’s the pain or memories at the source of his shrieking tonight. I don't know which would be worse: I can't help with either, but they're different strains of helplessness. Bitterness wells up in my mouth, splashing against my clenched teeth, and comes out as a soft curse.
Is it bad I wish it's pain tonight? Am I a bad sister for hoping he's simply writhing in agony, rather than fending off demons?
A soft thumping noise sounds, breaking me from my thoughts, and then the night is quiet and peaceful once more.
Perhaps he hit the wall and woke up. Perhaps he’s pulled himself together. Perhaps it was just a twinge and it’s passed.
Or maybe he’s hurt himself.
Damn it.
I pull myself out of bed and shuffle into the next room. My hand pauses for a brief second, inches away from the closed door, before I knock.
No answer.
I knock again, and this time a choked sound filters through the door.
I swallow thickly and let myself in.
He’s up in bed; a knuckle shoved in his mouth to gag the worst of the screams, his bony knees (or rather knee, his right leg isn't flexible enough to do that) up to his chest, back pressed against the wall and tears glittering on his lashes. When he notices me, he glances aside, ashamed, and mumbles a weak apology. His whole body shakes, and it’s not because of the weather.
I ask him if he needs anything.
At this point, both of us know exactly what ‘anything’ means. In some long buried, drowned and gagged part of my mind, I know this isn’t healthy, and that same part insanely hopes every time that he’ll say no. But instead he nods silently, looking drained and weak, a corpse reanimated. I return the nod stiffly and we both make our way to the kitchen, his stride uneven and staccato. From there, I gesture for him to sit him down as I grab the vodka. It’s up on the counter, within arm’s reach, because we’ve got this down to a science.
Without a word, I hand the bottle off to him.
The way he desperately sucks down the liquid glass is less than healthful and more symptomatic of a far larger underlying issue. But I don’t say anything, because that’s what he trusts me to do, to enable his self-destruction and to listen to his sins.
Once he’s well and inebriated, once that telltale haunted look is replaced by an ephemeral veneer of intoxication, I take my first sip of the night; a twisted celebration.
“More of the same?” I ask, the tone carefully modulated. With the silence broken, he curls up, his shoulders bunching up around his ears. He looks like he wants to fold up and disappear, but this isn’t a new look for him, not anymore. I wonder if this is what happens when a man is turned into a battleground: the cadaverous bruises under his eyes are so dark that I doubt even a year’s uninterrupted rest could begin to erase them. Though the alcohol has done him some favors, he still has yet to stop shaking.
A dim memory of him standing tall and proud, his back ram-rod straight, flashes through my mind. I drown it with a blistering swallow of booze.
He finally answers with a dull ring to his voice, “More of the same.”
“Who was it tonight?”
He doesn’t answer for a long time. Instead he puts his hand out, wordlessly begging for another swig, and I comply. After three more for courage, his voice is raspy with fire. “Alix Bear.”
“Alix Bear.” I repeat the new name, testing how it feels in my mouth, how each syllable rolls to crack against my teeth. This name, like all the others, sounds bitter with sorrow. “Tell me about him.”
He looks like he doesn’t want to, which isn’t exactly unusual, but I feel, hope beyond all hope, that tonight will be the night he refuses.
Of course he doesn’t refuse. His mouth opens and, like so many nights previous, a story pours out.