April 10, 2008
Nervousness.
The first time they’d slept together, Gabriel had felt skittish and left soon after. Even as he vanished out Adrian’s window, he’d worried that he’d upset Adrian, but Adrian had stuck his head out the window and invited him for coffee the next morning, so Gabriel guessed it was all right.
The second time they’d slept together, Gabriel had stayed until Adrian had fallen into the trance that passed for sleep, and then, feeling vaguely disquieted, had left.
The third time, Gabriel didn’t really want to leave, but he was feeling restless and didn’t want to disturb Adrian either, so he slipped out into the darkened hall and began wandering the house.
In a corner of the den, he found the little shelf. It was a corner shelf, mostly hidden by the nearby furniture. If it weren’t for the tealight burning on it, Gabriel didn’t think he’d have noticed it at all. Curious, he stepped closer.
Besides the tealight, the shelf contained only two things – a ring and a slightly worn photo. With a start, Gabriel realized who the woman in the picture must be.
“That’s Anne,” said a voice from behind Gabriel. “Adrian’s wife.”
Gabriel spun, coming face-to-face with Jonathan. He didn’t say anything, and after a moment, Jonathan spoke again.
“He lights the candle for her every night.” Jonathan looked sidelong at Gabriel, his strange eyes glinting oddly in the candlelight.
Gabriel still said nothing, but something in his face must have given him away, because Jonathan’s expression softened. Gabriel left the room before Jonathan could say anything else.
Jonathan picked up the picture, looking into Anne’s eyes. “I think you would approve of him.”
Gabriel’s soft footsteps, which had paused outside the door, continued down the hallway. Jonathan smiled.
Scars.
Sneezing, somehow, was always the worst. It’s a weird sensation anyway, and it pulled at far more of her than she’d realized before, so she didn’t just have the weird tight-loose-tight feeling across her face, but across her neck, her shoulders, her back, her chest, even her belly and arms.
Fortunately, none of the scars were painful. The resurrection had taken care of that well.
Mostly, she just forgot about them. (It really wasn’t hard.) But then she’d smile and feel it twist out of shape, or she’d twist her arms up in a stretch and feel her skin snag, or she’d get tripped up as she lengthened her stride, and after a blinding moment of sheer what the hell?, she’d go oh yeah, the scars, and beat back an embarrassed flush, and readjust.
Or she’d sneeze, and reach up to make sure her face hadn’t fallen off. It really did feel weird.
She rarely paid attention to what she looked like, either. (How often, really, do you think about it? We think about thinking about ourselves more than we think about ourselves.) But occasionally, when she was tired and her mind was playing “notice the inane details”, the sight of her hands or arms or feet would startle her, and it would take a sluggish moment for her brain to respond to her existential query with a resigned yes, that’s yours, you dumbass.
She scared herself, a few months after coming back, when she saw this patchwork face in the mirror. She didn’t realize it was her own until she’d spun around to see who was behind her. After calming down, she’d laughed, because it didn’t seem like something she should have forgotten.
Sometimes, someone worked up the nerve to ask how she dealt with Them (usually coupled with some comment on her bravery, for going out in public wearing normal clothes). After a blank look, she’d realize what they meant, and she’d chuckle and say she just didn’t think about them.
Nobody ever believed her. They thought about Them, and only Them, whenever they saw her, so surely she must, too.
…Right?
