Syrena cradled the shaking form of Hando in her arms, rocking him gently. "It's okay; it's just a dream... just a dream, hon. I'm here," her voice barely made a sound above a soft rumbling in her chest against Hando's ear. His arms encircled her and gripped her tight, clutching her shirt in his fists and breathing heavily. "Just a dream," she repeated in a sing song mantra, keeping a rhythm all her own whilst wondering what the dream was that had incited such a reaction. After a few minutes his breath leveled and his grip on her relaxed slightly. She leaned back, placed a hand on his bare shoulder and lifted his chin to meet her eye. "See? You're here, you're safe, and everything is okay, right? Just relax, you've had a hard day."
He allowed himself to be eased back into a supine position on the cot, closing his eyes yet reaching for her hand that still rested on his shoulder. He lifted her hand to his face slowly without opening his eyes and pressed her palm against his cheek. She watched him do this with compassion in her eyes, admiring his strength in recovery, and moved her fingers a fraction against his stubbled skin. His eyelids opened to reveal watery grey-green eyes shrouded in pain and shame. "I'm rooted, Sy. I... shit... sorry, I don't know what to say. I don't like who I am anymore, Sy." His voice was barely a whisper, and his chest rose and fell with each faltering breath, the cross tattoo twitching as his muscles clenched and relaxed. "My life is shite," his voice broke on this phrase. He dropped her hand abruptly and turned to the wall.
"No, Hando, don't say that."
"You just don't fucking get it, do you, Sy," he turned back to her and sat up suddenly with traces of anger on his face. "Bloody well look at me! You should have just let me die, damn it!" He spread his arms displaying his tattoos, inviting criticism and ire in return.
Syrena touched his left hand, tracing her fingers over the black bones tattooed there, and continued tracing the inky lines of the tattoo until her fingers reached the point just below his ear. "I am looking at you, Hando," she replied softly.
"If you're looking at me, why in fucking hell don't you see what I am?"
"I told you, Hando. I see your tattoos; I see your shaved head; I see your clothes; I know what you've done. My mum always told me to never judge a book by the cover, hon," the steadiness in her voice surprised her. She placed her free hand over her breast and held it there, fighting back the tears in her eyes that threatened to spill over. "My heart tells me... I know what you used to be, Hando. Please, let me teach you to overcome what you were. Can you do that for me?"
The anger on his face faded, and he bowed his head. "How can you be so kind to me when you know so much about me?" He didn't really expect an answer and allowed himself to be gathered once again into her arms, resting his head in the angle of her neck feeling the pulse of her vein beneath his cheek. The thunder of her pulse mixed with the pounding in his ears of his own drowned out the sound of the door hinges creaking softly as John tried to open the door silently.
John slowly pushed open the Tavern door, and after glancing around for a moment, surveying the scene, moved inside. Tina's small hand was gripped in one of his. He noticed Bud and Michelle in a corner booth, their conversation.... Well, he was uncertain about their expressions except that the cop appeared intoxicated, and Michelle concerned. Considering the earlier altercation between Bud and Colin, he only hoped Michelle knew what she was doing. But he had other matters on his mind right now, and could only hope things wouldn't go from bad to worse again.
John felt Tina's trembling increase, and he pulled her nearer, realizing her reaction was from both the cool night air and apprehension. He slipped an arm around her waist, and leaned close to her ear. "It's all right, darlin'. I'm here."
"I know...I know." She paused, looking up at him. "I'm sorry John."
"Don't be."
"No it's just that...I was thinking about..." She backed against a wall, pulling John's arm tighter. "Sorry. Just remembered this guy Homicide brought in as a witness once. He looked at one of our best detectives and announced, 'I don't talk to n----r cops.' The detective just turned and walked out, never said a damn word...I want to be like that, too,...if it happened."
"And I'll be here. I won't let it go that far. I promised you that." Tina's only response was to nod, allowing a hand to drift from the sheriff's bared shoulder and up towards his face. It lingered on his jawline momentarily, the trust evident in her eyes. He wouldn't fail her, not tonight, not when it meant so much.
They moved across the floor, avoiding several slow-dancing couples. Bud walked past them, barely giving them notice as he stumbled toward the staircase...probably following MIchelle who had just left. John shook his head. He only hoped this mess didn't escalate again. /Focus Biebe, focus// he chided himself, he and Tina approaching the back room. /You can worry about that later if it happens, but damn Bud, please--//
They were at the door now. The Alaskan felt Tina's body press even nearer, if it was possible. On giving her another reassuring kiss, this time on the forehead, he eased the door open, trying to make as little noise as possible.
John went in first, Tina practically on his heels. They glanced in one corner...and she let out a gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. She had seen bloodier scenes and worst conditions in eleven years as an evidence technician but normally the victim was dead. To see a living being clinging to life; his thin, blood-soaked body shaking often uncontrollably then going still almost to the point of death. It was all normally over when she arrived on a scene. Even if the corpse was still present, she could tune it out to perform her work, no matter its' condition. But this....
"Oh Lord. Oh Lord Jesus," she whispered.
"You all right?" John wasn't sure how she'd react, despite her training.
Her eyes shifted to where Syrena was at Hando's side, her arms wrapped about him as she cuddled close to his form. The girl seemed so unafraid, talking to him, caressing him, even touching the tattoos which Tina found disgusting. The scene was nearly surreal, the only thing of realism Hando's heavy breathing and his obvious delirium. Now she understood what John meant. Hando *was* like an injured, once dangerous animal, and for a second, a sense of humanity towards him surfaced. She slowly turned back to John, who seemed somewhat stunned himself.
"Oh God...John-John...This is bad," she continued to whisper.
"He's getting better, but it's been touch and go. Syrena's been doing a fantastic job."
"Just her...alone?"
"Yep. Pretty much...Come on, we'd better go."
Tina caught her breath, her eyes almost unmoving from the sight before her. And in that moment, she heard herself whisper a prayer to the God she'd known all her life -- for a person she was still unsure about. She took a few steps back, bringing the sheriff along with her. Their arms about one another, the couple eased outside.
His heart pounded wildly. The mixture of fear and confusion running through his mind was overwhelming him--fear of change and emotional turbulence wracked his body and mind. His shoulders hitched with each shuddering breath he dragged into his lungs, and the world around him ceased to exist except for the gentle touch of Syrena's fingers tracing circles around the tattoos on his bare shoulderblades and the heady scent of her hair. He felt the motion of her rocking gently and was lulled somewhat as if he were afloat on a tempestuous sea and she were his raft.
He tried to pay attention to the maelstrom of thoughts in his head, searching vainly for the right words to say, to tell her how he felt at that precise moment, but the words wouldn't form. Even if the words were to form, his tongue had frozen itself to the back of his teeth refusing to speak and his breath caught dryly in his throat. He felt the once familiar heat on his face of tears and struggled to hold them back--his father would clout him if ever he were to cry--but was unsuccessful. The tears ran down his cheek, moistening the cotton of Syrena's T-shirt and dripping slowly off the tip of his nose.
His brain blocked out the sound of her voice as she chanted softly, but he could feel its vibrations against the skin of his skull. He reveled in the resonance, as if her voice echoed throughout his entire form. Her fingers traced burning brands on his skin--he reached out to wrap his arms around her, to feel the press of her body against his, to feel the steady thud of her heart against the muscles of his chest. He lifted his head slightly from her shoulder and turned to bury his face in her neck, feeling the warmth of her flesh against his lips.
His eyes were squeezed shut, yet the tears still flowed dripping now down the back of Syrena's neck, oblivious to the open door--even if he had seen the figures standing in the doorway, he wouldn't have given a damn. His life had been turned upside down, and he had passed into raging uncharted waters--Syrena was his anchor, his lifeline, and she was the only one who would stand by him unconditionally as noone in his life had done before.
Bud reached across the table, "Now wait a minute, doll..." Michelle sighed heavily, biting her lip as she stared across the table at him. Bud smiled sheepishly and gave a quick glance around the room. "At least give me a chance..."
Michelle chuckled quietly, shaking her head. "A chance for what?! You're drunk, Bud and I've got to go...." She stood up and turned away from the booth, walking quickly up the stairs to the second floor of the tavern. Her mind whirled as she reached the top of the stairs. At first, the thought of two men fighting over her had shocked her, she grimaced as she remembered the punches Colin and Bud had given each other. But then the thought had fascinated her. And now, within in the span of a few seconds, she was frightened and terribly confused. Her heart had raced when Bud had touched her hand at the table and his gaze had made her speechless. She needed some space, but she suddenly realized that Colin's bedroom was not where she wanted to be at this moment. She cursed herself for the awkward situation she know found herself in. If she went back down the stairs, Bud would certainly follow her. Colin, however would want to talk and she didn't want to do that either. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She cursed silently when she heard the thump of footsteps behind her.
"Wendell..." She sighed as she turned. Bud stood a couple steps below her, swaying slightly as he balanced himself on the narrow stairs. He leaned forward his face showing a look, a passion, she hadn't seen in a long time... since she had first arrived at the Nest and met with White, the man who had drawn her here. Her heart pounded and she found herself pulled into his blue-green eyes.
"I'm not drunk, 'Chelle..." Bud took the final step up, leveling his eyes with hers as he swayed into her. Michelle found herself imprisoned by his gaze.
"Bud... I..." Michelle found her mouth dry, the words lost on her. Bud leaned back against the top railing, his fingers touched hers as he gently pulled her slowly towards him.
"Don't tell me you don't feel anything for me anymore..." A slight smile crossed his lips and his eyes held hers. Michelle swallowed hard. She glanced away, looking down the hall towards Colin's room, half hoping that he would appear, half hoping he wouldn't, but knowing either way all hell was eventually going to break loose.
"Bud..." His name came out breathlessly as Bud ran his fingers up the back of her arm. His face only inches from hers, she smelled the liquor on both their breaths and closed her eyes. "Bud please, we can't do this..."
"Hush..." Bud fingered her sleeve and she shivered against his touch. It seemed as though the world had frozen in time and Michelle could feel her heart beating against her chest. Bud leaned in slowly, his breath against her neck as he whispered in her ear. "There's so much more I want to know..." His lips touched her neck and Michelle gasped outloud, gripping Bud's shirt for support.
"Bud... This isn't right...we're not together anymore..." Shivers ran down Michelle's spine as he kissed her skin and she could feel him branding her. "No... I can't..." she pushed him away. He swayed away from her, licking his lips before he lifted his head and gazed into her eyes, seeing her confusion. He ran a gentle finger over her chin, his lips inches away from hers. It was at that exact moment, Michelle heard the sound she least wanted to hear.
Syrena must've traced the outline of Hando's tattoos a million times, rocking him gently, still chanting softly that everything would be okay, as he held her tightly and sobbed. She felt the damp heat of his tears on her shoulder and neck and felt at a loss. When he turned his head and pressed his lips against the skin of her neck, her fingers hesitated for a beat before continuing their circuits. She looked down his back, gaunt and painted, and ran one hand down his spine to trace the other tattoo there. Her fingers curled under of their own accord, and she found herself entranced by the feel of her fingernails running along the outline.
Still he sobbed, still she chanted, and she knew that someone else had entered the room but was unable to distract her attention from the broken down form in her arms. Her ears tuned out any conversation that went on in the doorway, and the identify of the visitors didn't even register in her mind.
The soft squeak of the door sounded again in the small room as the visitors closed the door behind them. Hando's breathing began to even out, his shoulders didn't hitch as often, as he cried himself out, and Syrena ran one of her hands up to his shoulder to trail her fingers along the sharp point of bone tattoo that ran up his neck. She traced the outline of his ear and placed her palm on the back of his shorn skull, mentally contrasting the feel of the stubble beneath her palm and the stubble that was currently pressed into her neck. He took a deep breath, loosened the iron grip he had around her and pushed himself slightly back to look her in the eyes.
She cursed her overactive empathy, released him and quickly brought her hands to her face for a second, wiping away the streaks of tears that were marring her cheeks. He smiled softly at this and reached up to take hold of her hands in one of his whilst he wiped away her tears with the other. His eyes were bloodshot and watery, and his cheeks were splotched with red, but the expression on his face was filled with gratitude. "Sy...," he whispered, snaking his hand behind her neck and drawing her forward until their foreheads touched. "I don't know what to say. Thank you," his voice wavered and another tear rose up to fall down his cheek as he looked into her eyes.
"Hando, you're welcome. I want to help you."
"I want to let you, Sy." He took one of her hands and lifted it with his, lacing his fingers with hers and squeezing it gently. "You can help me rebuild," he stated, lowering his eyes to the blankets bunched between them. "I know you can." The pressure of his hand on the back of her neck eased; he leaned back placing the palm of his hand on the side of her face and tracing the ridge of her cheekbone with his thumb. "Thank you," he breathed, barely audible as he pulled her to him and pressed his lips against first one eyelid then the other.
"You're welcome, Hando," Syrena breathed squeezing his hand gently, their fingers still intertwined. "Now you should get some more rest, okay?" He allowed himself to be eased back against the pillows, gazing up into her compassionate eyes and smiling softly. "Let me check these... well, towels, I guess," she chuckled. "Not quite the most medically sound bandages, eh?"
He grinned, showing straight teeth and accentuating the lines on his face. Syrena pried her fingers away from his grip and lifted his left arm to rest in her lap where she could peel off the masking tape. The towel was stained red, but it wasn't soaked through completely which meant that the bleeding had slowed down if not subsided completely. Hando grimaced as she gently unwrapped the towel, peeling it back from his wrist slowly. The chains had cut into his wrist all the way around, causing a nasty gash that was deeper on the underside near the veins. She turned his wrist over, carefully touching the flesh near the wound, and he flinched. "This should be stiched, hon." He shook his head emphatically. "But if you don't have it stitched, you'll have a nasty scar. Besides, it should be cleaned better than I can manage here."
"Can't you just, ya know, pour some vodka on it," he asked, a mixture of grimace and mirth in his expression.
Snickering, "Yeah, I'm sure we could, Hando, but betadine scrub would be much better--not to mention more sanitary." She smiled engagingly as she gently laid his left arm on the cot and reached for the other to remove the towel. The right one wasn't nearly as bad as the left one--"This one doesn't need stitches, Hando. I just needs a good scrub." He nodded slowly, considering the options.
"So, where can we get some of this, beta....?"
"Betadine scrub, Hando. Any doctor would have some, but they don't generally give it out. We might be able to wing it...," her voice trailed off, thinking. "I might have some in my truck. Or maybe the hotel might have some." She looked at the wall above the head of the cot, going over the contents of her first-aid kit in her head and cursing herself for not thinking of it before. Damn, I had the kit all along--why didn't I send someone to get it at the beginning? He moved his hand slightly, waking her from her cataloguing. "I think I might actually have some betadine and maybe even sutures or at least butterfly bandages in my kit. You just stay here, and I'll be back in two ticks." He acquiesced with his eyes, not moving his head, fixing her with an intense look of hope and apprehension in his eyes. "I promise, hon. I'll be right back." She stood and left the room quickly, intent on keeping her promise to be right back.
The door closed behind her, and he took a moment to look around the room. His wrists ached dully, throbbing incessantly, and the muscles in his shoulders pulsated heavily from the strain of fighting his bonds. His clothing, once mostly white but now stained and splattered with gouts of browning blood, lay tossed in the corner. Looking at the size of the stains and the blood on the floor around the pile, he was surprised once again that he was still among the living. His heart swelled with gratitude, and he quickly averted his eyes to stare at the ceiling--featureless tiles and a single bare lightbulb--and take a deep breath. He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing heavily and deeply, and his mind wandered.
He thought of his mum, beautiful in her sun dress, standing near the ocean with the wind in her hair. She rarely wore dresses, but he had stared at this photo for so long it was etched forever in his memory. His dad was on another binge, and in a fit of pique she had taken young Hando and left the house. They spent long hours wandering the shopping streets, looking in windows, stopping for an ice cream cone in an open air restaurant, watching the summer tourists as they bought worthless trinkets to remind them of their visit to Melbourne. He remembered laughing at them, and he smiled at the memory of his mother's laughter--so joyous a sound yet so rarely heard. They walked along the shore, talking in hushed tones of simple things like bicycles and dogs, laughing when the moment struck them. The photo was taken by a vendor--photos of you on the beach for $5--and his mum told him to keep the photo secret. His dad couldn't know of the fun they'd had that day--she had left that part unsaid, but he knew, even at the tender age of seven, that this is what his mum meant.
That was the last day he saw his mother alive. A day of insurmountable joy followed by a night of ultimate hell. In the back room of the tavern, lying on a narrow cot with a pile of bloodied clothes in the corner, he clenched his eyelids shut as if he could block out the images of that day. The photo was tucked carefully into the pocket of his jacket--he had taken care not to bend or fold it when he secured it in the pocket. When they walked up the front steps of the house he could hear his father inside raving. His heart fluttered, and he gripped his mum's hand tightly. She smiled down at him, telling him that everything would be okay, but the look in her eyes was one of worry--or was it abject terror? She pushed the door open, unable to stifle the screech of the rusted hinges, and sent him to his room.
He crept down the hallway toward his room, feeling like he was sneaking in like in the stories that Davey's older brother told. He closed the door behind him and sat on his bed, listening to the exchange in the kitchen. Much of the conversation was muddled in his memory, but his mother's scream was still a clear as that day. Fear struck him motionless for a full minute before his legs were able to carry him to the door. Furniture crashed on the other side, followed by a heavy thud that sounded like an orange dropped from the roof--a very large and ripe orange. Wordless sounds that weren't quite screams came from the other side of the door, and he slowly turned the knob, afraid of what monsters lurked on the other side. The sounds finally subsided, and he heard the front door of the house slam. Shortly afterward, the engine of his father's old car roared to life and squealing tires marked his departure.
"Mum? Mum?" His small voice echoed in the house. He found her. Her face was covered with blood; her mouth was agape revealing missing teeth that had been there earlier; her eyes were half open, staring with a last look of pleading. He rushed to her side, shaking her shoulder to wake her, crying uncontrollably. She never got up again, and he was marked for life. When his father came home many hours later to find him crying over her body, he picked him up by the back of his jacket and threw him against the wall of the room. His small body crumpled, and when came to later he felt the stickiness of blood on his lip. His father had fallen asleep in a drunken stupor, so he was safe for the time being. He crept back to his room, crying silently--as he would continue doing until now.
As these memories washed over him, the tears flowed freely. Finally, after nearly twenty years, he was able to let go of the anger. His father had died two years ago, drunk again, in an auto accident--he hit a tree at high velocity and was killed instantly. Hando heard about the accident, but he didn't go to the funeral. He couldn't even say where the old man was buried, and he couldn't honestly say he gave a damn. His mother was buried in the municipal cemetery, in an unmarked grave, but he knew the exact location of it and left flowers on it periodically. His father never cared--he probably never even knew.
He lay in the cot crying miserably, wishing that his father had died that day instead of his mother, wanting to have been able to direct his anger differently when he was so young, hoping that Sy would be able to understand his fucked up life and help him to overcome it. He had turned to face the wall, holding his painful wounds above the surface of the rough blankets, and was in this position, shoulders heaving, when she came back bearing her first-aid kit.
