crossmyheartandhope (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2019-05-18 06:48 pm
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2019-05-18 06:48 pm
Entry tags:
Memory 11: Flowing
The water’s on in the bathroom sink, a steady flow that circles the drain before disappearing from view.
Every couple of seconds, a drop of blood plinks down to join it, vibrant red against the white of the enamel. It lasts for perhaps a second; then it spreads out and disperses, swept away by the flowing water.
Hurricane glances up from the sink to his face in the mirror. He is perhaps twelve years old, freckles flecking his cheeks and nose. His hair, sandy blond, looks like it hasn’t seen a brush today, and the white line of a scar cuts a diagonal line across his right cheek, straight and even.
Blood has soaked through the wad of tissue he’s holding to his nose. The drops are coming down, regular and even, from the sodden tip of the fabric. His chin is bloody; so is his right hand, where he’s pressing the tissue into place.
He unravels some of the toilet paper with his left hand and adds it to the tissue stack – presses harder and waits to see if that will make a difference.
When the toilet paper starts turning red, too, he pushes open the door to the bathroom with his free hand.
“Hey, ma?” he calls down the hallway. “It’s bleeding again.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then his mother’s voice comes, with an edge of annoyance. “Apply pressure to the bridge.”
“Well, yeah,” says Hurricane. “But, like.” He hesitates – glances down at the sink, where the blood has begun to drip again. “I got another sync test today. You think it’s gonna be okay?”
There’s another silence, longer this time.
He glances back down past the sink – to the place where his feet stand bare against the bathroom tile, one metal and one flesh.
“Ma?” he calls again, eventually.
“I’m here,” she says, briskly, from just outside the bathroom door.
He starts – turns – offers a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” he says. “You’re like a ninja or something. Didn’t even hear you sneak up.”
She stares at him, thin face severe, grey eyes unwavering behind the glasses. She’s in her lab coat; her name tag is already in place for her shift to start. CROSS, it reads, in all caps.
She gives him a long once-over, and suddenly he’s self-conscious: of the bloody nose, and the spot of blood soaking into the t-shirt he wears for pajamas, and the sleep shorts that expose his metal leg.
“What was the point?” she says.
“The point?” Hurricane echoes, uncertain.
Hurricane’s mother presses her lips together into a thin, hard line. “You entered your name for candidacy. Why?”
He stares at her for a long few seconds, not sure what to say.
“Uh,” he says. “I, uh.” He licks at his lips – glances aside, down toward the floor.
He has a reason. It’s a very good reason, and it’s standing right in front of him, staring him in the face.
It’s a reason she won’t want to hear.
“Figured I’d help out,” he says. “You know? See if I could cut it, maybe save the world a little.” He smiles, going for casual – tastes blood in his mouth when he parts his lips.
When he glances up again, the expression on her face has gone hard and implacable.
“If you don’t want to take this seriously,” says Hurricane’s mother, “you shouldn’t have bothered. Now stop acting like a coward and go put your uniform on. You have a session in thirty minutes.”
Hurricane takes a sharp breath in. The mirror catches his expression: stricken, eyebrows drawing down in hurt.
“I didn’t mean,” he starts, but he doesn’t get any further. She’s walking away already, steps crisp and deliberate down the hall, toward the front door.
“Ma?” he says. “Wait, I –”
“I have work to do, █████.”
He can’t see the door from where he is, but the sound of it reaches him – clicking closed behind her, hollow and final.
Every couple of seconds, a drop of blood plinks down to join it, vibrant red against the white of the enamel. It lasts for perhaps a second; then it spreads out and disperses, swept away by the flowing water.
Hurricane glances up from the sink to his face in the mirror. He is perhaps twelve years old, freckles flecking his cheeks and nose. His hair, sandy blond, looks like it hasn’t seen a brush today, and the white line of a scar cuts a diagonal line across his right cheek, straight and even.
Blood has soaked through the wad of tissue he’s holding to his nose. The drops are coming down, regular and even, from the sodden tip of the fabric. His chin is bloody; so is his right hand, where he’s pressing the tissue into place.
He unravels some of the toilet paper with his left hand and adds it to the tissue stack – presses harder and waits to see if that will make a difference.
When the toilet paper starts turning red, too, he pushes open the door to the bathroom with his free hand.
“Hey, ma?” he calls down the hallway. “It’s bleeding again.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then his mother’s voice comes, with an edge of annoyance. “Apply pressure to the bridge.”
“Well, yeah,” says Hurricane. “But, like.” He hesitates – glances down at the sink, where the blood has begun to drip again. “I got another sync test today. You think it’s gonna be okay?”
There’s another silence, longer this time.
He glances back down past the sink – to the place where his feet stand bare against the bathroom tile, one metal and one flesh.
“Ma?” he calls again, eventually.
“I’m here,” she says, briskly, from just outside the bathroom door.
He starts – turns – offers a sheepish smile. “Sorry,” he says. “You’re like a ninja or something. Didn’t even hear you sneak up.”
She stares at him, thin face severe, grey eyes unwavering behind the glasses. She’s in her lab coat; her name tag is already in place for her shift to start. CROSS, it reads, in all caps.
She gives him a long once-over, and suddenly he’s self-conscious: of the bloody nose, and the spot of blood soaking into the t-shirt he wears for pajamas, and the sleep shorts that expose his metal leg.
“What was the point?” she says.
“The point?” Hurricane echoes, uncertain.
Hurricane’s mother presses her lips together into a thin, hard line. “You entered your name for candidacy. Why?”
He stares at her for a long few seconds, not sure what to say.
“Uh,” he says. “I, uh.” He licks at his lips – glances aside, down toward the floor.
He has a reason. It’s a very good reason, and it’s standing right in front of him, staring him in the face.
It’s a reason she won’t want to hear.
“Figured I’d help out,” he says. “You know? See if I could cut it, maybe save the world a little.” He smiles, going for casual – tastes blood in his mouth when he parts his lips.
When he glances up again, the expression on her face has gone hard and implacable.
“If you don’t want to take this seriously,” says Hurricane’s mother, “you shouldn’t have bothered. Now stop acting like a coward and go put your uniform on. You have a session in thirty minutes.”
Hurricane takes a sharp breath in. The mirror catches his expression: stricken, eyebrows drawing down in hurt.
“I didn’t mean,” he starts, but he doesn’t get any further. She’s walking away already, steps crisp and deliberate down the hall, toward the front door.
“Ma?” he says. “Wait, I –”
“I have work to do, █████.”
He can’t see the door from where he is, but the sound of it reaches him – clicking closed behind her, hollow and final.