MINGLE - Post-Op(era) Recovery

[pumpkinhollow]

On this night we drink to the death of Sorrow.

After the Fall of Efrain With the Prince of Sorrow's Song dead and gone, the opera dissipates, spitting its victims out on the summit of Crane's Ridge where the Dance of Celestine was held some months before. It's getting late, and there is no one yet in town to run the train. Some will brave the trip home simply for the sake of collapsing into their own beds and achieving some sense of normalcy. Others will do so with the hope of returning with help. But many others will simply say "fuck it" and camp out on the mountain, still fitted with extra firewood from the festival and the means to build temporary structures in nearby storage sheds. The journey down will be safer in the morning, and there's solidarity to be had in a cool spring night spent under the stars.

Oh, look, there's even some non-perishable food and wine from the Dance. Combined with what can be hunted or foraged, as well as snacks and drinks stolen from the concession stand, there's plenty to go around. This might even be a little bit fun! Anyone up for another game of Never Have I Ever? Maybe a little Truth or Dare? Or perhaps you just want to chat and unwind with your friends. Whatever the case may be, have fun. This is your time. After darkness, there is a dawn. At the death of Sorrow, there is joy.

Comments

[lovethyneighb_or]

... Oh, no. He's not sure he remembers that. His first instinct is to play along and act like he knows, but that's... a bit dumb in the real world, isn't it. Or, he knows she wanted to talk; is he misconstruing that as not having been a promise?

"... Could you remind me of what that was? Or, ah, is this just about wanting to speak with me?"

[tehilim127_1]

"That was it. That we could talk, when all that was over, somewhere quiet and safe."

Half a beat, and she adds gently, "Whenever it's a good time for you."

[lovethyneighb_or]

(Okay. Got it. So Zivia is the kind to use "promise" a little more loosely.)

He looks up at the ceiling.

"If you're available in an hour or two, I think I could do that. Would it be too much trouble to ask you to come by to the house?"

[tehilim127_1]

(She doesn't always use promise loosely, but this one felt like a promise.)

"Not at all. I'll see you then. Should I bring anything?" And she can't help asking that last, even though she's sure he will say no.

[lovethyneighb_or]

"No, it's alright. I'll put a kettle on."

And he does. When Zivia does come by and knocks, a voice rises up from the garden out back. "Zivia, is that you? I'm outside! Come join me in the yard?"

And when she does, going down the path beside the house and passing the fence gate, there is Mulcahy in the midst of his budding garden. Though there are boxes and pots, it seems like he's letting them grow into something that more resembles a wild field. There is a small statuette on the back porch resembling Saint Francis holding a mostly-empty dish of birdseed; a birdbath; and standing tall on a pole in the middle, a thriving dovecote.

"Hello." He stands up from the table on the back porch and smiles gently, if a little pained. "Thank you for making the trip. I'm, ah, a little reluctant to be in public, at the moment."

[tehilim127_1]

"Hi." She returns his smile; and he'll see that she's got a little wicker basket with her, its contents covered in a tea towel. "That's fine. D'you want to go inside, or stay out here?"

The backyard feels like a nice compromise; out of the house, under the sky, but still in relative privacy. If he's up for it.

[lovethyneighb_or]

"I think I'd prefer the yard." It's nice outside, his home is rather sparse, and he's not feeling a 'other person in my house' day.

"Feel free to take a seat on the porch. I'll go get the kettle." For the briefest moment he slips inside, then back out; the open window does show that the door leads directly into the kitchen. He has a tray with a small teapot and matching cups.

He sets it down, and the smell of it is divine; it's certainly a tea that's expensive. "I hope you don't mind if I went ahead and took the liberty of brewing one of my favorites? It's, ah, an oolong."

[tehilim127_1]

"It smells marvelous," she says with complete honesty. "And I hope it's okay that I brought something anyway? I don't want them to go stale."

The little basket's on the table, with the tea towel folded aside: sweet rolls, made with honey and hazelnuts and just a little cinnamon.

[lovethyneighb_or]

His eyes crinkle with a kind of fondness, though it, like the rest of him, is colored by this... reluctance? Timidness?

"Are those your baking? That's terribly kind of you, Zivia."

He sets the table; a plate for each, a cup and saucer for each, and pours for them both. He allows himself to take one of the sweet rolls, and quietly says his thanks over it.

Once they're settled... well, they're settled. There's no putting it off anymore.

"So I believe you had a few, ah, questions about... what you saw of me onstage."

[tehilim127_1]

"Well." She folds both hands around her teacup, keeping them still. "I'm gonna say again that you don't have to talk about it, but if you still feel like you need to, then yeah. And if there's any of this you want me to keep in confidence, I will."

A beat, to see if he seems at all likely to withdraw.

"Powell, that was ... he was the man in your dream? Going by a number?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

“I would like that. This conversation is just for you and I.”

He sighs, lacing his fingers together, and stares into his cup. A moment passes.

“Yes. I knew him by that number for longer than I knew him by the name.”

There’s more, of course. The air weighs with all the explanation unspoken. But it’s such a long, winding tangle, he isn’t even sure where to start.

[tehilim127_1]

She considers that for a moment, contemplating what thread to best put a finger on and try to trace.

"And that was after the ship, or before?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

“After.”

A long, long pauses as he visibly tries to figure out a good way to explain this.

“The prison ship… ran, quite literally, on our suffering. We were batteries to be spent and discarded. When the Captain was about to do the same with our group, a man named Number 2 stepped forward and made some kind of deal with him. He was granted a… uh—? Pocket dimension is the term? Yes. One that was his to control completely, in every aspect. A little world. He told us he could save us by taking us there.”

He prods his sweet roll absentmindedly. “The… experience was… well, er—uh… well, not to put too fine a point on it, but I suspect something like being a prisoner of war where they do not regard the Conventions.”

[tehilim127_1]

Her breath hisses between her teeth, just for a moment.

"And that's what your dream was about? How ... literal was any of that?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

“Ah, er. The only reality of that dream is 58’s—ah.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “Powell’s behavior. Which you also witnessed at the opera, of course. And that I’ve been harried and chased by him before, including through woods. He became one of 2’s henchmen. I don’t believe he was ever conflicted about the choice.”

Facetiously: “I was never a fox, though, to be clear, unless you mean a silver one.”

[tehilim127_1]

"Let's just say I wasn't ready to rule out that part." Gently wry, and quickly sober again. "It sounds horrific. The ship and the pocket world."

[lovethyneighb_or]

“It was,” he says with a little laugh, as if he were telling a story about a wedding or a vacation. “I’m never quite sure how to talk about it when it comes up. I usually just refrain from saying anything. It’s not exactly dinner conversation.”

He says, and bites into his sweet roll.

“The actual manner of pain in the pocket world—the Village—didn’t involve transformation like that. It was far more… psychological. And medical.”

[tehilim127_1]

"Medical," she repeats, and a frown line appears between her eyebrows.

[lovethyneighb_or]

“Yes.”

…

“I’m not sure how much I can say before it becomes inappropriate. I assumed very little.”

[tehilim127_1]

"Maybe for right now," soft but steady, "let's put aside the question of 'appropriate,' and you can say whatever needs saying. If I need you to dial it back, I'll tell you. All right?"

[lovethyneighb_or]

… He wrings his hands. After a long, strained moment, he says, “… Okay.”

And takes a deep breath.

“The pocket world was, as I said, called the Village. It took the form of a small coastal town. It had many of a town’s amenities, including… including a hospital. Which. 2 used, to its fullest capacity, to… to—ensure. Compliance. With his imposed order.”

Shuts his eyes. Opens them again.

…

“Sedatives,” he says, “I have difficulty with. It’s a good thing I’ve never been treated on an operating table here yet; I don’t expect to be a good patient. Food as well. Being locked in a room, though that hasn’t been a problem yet. Hallucinations and, and being lied to—I am very, very bad with both. Especially because of the damage done to my memory.”

He has, of course, yet to describe anything that actually happened.

[tehilim127_1]

"I could ... probably make some guesses," she says slowly, "about what kind of treatment would be likely bring about those reactions. I don't think I need to tell you how much of a perversion of medicine that is."

[lovethyneighb_or]

“Mm. Being familiar with most of their tools and their proper use made it all the worse, in some ways.”

Another pause. He opens his mouth; closes it again; opens, closes. He goes to offer her the choice of what he ought to elaborate upon, then remembers she left the ball in his court. And there is so much besides what happened in the hospital. But the hospital is what they’re talking about now. And what does he want to say, and how does he do it without suffering some kind of collapse?

Quietly:

“… Being in a world that lacks the same technology as mine or yours can be difficult sometimes, but mostly I am grateful that electricity is far less prevalent.”

[tehilim127_1]

Zivia draws a sharp breath through her nose, and lets it out slowly. "Hell," she says very quietly, and then "I'm sorry. I'm glad you don't have to deal with that here."

cw discussion of medical violence/abuse

[lovethyneighb_or]

"Thank you."

Another pause. Another attempt to figure out what to say. "Whatever needs saying" is... all of it, honestly. He's got to pick and choose what's most important to get out of his head first, rush them out the door before he's inevitably shut up. Not to discredit Zivia or her generosity, it's just... there's simply too much for any one person to handle in a conversation.

(Nevermind the man who lived it.)

"It feels..."

He stares through the table, leaning on an elbow with his chin resting on his hand. Casually, carefully distant.

"It feels like a burning. I don't know if it's like fire, or the heated sting of thawing from feeling cold too quickly--I was always cold there, you see--but it's like draining. Scorching out the inside of a house. Keep the shell, destroy all of the, the pain, lethargy, and personhood, all the... it isn't just your head, either. At... well, I can't speak for actual... actual use cases. But what they did, you feel it in your whole body--it's fire. It's frozen. You feel the burn, but you don't feel the pain. You... you seize, I think. That's why they strap you down for it. You can imagine my memory of this is imperfect." A brief hand wave. "The humming. I remember the hum of the machine."

A pause.

"I don't know how long this in particular went on for. I... I believe they promised a three-week treatment. I cannot remember if that was truly the case or not. I remember going to them repeatedly about it. I was insistent that they'd lost track. I had been there for too long. But their records and the dates, what they showed me... I don't know. And afterwards, when I was released to my cottage, I don't remember much of anything, except that I... I don't know. There were worried people. I couldn't cook or dress myself for a time, I believe. This period comes to me in faint images. They're more feeling than visual."

He inhales. "We were all forced to use numbers instead of names. I strongly believe that if I hadn't hidden mine in coded writing, I would have forgotten it completely."