The Eye of the Beholder

[Sören]

She mumbled something that sounded like a yes, but did not offer the cigarette. Ironically her silence was now the annoyance, banishing him to the nothingness world of closed eyes like a forgotten outcast. A sharp sigh left his lungs, as close to complaint as he came. Smoking was neither a habit nor an addiction for him, just a tool. Monotonous action to strengthen the void he fed all that pain into, to help block out extraneous interruption. Though given he had expected her to continue blathering and she hadn’t, he supposed it was not necessary after all.

The pinch and burn of her ministrations barely registered a flinch on his face, though he was braced for ineptitude. For her to even be carrying such supplies made suggestions of her person, of course, but given present surroundings it did not mean she had any skill. The estates that peeled off from the Guardian were hardly salubrious, its denizens racked by gang warfare, drugs, and poverty. He couldn’t even see if the bandages she used were clean. But though her fingertips were rough as sandpaper, her touch was confident enough that he tuned away from the work. When he judged her done, he retracted his hand, flexing the fingers carefully.

If she expected thanks she would not receive it.

Instead Sören finally tried opening his eyes, squinting, and pushed himself slowly to his feet. He was glad to find he could stand, though used the support of the wall to protect his balance. The scroll of red began to recede, as did the vice of pain. They were numbers, not letters. Back and shoulders braced against the wall, he scavenged through his pockets with his good hand in search of a pen. He pulled off the lid with his teeth and scribbled the ink onto the nearest available canvas, which happened to be the arm she had already pulled back the sleeve on. 786474. The numbers danced alongside the runes already marking his skin. 

They meant nothing.

“It was for distraction, in case you turned out to be a shit nurse.” He yanked the lid from his mouth and fumbled to replace the pen in a pocket, frowning. Everything was still haloed almost double, but the effects were fading. He looked at her properly for the first time then; small as expected, but little else to fit the assumption of timidity. She was lean rather than soft. The eyes in her skull pierced.

“It’s doubtful one tiny cancer-stick is going to kill me.” His expression was a flat projection of how much he thought of her attempted protection. There was a scathing certainty to the way he said it, flinching a muscle in his cheek. Nimeda’s singsong voice echoed mockery of his dreams, but sometimes he still felt the vibration of the soothsayer’s bones as they tipped from her pale palm. The iron set of his fate as each one landed.

A jacket was slung over one shoulder, but it was the hint of tattoo he found himself staring at. A habit of self preservation. A grim line pinched his brow for a consideration he’d rather not have to deal with. He wasn’t adverse to grabbing her arm and inspecting himself, but the symbol could be small and hidden, and she was heavily decorated. He’d need to be able to rely on his sight to do it. And he’d need to be able to squeeze his fist, should he discover evidence of a snake.

“It is preferable to the filth of the ground, and since you cannot take a hint, I’m sure you’ll be there to haul me back up if I fall.” He pressed the heel of his hand against the offending eye socket and stifled a groan.