displaced warlord

                 There was nothing left for her there so walking away was probably her best option for now. Still shocked by the encounter - heart beating faster than usual, Jennifer mentally kicked herself for allowing him to have this power over her. A heavy sigh escaped her, icy blue hues turning back at the screen of her laptop. It was pointless really because work was the last thing she had in her mind right now. Blocking the noise away, the young woman watched paralysed as Caddock slipped in the seat across her. 

What the hell was he doing?  Why was he doing this?

The scent of the fresh coffee hit the blonde’s nose. Reminding herself not to look up, not look at his face because that would only lead her to soften, to give in and just.. just rush into his arms - and that she couldn’t allow herself to do. They broke up, he left. He went to Paris to all those other places, lived his life and send her those letter for what? 

Pushing her tongue against her cheek, a hand moved to grab one of the pens to draw a line down the paper, creating a few details over her drawing. This was supposed to be submitted by noon and she wasn’t done or anywhere near it.

And those eyes, his presence wasn’t helping

At the sound of his voice, Jenny’s heart dropped in the pit of her stomach. She had missed his voice. So fucking much. 

“Yeah, I did. I would have written back, if I had an address.” 

She paused, hand drawing another line but soon gave up and erased it completely. This was simply not working.

“I’m glad to see you’re doing okay.” She then exclaimed. Okay was a way to put it, he was doing perfectly fine without her. 

There had been many fights inside his anxious mind, a battle between the Wants and the Needs, neither of which truly had his vote and yet he wished to fall to his knees for both, to pledge his allegiance despite the two having their swords at his throat. If he couldn’t pick one, perhaps they would just kill him together. Maybe death was better than self-destruction, a sickening disease that had threatened to seep into his gray matter with a sludge coated in toxic fumes and sickness laced fluids.

Death?

A haze overtook previously bright eyes, their gaze downcast as a flurry of concern peppered his brow, the worry lines deep as thick fingers laced together on the table top before slipping down into his lap. Her bluntness was not quite what he had expected. In truth, he had known there would be some bitterness between them, that a slime of malcontent would cover their conversation like a wet rag, dragging and weighing it down so much so that there was little they could do to elevate the pressure.

Charcoal colored lungs inhaled, a soft wheeze hissing upon the exhale.

There had been many ‘a fools on this earth, plenty of whom he had met and his regarded as less than worthy of his time, although a creeping notion caused him to question if he were one of these uneasy few. Had it been insane of him to expect her acrid anger to wear off at the sight of him, at the query concerning the letters?

Yes. Perhaps that did make him a fool after all.

Blue eyes watched the woman work, observing the manner in which lines were drawn and strokes were made, as if she were preparing herself to fashion a weapon out of pencil and paper, as if to put the bloody bastard of a man in his place. He had used those very two elements against her time and time again, in the postcards, but he had opted to use a pen, for there was far more permanence than the erase-ability of graphite.

Another wheeze. Another pause.

“I’m alright,” came his reply, words soft and sweet, as if drained through honey. Normally he would have chewed on the inside of his cheek or dragged rough fingers through his hair, but not now, not when his innards curdled and boiled in his chest, like a festering pot of unease and uncertainty as he wondered what he was to say next.

Were there truly any proper words?

                  Was he really there? Or was it all a game of her mind; a mind full of illusions, that had to doubt his very existence in the first place? What if it was all just a reaction of her overworked brain? That would be a great explanation as to why Jenny was seeing things. Or that was the excuse she gave herself, feeling awkward standing in a public space like that - looking at the older man as if she had just seen a ghost.

But the seconds went by and whatever this illusion was.. it didn’t go away, leaving the blonde looking – taking in that expression, the way he stood on the line, the way her name slipped his lips.

Looking unhappy would be one way to describe him right now. Barely acknowledging her, avoiding all eye contact were only a few messages sent her way and boy, Jennifer was receiving them all. It almost felt like whatever logic she had left sunk into the pic of her stomach - but that was irrelevant, right?

Pressing her lips into a fine line, she forced a half smile on her face. “Welcome back.”

The words were simple - and if she was being honest, she didn’t think twice saying them. Taking one last look at him, fingers pressed against the warm porcelain cup and finally she stepped aside and walked back to her corner, giving the older man what he so likely wanted these difficult two minutes of the awkward encounter.

Peace of mind.

Malcontent pattered through the crevices of his mind, slipping and sliding through the cracks of his gray matter as if to drench the entirety of his skull in the growing, bubbling anger that festered in his crippled form. His rib cage, although misconstructed, provided a sort of barrier from the emotions that rattled against the poorly formed encasement, the very things that threatened to tear apart his fleshy form, to reveal themselves, to cry out and exclaim, “You mustn’t fear the man I’ve become, just the man I’ve been!”

But the words felt strange as they rolled over in his head, a tingling engrossing his being as bright eyes trailed after the young woman, who returned to her seat as if on command, as if the simple mention of her name was enough to send her on her way.

And yet he should have known better, should have known that within her gentle form was an equally gentle soul that required care and comfort, and not the rough grasp of hands that rarely knew what it was like to hold such precious flowers between their fingers.

My, he was a beast, a beast of no nation and yet of many, and while they attempted to claim he had a greater connection to them than the next, the Hungarian grew weary, eyes dulling and blurred by what he claimed were not tears but... but some other sort of reaction he could not recall the name of.

Heavens, his form, while uneven and tattered, was able to stand upright in line, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans as his teeth grit together.

It was put a blink later that the soles of boots clicked against the flooring of the cafe, driving him towards the very table where the woman sat, and he took it upon himself to slip into the seat across from her.

An ill-placed anger painted tired features, a misconstrued look of frustration that had been strangled from its original form to now appear much more sinister than intended.

Thick fingers laced themselves together on the table top; heavy shoulder shifted forward, as if to funnel his words towards the woman he had by now certainly startled.

Bright blue eyes watched her with an intensity that could have melted mountains.

“Did you get my letters?”

The words were slick yet tender, uncertain yet excited, a peculiar mixture of sensations that even he was unsure what to make of them.

It had been some time since his last terrible episode, the very one that had ripped him from his bed and thrown him to the floor with a force he claimed was enough to distort and dismantle even the strongest of men. Although he had once claimed to be a man of such power, he had crumbled shortly there after, feigning a temporary weak disposition as he heaved up the remainder of his dinner in the porcelain bowl nestled in the corner of the flat’s bathroom. With the gray matter in his skull rattling around, thick fingers had gripped the white, refined material like a blind man searching for sanity. Since that evening he had denied many of the words he had blubbered in what he claimed to have been--how did he put it?--“a poorly timed moment in which he had been tested.” These words, of course, made little sense and served little purpose, and with a sneering smirk, he had slept on the couch in the living room for a spell before returning to the bedroom.

On this day, however, he was gladly blinded by the sun that streamed down from above, splintering through the tree branches and leaves, pleased by the warm that he was offered, and generously accepted. Bright eyes hid behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, which had been fitted with the prescription that matched his reading glasses. While the notion of having glasses did not thrill him, there was certainly no denying that his vision was gradually worsening. Just a few days ago he had mistaken a container of spreadable cheese for butter and had (unfortunately) spread it on his morning toast. This was, of course, of little pleasure to him, and he was forced to start back at square one.

The optometrist was surprised, in truth, that the Hungarian hadn’t gotten himself into more trouble, considering the condition of his vision, which certainly wasn’t something the journalist was fond of hearing. He begrudgingly left the appointment and ordered a pain of glasses, which arrived but a few days later. Unlike many, he complained about the quick delivery time, frustrated that age was catching up to him in the most inconvenient of ways. The black frames looked like they almost belonged on the man’s face, although at any mention or reference to them, one was almost certain to incur a grumble of agitation from him, before the glasses were removed and clattered to the table top. 

It had been a couple months since he had started working at Le Monde again, the very newspaper he had written for when he had lived in Paris many years ago. Initially it was hard, for people and processes change, but in the matter of a week or so he had regained his work ethic. It was impossible to deny that he had been--shall we say?--miserable when he had just been working on Rupture, but now there was something to take his mind off of the daily wear and tear of the magazine, and instead busied himself with writing articles for the newspaper. Some relaxed by watching television or reading a book, but him? The Caddock Drengith? Oh, no. He researched, he wrote.

There had been a string of critics that had claimed he was far too old to be joining the journalism game once again. Said he had been out of the ring for far too long. Others didn’t think much of it and were glad he had “regained his senses” and put his attention back on world news and not “fabric swatches.” Regardless of the responses to his return, the Hungarian had learned to block all of it out, just as he had done for many, many years. The short time he had listened to his critics had been enough to scar him to the bone, enough for a lifetime, which had caused for him to considered such people to be little more than soulless, lifeless creatures that sought to suck energy from those they fed on. He kept his head down and worked, doing what he loved, and he simply wished they would do the same.

But fuck them, right?

A smirk cracked across thin lips at the notion of it, and the clicking of his shoes was canceled out by the echoes that rumbled off of the walls of the foyer as he climbed the staircase to the flat. There were many things he had been able to finagle and get back from when he had lived there previously, but the original flat was not one of them. Besides, it was no longer ideal. No longer was it housing a famous, recently washed-up journalist and a French college student who got stoned nearly every afternoon and spent far more time on designing clothing than washing the ones she already owned. No longer did two love-ridden creatures need to share so very little but the touch of one another’s skin, no. No, now it was to house three people, and regardless of space, it had been ideal to seek out a flat he had not previously occupied. Soiled, muddy memories were infectious, and he worried something would be caught if he ever returned to what he had once referred to as a “seeping cesspool of an apartment.” There was little more to it, really.

With the key inserted into the aged lock, it turned with a grace he had never noticed before, and the door swung open. The smell of vanilla drifted to greet him, and he stepped inside, reminiscing on the scented candle he had gifted her for simply being... her. For being there, for being here. Again, his shoes clicked, this time softly against the wood flooring as he hung his coat on a peg by the door. Closing the door behind him, he slung his bag from his chest, placing it on the ground near where the shoe rack sat. Big, medium, small. The variety of sizes would never cease to amaze him, even though he passed it every day with little thought to what it meant, what it truly meant to someone like him, a man that had claimed so many things would never happen, and yet...

In the doorway to the kitchen he stood, removing the sunglasses to allow bright eyes to gaze at the woman who sat at the table. It was lunchtime, and he hoped she hadn’t eaten yet. It was his turn to cook. The boy was hopefully still at daycare.

He stood there for another few moments, bringing himself to lean against the door frame as a gentle smile crept across thin lips. Arms crossing over his chest, he lifted his chin in slight, as if in an attempt to hide the glowing shift in his expression as he continued to take in the sight of her.

There she was.

As precious and gracious as ever.

She was beautiful.

And of course he refused. With a small nod of her head, one hand reached to press down at the towel on his head gently while the other caressed his hand softly. Give him a few minutes, she thought to herself. He needed those, to calm down. “Okay.. anything you want.” She whispered and this time, she couldn’t hide the fear in her voice.

It was then when she was struck by an idea and almost immediately, the blonde woman stood up and went top open the window – hoping that it was what he needed now. Not knowing whether he wanted her to go or stay, Jenny sighed quietly.

Deciding that he just needed some time on his own and not feel as if she was pressuring him, she looked at him one more time. “I’m gonna go grab a bucket and clean..” She told him, guessing that sleep wasn’t going to be in their things to do that night. “Do you want me to make you that tea? If not.. then I better start cleaning. Unless..”

Unless you want me to stay, she thought, words that never came out her lips. 

"Stay.”

The word, the stray string of syllables and letters, had found its way from his lips, which parted to sigh, and yet released the reply in an almost hushed manner. It was as if a part of him deep down was pushing aside the normal reactions he displayed in order to request her presence. Instead he bowed his head, wiping the back of his hand across thin lips in order to scrape the dried bits of food from his mouth. A rash of embarrassment streamed across his face as bright eyes struggled to keep their attention on anything but the woman, the very thing that seemed to calm his raging storms and aching insides.

It didn’t take long, of course, for him to fail, to look to her with eyes that bore a sadness he had not felt in many a years, or at least that was what his mind told him was the case. Tears fed on fears, and with a quick sniffle, the man glanced towards the bed, then the window before back down to his hands, which rung together and shook.

Something softened in her. The moment she saw his expression, the way he thanked her – he always had a way to press all the right buttons even now. Such a power he held over her. Watching him forcing those pills down his throat, a small part of her wished he was going to feel slightly okay for now. Whatever had caused him to throw up the way he did worried her now, and in the back of her mind the room or the mess in it was the least in her worries.

“Hey.. don’t be. It’s fine.” She whispered, dropping the old towels on the floor to kneel next to him. “Next time, you get to hold me. Lucky you.” A stupid attempt of her to joke around, cheer him up. Slowly, her hand went for his, warm skin touching his cold one. “Do you want us to go to the balcony? Some fresh air can do miracles..”

Wanting to think that he would actually accept her offer, blue hues searched for his own. Of course, she’d have to remind herself to get a blanket, because as comfortable as it could be outside he could also get sick with all that sweat on him.

“I can clean.. it’s not gonna take me long. I can make you some tea.. what do you say?”

With a shake of his head, the Hungarian found it necessary to refuse her offer. His legs felt weak, shaking even as he sat there. It was difficult enough to sit upright, and the notion of having to move? It was enough to cause him to feel lightheaded, and he pressed a hand to his brow, holding the towel in place as he attempted to recollect his thoughts, regulating his breathing in the hopes of keeping his sanity in place.

The bugs no longer scurried along the pipes in his throat, and the eels in his stomach had let him be, and yet… The acidic taste remained in his mouth, chewing at his gums and tongue. He still tasted the metals.

Listening at him in a small state of shock - she knew he had to be fine by those demanding words. Without even saying anything, a hand went around his waist to help him up and slowly, but steadily, the young woman stepped towards the fireplace, where they had placed a black pillow like chair close by. He was in a mood and frankly, she wanted to hit him in the back of the head for the whole attitude. Being wide awake now, Jenny did as he asked instead and as soon as she helped him take a seat again, her eyes went towards the door again.

“I’ll go grab some zandac for you.. and a few towels. Okay?” Giving him a pleading look and after caressing his face one more time, the blonde stepped aside and headed to the bathroom. Being always organized, always a worrier, Jennifer had her own collection of medication just in case anything happened. The flu came and went with a small child, so having something to sooth those moments after vomiting was a great necessity.

Grabbing the bottle of pills, and carrying a few old towels she had placed under the sink to throw away, she finally grabbed another one to make sure she returned to him with a soaked wet to use for his forehead.

The atmosphere in the room was even heavier now as she found herself by his side once more.

“Here, take this.” She told him, handing him the bottle and without even hesitating, placed the cool, wet tower over his head.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Do I look okay? he wanted to hiss, but the words didn’t make it to his lips, and instead he worked on keeping himself upright.

The stench was overwhelming. It hovered around him like an aura of rot, clinging to his skin like ticks that attempted to drain him of whatever dignity he had left. The bedroom would smell horribly for the next however many days, and he wished he had the energy to get up and begin cleaning the bloody mess. He’d have to call a damn maid in the morning.

As the woman returned, he thanked her and took the bottle, shaking out a few pills into a shivering palm before throwing them back with a forceful swallow. The cold towel on his brow drew a relieved sigh from charcoal colored lungs, and a whispered thanks slipped from between his lips, accompanied by an easier heard, “I’m sorry.”

His skin was cold, almost unrecognizable to that warm feeling he provided her with all those nights before and that worried her – this sickening expression he had. Sometimes, she had no idea what to do to help, others she remained calm for his sake. Maybe even hers. It pained her, being unable to provide him with as much comfort as possible but what else was she supposed to do? She understood this was just as hard on him and for that, the young woman did everything in her power to not push him any further. He didn’t need that, not.

What she did not expect at all was things to get that bad. She felt the sweat, but the way his body leaned forward caused her to move aside and give him as much space to breathe. Instead of that, her hand moved over his back, the other around his abdomen to support him and allowed the little knot in her stomach tightening when he began vomiting.

“Let it all out.”

It was easier said than done, Jennifer knew that. Rubbing his back slowly, she tried to push all the sounds out of her mind; suppressing the gagging feeling in her throat. He was the one in need, she had to remind herself.

But that came to an end. And with that, she helped him sit up on the bed. Worried eyes focusing on him, hoping, wishing he felt somehow better. Fingers reached to push a strand of hair away from his forehead, examining his face.

“Are you okay?”

She didn’t want an answer. A simple nod would do, a simple blink of his eyes even. 

With a shiver, all that inhabited his stomach was poured forth, ruining the temporary rug they had set down while the one from his Westbrook apartment was being shipped. He heaved and spat out whatever remained, chunks of the previous night’s dinner dripping from his lips like soiled eatery. A shiver rippled through him once more, dry heaving as his eyes bore witness to the mess he had made.

No eel surfaced, yet the wriggled in his stomach stopped.

His form momentarily bent forward, only to be drawn back by the woman, who hoisted him back onto the bed. His head spun, and he wondered if it would come unscrewed and roll across the floor. If it did, he hoped it would avoid the ever growing puddle of filth he had created.

“Fine,” came the single word, acrid as it ripped the top of his mouth upon exiting. It tore at his gums. He wondered if they bled. “Get me o-off the f-fucking w-white sheets.”

The night was long. The air always filled with the scent of those candles she loved blowing out before going to bed, all kind of scents combined together, vanilla, cinnamon and a little bit of midnight flowers, to calm both of their nerves through a rather hectic day. It wasn’t easy, keeping up with all the responsibilities of moving into a new place, let alone a new country but she wouldn’t change it for the world. This, was what she had wanted and after a the hell she had tasted in this state of what they called life, the young woman was rewarded with happiness. Pure happiness.

Sleep came quickly. Was it the calming atmosphere, the silence surrounding them or the expensive cologne on his neck, she would never know.

Not when it was all perfect. C o n t e n t.

She would have been a fool if she thought this was going to be a peaceful night. Being familiar with how bad the dreams could seem, how real and scary to the point he’d wake up screaming, because only God knew what had been playing in his mind. Her first instinct was to sit up onto the bed, fast, eyes falling over the door thankful it was closed so the five year old down the hall would not be interrupted. Just as quickly though, the blonde kicked the covers off her, bare feet coming in contact with the floor to bring her closer to the older male.

“Hey…” She whispered, voice gentle, caring. “It was just a dream. You’re okay – you’re okay.”

Soft hands reached for his face, kneeling next to him to comfort him, but in the meantime giving him some space to breathe. God, how she hated this. Seeing him in this vulnerable state – his human side coming out the worse possible way. What wouldn’t she give to fix those broken parts of his.

“I’m here. You’re okay.”

His stomach reeled, squirming under his skin like a displaced eel, attempting to escape its casket, his shivering form that felt far too cold to still be functioning. A voice, the very one that had coxed him into sleeping now twirled around the inside of his skull, skimming the surface of his gray matter, which quaked and quivered as it sought to regain proper oxygen flow. His mouth opened and closed slowly, trying to form words that he assumed would be carried out by the droplet of drool that hung from the corner of his mouth.

A pained grunt rumbled in his throat, squeezing past his strained vocals chords that refused to released much more than a groan in response to the young woman’s cooing words. Lungs reopened, he momentarily gasped for air, quickly being sure to regulate his breathing to negate the possibility of this little event starting all over again.

Rolling over onto his side before gradually sitting up, the Hungarian felt his eyes struggle to focus on the woman, her soft hands on his rugged face, his swirling head. He swore he could still feel the bugs crawling up his throat and out his nose, their tiny legs creeping along his innards. A quiet whine slithered from between his lips.

I’m going to be sick, he thought, unsure if he had spoken the words or simply allowed them to rattled around in his skull.

He had begun to hate words.

He hated how they felt on his tongue, slipping and sliding between his teeth, like grit and gristle from a poorly prepared meal. Words, like tacks, had made their way under his fingernails, grinding between flesh and bone, and with an internal howl, he found himself setting down the pencil and pen, unable to continue much further.

Aches and pains had riddled his form, pulling ligaments from bone, body from soul. Like a twisted scarecrow, he bowed to the wind, wrapped up in its unyielding power as it repeatedly beat him to the ground. Nose to the dirt, he filled his lungs with the earth, wondering how long it would take for him to decompose, to regain a purpose, even if that purpose was to feed the worms and beetles of the earth.

His head ached. His heart ached more, and like a crippled bird, he remained where he lay, cheek pressed to his desk as Sleep ghosted Her fingers along his brows, Her soft whispers of “sleep, sleep,” ringing in his ears, echoing a voice he had carried with him for a long time, longer than he had ever imagined he could keep a single sound inside his chest. The hum, the tinkling sound of a laugh... All of it was captured and crushed under the undying pressure in his breast, and with a hiccuping sort of inhale, the Hungarian could feel his eyes struggling to stay forward facing.

Anger ate at him like wild hounds, tearing bits of flesh from his trembling corpse, the bodily shell he was forced to inhabit in this earthy realm. His mouth opened, but no words came out, and instead cockroaches exited, tearing holes in his cheeks... centipedes trickled from his nose, and his eyes.... Oh his eyes. Eaten and destroyed by birds of prey, muscles hanging from their sockets like deflated balloons. And his shoulder! The aching, bleeding stump of an appendage now oozed a black slime, thick and priceless.

Oil. It had always been about oil, and it always would be.

::

He sat up with a start, a scream scraping along the inside of his chest and throat as he nearly found himself tumbling off the bed, rib cage strangling his lungs, which had forgotten how to breathe for a moment, which fought to take in some air, to regain some sort of control. Thick fingered hands wrapped around his throat, eyes wide and filled with a terror that could only be brought on by his own mind. The ceiling was far too dark to be seen, but he knew where the lamps hung above him, despite how he felt as if he were still in that cave, half rotted away and clawing his way back to town. He could feel the dirt under his fingernails even as they clawed at his throat, releasing a frightened wheeze, like the hissing of a balloon releasing air.

Like a worm, he wriggled, escaping the constraints of the sheets, only to find himself on the floor but a moment later, clutching the blankets with one hand in a failed attempt to keep himself on the bed. The pressure had been drawn out shortly after he had hit the ground, like a broken kerosene lamp, the poisonous fumes that had inhabited his mind had been released. Now he was left to quake in his own puddle of damp sweat, the very same that drenched his side of the bed and his wrinkled agèd brow.