#e.interactions

“--Josie, come in,” the thumping in his chest has calmed considerably, replaced with a sort of exhilaration that reaches all the way town to his fingertips--- knuckles are white around the door knob. “My associate will be joining us soon, but for now,” 

his phone is nearly slammed onto the table, face down. fingers grip hard into a fist, nails digging into his palm. to say his appetite has disappeared is an understatement-- in fact, he can feel the bile rising in his throat just as quickly as the tension has bolted through his chest. the recovery is swift, nearly broken as he glances across the room and catches a glimpse of red hair.

as he turns back to the table, a sigh escapes from his lips and a smile-- too perfectly symmetrical to be genuine-- takes its place.

eli vogel’s therapist told him about the concept of resurfacing memories. her voice soothed him through the idea that, at any given time, he would be thrown back-- ten, twenty, thirty years in the past-- and forced to relive whatever sequence of events his brain deemed too offensive to do anything but lock away for an indefinite period of time. and even better? it was a ‘ good ‘ thing. a way to achieve ‘ catharsis ‘. to ‘ recover from prior trauma ‘. 

the thought bubbled up word by word first and soon, it was a fully fledged image: or lack there-of. a closet, lit only by the inching in of light through the crack of the door. a towel shoved into the slit from the outside. a little boy, half starved and trembling-- begging please, dad.

“I hate to do this to you,” he doesn’t-    - in fact, he’s gripping the tops of his thighs to keep himself from smiling a little. something about it all, pulling the mayor into an interrogation room, feels like two puzzle pieces finally clicking together. still, his face is solemn.

a little over four months ago to the day, eli vogel found himself sitting across from a man, a glass of vodka in hand and a distinctly uncontrollable twitch in his foot that bounced his knee up and down until his arches felt close to collapse. if he remembers correctly, the question was: am i fired? and the answer was by the way, everything you’ve ever known is a lie and you’ll never be able to look your mother in the face ever again.

to say the least, it’s been a process to accept the blood that runs through his veins. 

“Zed,” and here they are, sat across from each other-- eli’s leg still bounces softly, causing the whiskey in his glass to form angry little waves. he brings it to his lips, sips, and allows it to sink between his knees. his back is hunched roundly, elbows planted firmly on his thighs. what was it that dimitri told him? ah--

“Maybe you’re going to need to have a drink first.”

it’s a small light emerging at the end of a tunnel that seems to be never ending-- a pearl among a thousand, empty oysters. a tiny victory in a sea of failures. the faust’s special prize, wrists held together by cuffs chained to the center of the table, pathetic as a drowned rat ( rat does feel like a proper term for her ), just waiting to be destroyed.

the mask nearly slips as eli enters the room-- a quirk in the corner of his mouth twitches up for a split second, only to fall in tandem with the SMACK! of the manila folder marked C L A R K E in heavy-stamped letters against the table. the room is cold and eli is acutely aware of the way the walls seem to be leaning in to get a hint.

“I’ve lost the tapes for this conversation.”