Graham returned to
his room, undressed, brushed his teeth, and lay down on his cot. He forgot to turn out the light in the
bathroom, but could not muster the energy to get up and switch
it off. He lay there silently, staring
at the ceiling, his arms rigid at his sides.
His thoughts ran in circles through his head. He could not catch a hold of any one thought,
however, before another tumbled forth, and then another and another: Peggy Lee’s face, skeletal children dying of
thirst, the blackened battery room, his own sorry existence at headquarters,
the kiss, waterfalls, the future, the past, the end of life, and then back to
Peggy Lee – and those perfect eyes that might possibly contain the entire
universe. His brain was like a carousel
that was stuck in high gear – spinning too fast, the music too loud. He couldn’t focus – even for a single second. He desperately wanted to fall asleep; maybe in
the morning, things would not look so bad.
But his heart was racing, and he was sweating all over. He was dizzy and sick. He thought about getting outside, to move and
walk on the adjacent island, but he found that he was paralyzed in his cot.
Eventually, somehow,
he slept – a dreamless, lifeless sleep as if his soul had collapsed, as if a
coma was the only appropriate state of being, the only safe place. The following morning, he could not remember
falling asleep. He just recalled the
light from the bathroom on the ceiling – a flat, angry rectangle cutting
into the darkness.
##
He skipped
breakfast, choosing instead to wait quietly in his room for their departure
from the Platform. He knew Charley would
load the prisoners onto the boat and take care of the other logistics.
He felt odd – like
someone else had taken control of his body . . . and his mind. He needed to be alone. He needed to wake up a bit, shake off the
events of the preceding night before he saw anyone else. He showered, but forgot to wash his
hair. He walked out of the shower; he
walked back into the shower. He felt
numb all over as he dried off.
Sitting on the
toilet, his feet fell asleep. He
realized that he had been staring blankly ahead and smelling his
own shit for what seemed like hours. If
it had not been for the tingling in his feet, he did not know how long
he would have remained there. An empty
feeling rolled slowly over him back and forth like a rolling pin, pressing and
squeezing him. He wiped his ass and mechanically
moved his toes up and down until the blood returned. He rose, pulled up his pants, took a couple
of steps, and sat down on the minimalist office chair next to the bed.
His thoughts now swirled around Peggy Lee. He knew that he loved her; he would always
love her, but now he could never have her.
He could never truly be with her.
He would have to testify against her.
The whole pathetic tale would come out; Ian would see to that. Investigators would ask him about his relationship
with Peggy Lee, the set-up, and then the attack.
He knew that even after all of that, he would still want to be with
her. And what would be her
reaction? Anger? Pity?
It didn’t really matter. He knew
that, even if a relationship was somehow possible, she could not be with
him. They were both too broken now.
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