An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
âI donât understand,â Grace said, apologetic and strained, a long-associated awkwardness with uncomfortable social interactions making itself known. He was lost, uncertain. Unsure of what to do or say other than state the obvious; falling back on the fact of the situation. And the fact was that Simon absolutely shouldnât be standing up right now, âLetâs- Why donât we get you settled back into bed? Your arm is-â
The sound cut through the space between them like a knife, serrated and jagged and leaving a ragged gash behind. Simon tilted a little further, leaning into the window like everything would fall away from under him if he dared to let go. At first, Grace thought it was just another sob, another involuntary cry, but he saw the way the remains of Simonâs mouth twisted, turned. Muscles pulling down and up, Adamâs apple dipping in response to thoughtful tongue movement. Intentional despite the agony it clearly caused.
âMmm I- ehm,â Simon tried, words distorted and as bent out of shape as the jaw that formed them. Sounds warped and slurred and dragging themselves to collapse as soon as they breached his lips. A tinge of blood leaking out of the corner, flashes of anemia-pale gums that grew redder with every passing attempt. Desperation becoming frustration, becoming anger - a stoking Grace could see picking up behind his eye in a flash of gold and a streak of green. Simon made a fist again, struck the window harder. The smear of blood became a rivulet that worked its way down to his collarbone, chest heaving, spine curving as though subjected to a tremendous weight. He wobbled dangerously, struggling to keep his body from veering to the right.
âAh-mmmm IâŚâ A rasping wet gulp of air, a whined note of pain to place a plosive consonant against a misaligned alveolar ridge. Grace could feel an empathetic echo ache on the left side of his own face, the thought of exposed gum and muscle forced to move, the cracking of newly formed scabs, enough to make him feel nauseous. Simon screwed his eye shut, âD- ehm-d?â
It took a moment of gathering the sounds and rolling through them in his head, brain making comparisons and approximations when they werenât good enough to work the noises into one coherent phrase. Ah-mmmm I d-ehm-d? Am I d-ehm-d? Am I deh-d?
Or: Grace has never been the best at dealing with difficult emotions.
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