A Train Ride.
Wednesday, November 13th, 2013 03:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
psyches posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
evolutionaryTitle: A Train Ride
Warnings: Prescription medication.
Word Count: 1121
Characters: Nigel and Jaden
Notes: Takes place almost a year before the beginning ofenlightenment. Requested by sisyphus.
Summary: A young man's fascination with a young woman's stories.
Their final transfer from Memphis (and her lovely mental institution) to Newark (and a different sort of prison) was scheduled at dawn, at a crowded train station beside a river. Keaton had left Nigel to retrieve breakfast thirty minutes prior, and to pass the time, the latter drew up schematics on how he could escape the former's oppressive and largely uninspiring company.
He gave up after five minutes and spent the next twenty-five sleeping soundly on the bench. The lorazepam had been destroying his waking states lately, disallowing concentration and thus, any viable means of escape. He was trapped, and perhaps six months ago, that might have broken something in the man to admit.
Six months to the present, there was supposedly nothing left to break.
---
Nigel awoke with a cup of coffee in his hand. The heat felt through the cardboard sleeve had him jolting upright, as did the moving blurs behind the glass on his left.
"Drink," said Keaton. "We've been on the train for an hour."
An hour he could not remember in any sense of the word--the entire section came up empty in his endless bank of memory. As this happened from time to time, he tried not to dwell on what (who) was lost. Instead, he tipped the lid's opening into his mouth and nearly choked on the bitter taste.
"Drink slowly. I have water for you next. You need to purge your system..."
Of what, Nigel refused to listen. He drank the coffee far too quickly and passed on the water, much to his companion's silent dismay.
---
They spent the next three hours in the quiet drum of the engine and background ambiance most appropriate for a nearly empty compartment. Keaton was reading God-knows-what (and not sharing, that fuddy duddy) whilst Nigel took to nothing in particular. If he tried to take to anything, even anything mildly distracting, his thoughts would inevitably arrive at--
That beautiful nighttime bird.
"Pinch me," he spoke suddenly. He could almost imagine the raised eyebrow behind Keaton's book.
"Pinch you?"
He nodded with enthusiasm. "Take your thumb and your forefinger," was the continuation. "Close them around any loose skin. Hard. Try the side. It tends to be the most sensitive."
She closed her book with a snap and turned to look at him. Nigel could almost make out the dark lines around her eyes, telltale signs of insufficient sleep.
"You want me to pinch you." Why? was the unspoken query.
It was simple. No one wanted simple. "Because I will laugh until I die," he answered. "Because you threw out my prescription." She had done this two hours before this moment, with the comment that no employee of hers would be under the influence on her watch.
Au revoir, lorazepam. I absolutely loathed thee.
Keaton stared, for perhaps longer than Nigel preferred.
"It's only fair," he said finally. "Pain for pain." Pound for pound. Ounce for ounce.
She reached out with a steady hand to pinch Nigel's side. There was a frightening lack of hesitation in the act (her fingers were also like cold steel), but the man cared little. He had his pain, his pound and ounce.
He inhaled sharply and batted away the hand that pinched him.
---
His lunch consisted of a bag of potato chips. Hers was a sandwich. They ate quietly, listening to the engine chug and chug away.
Nigel felt more lucid at noon, more like himself. Or the person he used to be, who loved the sun most when it sat at the highest point in the bright blue sky. There would, at least, be no more fits for two hours. It was both a promise and an assurance.
Keaton was probably, possibly, inevitably tired of dealing with them. With him. If only she wasn't being paid--
He became conscious of his broken eyes on hers and pried himself away.
---
Margaret was on his mind in the homestretch of their journey.
It was mayhap a dangerous line to toe, to think of her when he could be thinking of something (someone) else. She had red hair and blue eyes, however, and Nigel was soon learning that that was his weakness. He would ultimately return to a person who held those traits, like a sailor crashing his ship on the rocky shores to find the siren's call.
It wasn't such a disaster, though, thinking of her now. And the stories they used to make up, each becoming more and more outlandish as they attempted to outdo each other. Really? A tree made from the skins of the murdered? Honestly, Greta. Living statues carved from discarded turtle shells. That was how it was done.
Nigel turned to his employer, hope sputtering beneath his blue-green eyes. "What are you reading?" he questioned.
"The effects of artificial intelligence on society." She did not look up from her book.
Nonfiction. Neither he nor Margaret approved of the selection. Or would have approved, as the case happened to be.
---
She closed her eyes for what seemed like precious seconds, and Nigel, who fixated and fixated permanently, quickly ducked his head to catch the title of the book on her lap.
I, Robot. Asimov. Not nonfiction.
For a minute and a minute only, he thought to draw the smaller woman into his arms and weep in relief. It passed, as most everything did.
---
Their transfer came to an end shortly before evening, when the sun hung low on the horizon. Nigel watched the orange canvas as Keaton gathered her things, who waited until the absolute last second to pick up the duffel bag beneath his seat. This she placed on his lap with force.
He grunted in displeasure.
"Your grandparents are expecting us. Please straighten your collar."
This he did.
"Do not lose your itinerary. Their insurance will not pay without it."
He would not.
"You must return to your sister in 72 hours, otherwise--"
"--otherwise, they will catch me again." He nodded. "I get it."
She blinked and then tipped her hat. "See you on Monday, Nigel."
"Hope you enjoyed Asimov, Jaden," Nigel returned, and when she left the nearly empty compartment with her face a shade pinker, he obtained a kind of satisfaction only the dead can find.
---
In the years to come, he gave her a total sum of four gifts, each of which she accepted with grudging appreciation. Each a book, of course, further detailing the effects of artificial intelligence on society. Each book, she glanced at the title and made a complicated face.
In that minute and that minute only, he thought to draw the smaller woman into his arms and laugh. Laugh until she remembered to pinch his side.
It passed, as most everything did.
Warnings: Prescription medication.
Word Count: 1121
Characters: Nigel and Jaden
Notes: Takes place almost a year before the beginning of
enlightenment. Requested by sisyphus.Summary: A young man's fascination with a young woman's stories.
Their final transfer from Memphis (and her lovely mental institution) to Newark (and a different sort of prison) was scheduled at dawn, at a crowded train station beside a river. Keaton had left Nigel to retrieve breakfast thirty minutes prior, and to pass the time, the latter drew up schematics on how he could escape the former's oppressive and largely uninspiring company.
He gave up after five minutes and spent the next twenty-five sleeping soundly on the bench. The lorazepam had been destroying his waking states lately, disallowing concentration and thus, any viable means of escape. He was trapped, and perhaps six months ago, that might have broken something in the man to admit.
Six months to the present, there was supposedly nothing left to break.
Nigel awoke with a cup of coffee in his hand. The heat felt through the cardboard sleeve had him jolting upright, as did the moving blurs behind the glass on his left.
"Drink," said Keaton. "We've been on the train for an hour."
An hour he could not remember in any sense of the word--the entire section came up empty in his endless bank of memory. As this happened from time to time, he tried not to dwell on what (who) was lost. Instead, he tipped the lid's opening into his mouth and nearly choked on the bitter taste.
"Drink slowly. I have water for you next. You need to purge your system..."
Of what, Nigel refused to listen. He drank the coffee far too quickly and passed on the water, much to his companion's silent dismay.
They spent the next three hours in the quiet drum of the engine and background ambiance most appropriate for a nearly empty compartment. Keaton was reading God-knows-what (and not sharing, that fuddy duddy) whilst Nigel took to nothing in particular. If he tried to take to anything, even anything mildly distracting, his thoughts would inevitably arrive at--
That beautiful nighttime bird.
"Pinch me," he spoke suddenly. He could almost imagine the raised eyebrow behind Keaton's book.
"Pinch you?"
He nodded with enthusiasm. "Take your thumb and your forefinger," was the continuation. "Close them around any loose skin. Hard. Try the side. It tends to be the most sensitive."
She closed her book with a snap and turned to look at him. Nigel could almost make out the dark lines around her eyes, telltale signs of insufficient sleep.
"You want me to pinch you." Why? was the unspoken query.
It was simple. No one wanted simple. "Because I will laugh until I die," he answered. "Because you threw out my prescription." She had done this two hours before this moment, with the comment that no employee of hers would be under the influence on her watch.
Au revoir, lorazepam. I absolutely loathed thee.
Keaton stared, for perhaps longer than Nigel preferred.
"It's only fair," he said finally. "Pain for pain." Pound for pound. Ounce for ounce.
She reached out with a steady hand to pinch Nigel's side. There was a frightening lack of hesitation in the act (her fingers were also like cold steel), but the man cared little. He had his pain, his pound and ounce.
He inhaled sharply and batted away the hand that pinched him.
His lunch consisted of a bag of potato chips. Hers was a sandwich. They ate quietly, listening to the engine chug and chug away.
Nigel felt more lucid at noon, more like himself. Or the person he used to be, who loved the sun most when it sat at the highest point in the bright blue sky. There would, at least, be no more fits for two hours. It was both a promise and an assurance.
Keaton was probably, possibly, inevitably tired of dealing with them. With him. If only she wasn't being paid--
He became conscious of his broken eyes on hers and pried himself away.
Margaret was on his mind in the homestretch of their journey.
It was mayhap a dangerous line to toe, to think of her when he could be thinking of something (someone) else. She had red hair and blue eyes, however, and Nigel was soon learning that that was his weakness. He would ultimately return to a person who held those traits, like a sailor crashing his ship on the rocky shores to find the siren's call.
It wasn't such a disaster, though, thinking of her now. And the stories they used to make up, each becoming more and more outlandish as they attempted to outdo each other. Really? A tree made from the skins of the murdered? Honestly, Greta. Living statues carved from discarded turtle shells. That was how it was done.
Nigel turned to his employer, hope sputtering beneath his blue-green eyes. "What are you reading?" he questioned.
"The effects of artificial intelligence on society." She did not look up from her book.
Nonfiction. Neither he nor Margaret approved of the selection. Or would have approved, as the case happened to be.
She closed her eyes for what seemed like precious seconds, and Nigel, who fixated and fixated permanently, quickly ducked his head to catch the title of the book on her lap.
I, Robot. Asimov. Not nonfiction.
For a minute and a minute only, he thought to draw the smaller woman into his arms and weep in relief. It passed, as most everything did.
Their transfer came to an end shortly before evening, when the sun hung low on the horizon. Nigel watched the orange canvas as Keaton gathered her things, who waited until the absolute last second to pick up the duffel bag beneath his seat. This she placed on his lap with force.
He grunted in displeasure.
"Your grandparents are expecting us. Please straighten your collar."
This he did.
"Do not lose your itinerary. Their insurance will not pay without it."
He would not.
"You must return to your sister in 72 hours, otherwise--"
"--otherwise, they will catch me again." He nodded. "I get it."
She blinked and then tipped her hat. "See you on Monday, Nigel."
"Hope you enjoyed Asimov, Jaden," Nigel returned, and when she left the nearly empty compartment with her face a shade pinker, he obtained a kind of satisfaction only the dead can find.
In the years to come, he gave her a total sum of four gifts, each of which she accepted with grudging appreciation. Each a book, of course, further detailing the effects of artificial intelligence on society. Each book, she glanced at the title and made a complicated face.
In that minute and that minute only, he thought to draw the smaller woman into his arms and laugh. Laugh until she remembered to pinch his side.
It passed, as most everything did.
