Hickey, again. The detail is almost lost in the litany of horrors. Raju realises his breath is coming faster and harder, and so is his heartbeat. Both his hands are on Francis' shoulders, the other one having moved itself when Raju's mind had been taken up with grotesque tragedy.
I held their bodies, I ate --
This is what Francis had been trying to tell him. The centre of the guilt that Raju had seen there, dug up like Raju had been aiming to. As usual, this kind of success is...
But there's nothing usual about this, is there? This is a man he... he might be able to call a friend, a friend he's only just made, now a captain whose vice and inattention — if Francis is right — sent men who counted on him to lead into something worse than hell, and who's paying for it like a figure from some old story, like a man cursed with immortality only so he can remember. Something Raju could read easily, if with distaste, but which is right here beneath him, alive because this man is alive, looking up at him with human eyes, a man who started travelling the world young and painstakingly sewed mittens to keep Raju warm and who's done horrible things, crossed a line Raju hadn't even remembered was there.
The other hand on Francis' other shoulder moves down, still far enough up to keep away from his ribs, trying to press flat over his heart. Raju isn't sure why. Still human in there, even after everything. Or maybe just to hold him down, as if the horrors inside him are still about to leap out. As if they haven't already.
And this isn't usual, either, in what happens afterward. The confession and then his part is done, the consequences left to other hands than his, and to the deeper parts of Raju's mind. But there was no one else to hear, and this confession isn't being held up against law to decide on some punishment after. Raju's hit with a rush of gratitude, over everything else, gratitude that the cabin is lonely and dark, that there's no sun peering in the windows to shed light on any of this, that the only container for this particular confession is Raju, and no one else. No consequences but the act, no punishment except the one inside Francis' mind and heart.
Raju opens his mouth, draws a breath to say...
He lets the breath out again, shoulders slumping. His lips press together, and he swallows. Raju's hand is tight on Francis' shoulder, and his eyes are still too wide. The flames flicker in unnatural, jerking fits and starts, the way they had on the night Raju had realised this fire inside him in the first place. I ate Harry Goodsir, Raju. A confession dug out, the centre of what the man had been trying to say. Raju doesn't know what comes after that. He doesn't know what to do with judgement.
no subject
I held their bodies, I ate --
This is what Francis had been trying to tell him. The centre of the guilt that Raju had seen there, dug up like Raju had been aiming to. As usual, this kind of success is...
But there's nothing usual about this, is there? This is a man he... he might be able to call a friend, a friend he's only just made, now a captain whose vice and inattention — if Francis is right — sent men who counted on him to lead into something worse than hell, and who's paying for it like a figure from some old story, like a man cursed with immortality only so he can remember. Something Raju could read easily, if with distaste, but which is right here beneath him, alive because this man is alive, looking up at him with human eyes, a man who started travelling the world young and painstakingly sewed mittens to keep Raju warm and who's done horrible things, crossed a line Raju hadn't even remembered was there.
The other hand on Francis' other shoulder moves down, still far enough up to keep away from his ribs, trying to press flat over his heart. Raju isn't sure why. Still human in there, even after everything. Or maybe just to hold him down, as if the horrors inside him are still about to leap out. As if they haven't already.
And this isn't usual, either, in what happens afterward. The confession and then his part is done, the consequences left to other hands than his, and to the deeper parts of Raju's mind. But there was no one else to hear, and this confession isn't being held up against law to decide on some punishment after. Raju's hit with a rush of gratitude, over everything else, gratitude that the cabin is lonely and dark, that there's no sun peering in the windows to shed light on any of this, that the only container for this particular confession is Raju, and no one else. No consequences but the act, no punishment except the one inside Francis' mind and heart.
Raju opens his mouth, draws a breath to say...
He lets the breath out again, shoulders slumping. His lips press together, and he swallows. Raju's hand is tight on Francis' shoulder, and his eyes are still too wide. The flames flicker in unnatural, jerking fits and starts, the way they had on the night Raju had realised this fire inside him in the first place. I ate Harry Goodsir, Raju. A confession dug out, the centre of what the man had been trying to say. Raju doesn't know what comes after that. He doesn't know what to do with judgement.