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It's a cold morning again, but John is only distantly aware of the chill that nips at the tips of his ears and nose, the way it burns his cheeks. Before, he would have been angry the neighbor’s dog had woken him up yet again. He might have even marched right up to the front door to give them a piece of his mind; they disturb his peace, he'll disturb theirs. But now, after, peace seems such a foreign thing that he simply wakes with the beast and sits on his porch until it either stops its barking or his limbs begin to prickle. It's so strange—the way he used to be able to make use of every part of his body with such ease, each piece propelling another forward until he was certain that he didn't need a plane to fly, that his mere body and will alone were enough.
Now, John has to force himself from the bed each morning with bones that move like wet cement. His body is so far away from him, he's not even sure it's his. Eating, too, has become an impossibly difficult task; not only does he have to prepare and eat the food, he has to keep it down. The only thing he has found to lighten the dreadful two-times-a-day chore is making it into some kind of game. Not the kind of game like chess, nor the game of survival—but a game of distraction. He pours cold soup into a bowl, and his mother spoon feeds him. He splits a stale sandwich with his sister. He makes Buck and himself eggs, and they're absolutely awful—even worse than the ones at Thorpe Abbotts—but they eat them together anyway, laughing and smiling easily.
Buck.
The woman next door peaks her head out for no more than a second to fiercely curse out her dog and then quickly turn back inside, slamming the door shut. The dog barks louder. John sips his coffee.
He used to be somewhat of a picky eater, but all food has come to taste the same to him: like nothing. It mushes in his mouth uncomfortably and cakes his teeth in a mud-like paste. Even brushing his teeth and showering have become a burden; but he forces himself to, reminds himself that he has the chance to. John knows that everything he has now is a gift: a safe house, a warm bed, clean clothes, and plenty of food. A life. And yet, he cannot help but feel that his life left him long ago. When and where exactly, he cannot say, just that it is no longer with him and hasn't been for some time now. He wonders distantly, sometimes, if it looks for him as he does for it. Maybe it's right in front of him—he just needs to reach a little further, have just a little more faith. Or perhaps it's dead in some German forest somewhere, alone and rotting, vultures picking at its carcass. Are there vultures in Germany? John doesn't care; a place like that doesn’t exist without those who can survive off death alone.
The dog finally quiets, a defeated huff leaving its chest as it heaves down in the frosted-over grass. John suddenly becomes aware of his freezing fingers and the fog of his breath billowing before him. Despite this, though, he still doesn't have the energy to move. But the dog has stopped, and so it's time for breakfast.
The dull floorboards creak underneath his feet as he moves from the porch onto the cool tile of the kitchen floor. The house isn't particularly large, but for just one man, the space is unnervingly endless. John floats through it, haunting the halls he once ran through. Halls that now know only the cold chill that creeps down his spine. Guilt simmers low in his gut; the sun used to shine here, once.
He used to be able to imagine his sister's giggles echoing from her room if he stood quietly enough. Now, he hears nothing. Static air floods his lungs and leaves him choking on nothing. He actively avoids that part of the house. Another game he partakes in. (Is it a game if only one man is playing?)
John shuffles towards the cabinets to search for something he at least has a chance of stomaching, and absently runs his fingers over the small dent his eight year old head had carved into the kitchen counter when he had rounded the corner too fast and cracked his skull. He had needed thirteen stitches.
He glances down—out of habit—to the imperfection, and blood drips down from somewhere just above his left eye. His heart seizes, and he reaches for his forehead instantaneously; his fingers come up dry. But another drop falls and then another, and John feels that familiar horror nestle back into his tired, aching bones. He freezes. His heart pounds and his legs become jelly. He hears as the man walks up behind him, shovel in hand, laughing maniacally. John feels the air tense as the man raises his makeshift weapon, and he squeezes his eyes shut, waiting faithfully for the blow. He's never been the religious type, but he thinks his last thought should be of something good, something pure; something he loves. A glistening blue sea floats into his image. Deep and dark. But safe and oh so familiar. John blinks at the water. It blinks back.
Buck.
He hurls back to himself then, suddenly and all at once, back to the kitchen floor he is now crumpled pathetically upon. He inhales shakily and digs his nails into his palms, forcing the unnecessary panic to abide. His breath is still rapid and uneven, and he can feel thick, tacky liquid puddling in his hands—but his pulse slowly begins to even out as he presses his forehead hard against the soothing tile beneath him. The stark coldness of the floor is just enough of a shock against his heated flesh, and he remembers what it is to breathe.
Here.
Not there.
…Here.
From the way he is ungraciously situated on the floor, John can see straight through his open front door, the dog in his direct line of vision. It, too, is curled in on itself upon the ground—its lanky legs and matted tail are tucked protectively under its stomach, its eyes wide and searching, despite laying perfectly still. John watches through some groggy haze as the woman walks out again, and then dashes back inside almost instantly only to come out with her husband moments later. Her arm is laced through his—she points to the canine in their yard. They burst into hysterical laughter, practically falling over themselves. The dog looks at John. John gets up off the floor.
This is how he has been moving through his days—or rather, this is how the days have been moving through him: echoes of strange laughter ringing in his ears and wide-eyed dogs gazing at him like he has something they want; empty walls and sleepless nights and long-expired panic; waking before dawn each morning, yet no sunrise ever greeting him.
He's beginning to doubt the sun's existence at this point—but that thought, like all others, is one that feels a step outside of his mind, as if it weren't entirely his own. The bitter November air bites at his skin, just as it had in late September and all of October, and probably will in December. He feels heavy, every movement and thought demanding all of his strength and then some. Yet all the while, he feels himself being sifted through time, like sand slipping between fingers.
John hangs in limbo, suspended between the living and the dead; the here and the not here; the before and the after. The world around him moves fast and he so slowly that time seems to be almost running backwards. It has become no longer tangible, no longer linear. He finds himself thrown around in it, like a baseball endlessly flying around the field. The ball will pause momentarily, and John has only a second to ground his feet before he is tossed around again, before he is once more shot across to the opposite base. He thinks he’s becoming rather sick of games.
John is suddenly aware that he is sitting back out on the porch, a single slice of buttered toast in one hand, a refilled coffee mug in the other. Both are cold.
When this had started happening to him for the first time in the camp, he had thought he was completely losing it. Now, the integrals of lost time have woven themselves so deeply and intricately into his every waking moment that he just can't find it in himself to care anymore.
What good did caring ever do him anyway?
John peers down at the ticking watch on his wrist: 6:45 am. The paper boy would be biking by in about thirty minutes. John waits. Waits just as he had yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. He seems to be incapable of doing anything but waiting as of late. Yet, waiting for what, he cannot say; another toss around, another howl from the dog, another meager meal.
Buck.
A shrilling bell rings in his ears, and a rolled paper promptly hurdles into the ground at the bottom of the porch steps. He ignores the sudden uptick of his heart and sighs. He hates those goddamn steps; they hurt his back and his bad leg even more. They make him feel old. They make him want to go back to bed and sleep forever. They make him remember.
John pulls himself up anyway—grunting and stiff—and retrieves the newspaper.
Allied Victory! Celebration Across the Nation!
The dog begins barking again.