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We will get you some food, okay? Do you think you can eat today?
I d’know. Maybe.
He spoke! We’ll get you some food, Bob. Any requests?
…Okay, well. Worth the try.
—he’s pacing back and forth and his fingers twitch as he twists them around and the others are gentle with him. They’re too gentle with him, actually, and he knows it. He’s useless, dangerous, half the reason they stick together, and they’re gentle with him because—
he needs it
—they’re scared of him.
There’s reason to be scared of you. Look at what you did.
He started remembering at some point. More of it. Most of it. Recently. But “recently” is hard to pinpoint at the moment, because he’s been stuck in this limbo since he woke up with the Void dripping from his hands like paint and an ink-soaked recollection of his own empty self floating above Manhattan, banishing strangers to their own minds.
That was when the enormity of it all hit him, cracking his mind like an egg. This is your brain on drugs and a genetic predisposition to psychosis.
He’d known a little about what happened, but only so much. Bits and pieces on the news. Shards of shadows cutting his mind. Memories that weren’t his own scraping at his skull. The faint, fuzzy whisper of a honey-sweet voice saying people pity you saying you can be more saying you’re perfect…
You’re worthless. You’re all alone, and it isn’t that people pity you. People hate you. People see you and—
everything itches, there’s dirt on him and under his skin and he doesn’t know what’s real and fuck there’s so much shit under his skin, he can’t stop scratching, he should stop but he can’t he can’t, he’s bleeding and he mutters to himself, words not even he understands but it doesn’t matter because no one else is talking to him, no one else ever talks to him
—cross the street.
The others do pity him, though. He knows that. He can tell. They don’t talk to him like they talk to each other. They treat him like a child, maybe, trying to protect him, but he doesn’t really know if that’s accurate, and not because he kind of often doesn’t know if things are accurate, especially lately. (The past few days? Or maybe weeks or months or— no, probably not months. Probably not years.) It’s more like— how would he know? He wasn’t treated like this when he was a child.
Thirteen years old with morphine in his mouth. Fourteen years old smoking meth. Fifteen and learning how to handle a needle—
I don’t know, man, he’s just a kid, what if he dies or something?
Nah, nah, you don’t know him, he’ll be fine, trust.
Yo, kid, why are you laughing?
‘cause it’s too late for grown-ups to worry about me
—that’s not a child, that’s a fuck-up. A creature who gets black eyes instead of hugs, shoves instead of gentle touches, people don’t touch him like—
arms around his shoulders, holding on tight, someone’s head tucked against his neck, he is smelling someone else’s sweat he is being rocked back and forth
—there are hands on his shoulders, gentle but firm, and a voice says, “C’mon, Bobby, let’s go sit down.”
It’s a man’s voice—
this weirdo
—but Bob doesn’t mind it—
you know he knocked your dad out in the Void
woah, really?
—wait, wait, is he trusting too hard? Is he trusting a stranger is this a stranger no one ever calls him Bobby sometimes sometimes sometimes John calls him Bobby should he mind he doesn’t mind his dad called him Robert or Bobby never Bob he doesn’t think…
John?
“Yeah, man, it’s John.”
Oh um I don’t um I don’t I know I don’t know I don’t know what to do don’t know what to do I’m trying I’m trying to figure out what to do
“That’s okay, Bob. Let’s go sit down. We’ll get you some water and the others will be back with food soon.”
I don’t have any money…
“I don’t need your money.”
Then what do you want?
“For you to sit down for five goddamn seconds.”
Sorry sorry I didn’t mean to, sorry, sorry
Deep breath from the man in front of him. “I’m not mad at you.” Liar! “I’m not!” Another deep breath. “I’m not. Okay? But I’ll be even less not mad if you come with me.”
Oh okay okay I can do that I…
Don’t you feel bad? You’re still nothing but a burden, you—
brought us all together, Bob, you’re the reason we’re even here
—mess everything up.
don’t know what I’m doing what was I doing what am I
“Bob, Bobby, look at me, look at me. It’s John. It’s John Walker. It’s me, John.”
Oh, he knows John. That’s a relief. There’s John in front of him and the shadows behind him seem less threatening now.
Hi John! I don’t know what’s happening
“You’re in the Watchtower. You live here. You know that.”
oh okay right yeah okay that seems, is that good
“Yeah, it’s good. Come to the living room. Your friends are coming home soon.”
are you my friend
“Yeah, I’m your friend.”
did I call you an asshole are you an asshole
John’s laughter is tinged with relief. No one hits Bob. “Sometimes. So I’m told. But we’re friends now.”
I don’t have those…
“You do now. We both do.” Hands on his elbows. Walking backwards. Bob’s not the one walking backwards. Bob is putting one foot in front of the other. This is stupid. He’s still walking. Following.
He sits down and now John is crouching in front of him and Bob is about to look at him for real when a siren screeches, slicing through the atmosphere, and Bob jerks spasmodically, clapping his hands over his ears.
woah did you hear that too is that a siren oh shit is it inside
“No, Bobby, I didn’t hear anything. Don’t worry.”
Bob hesitates, eyes darting around the room. The living room. This is the living room of the place where he lives and other people live here too and lately he’s been hearing things that they don’t hear.
Oh…maybe I was imagining things I do that sometimes sometimes I do that…
“I know.”
Then you know he’s a total psycho. Typical junkie. Scrambled his brain and now it’s too late for him. Just like his mother.
I’m sorry…
“Don’t be sorry. The others will be back soon.”
The others…
“Yeah, they went to get food. You’ve been in your room the past few days, but then I heard you pacing in the hallway. You were talking to yourself again.”
Wow really I must be having a good day
Another deep breath from John. Bob takes one too, in solidarity. It feels good in his chest. He isn’t sure if he’s afraid. He isn’t sure he feels anything except…
“That’s good, that the others will be back soon,” he murmurs, rocking back and forth slowly, staring at the hands on his knees. John Walker. His friend.
You think this is friendship? You’re here because they pity you, because they’re afraid of you, because you have nowhere else to go.
You brought us all together, Bob. You’re the reason we’re here.
Yelena said that. She’s his friend, and is it really so bad to be pitied when part of the pity is that maybe they understand? When they want his life to be better because they think it’s unfair that it’s sucked so bad, even if it’s his fault? Does it matter that he had nowhere to go if that’s past tense? Because now he has this place and these people. And they have reason to be afraid of him, but he also has reason to be afraid of himself, and even if they are afraid of him, they’re not so afraid that they won’t touch him, and their presence means he can be less afraid of himself.
“Yeah, Bobby,” John says. “It’s really good. Everyone’ll be happy to see you out of bed.”
Bob smiles, because at least he’s not alone on good days or bad ones or the ones that don’t make sense at all, and the nicest part is that he’s pretty sure that if he forgets that things are good or at least better, someone will remind him.