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“God, fuck–” I hiss. I instinctually pull my arm back against my chest, taking a sharp breath. I grit my teeth. The same pain as always shoots down my arm, bouncing from nerve to nerve from my elbow to my palm. I rub my wrist with my other hand. It doesn’t help. It never does.
I close my eyes and take another breath, trying to calm myself. This pain in particular is sharp and intense, but blessedly short. It begins to fade and I stretch my arms above my head. Deep breath in. Hold. Long breath out. I quickly reset the foundry, putting it back to work on another project. If I keep busy, I can almost stay distracted enough that I don’t have to think about the pain. It’s been about fifteen minutes since I rolled out of bed now, unable to properly make it back to sleep.
I look up at the windows of the backroom. There’s some gentle moonlight coming in, illuminating the snowfall, and I figure it must still be late. The pain woke me up in the first place, and I didn’t bother to check the clock. I turn around to head back upstairs–
It’s sudden, like a pair of steel rods shot through my hips. The pain is sharp again and I stumble, nearly falling to a knee. I catch the arm of a recliner near the table and fall into it rather than onto the floor. A book clatters off of the table and onto the concrete, landing with a hefty thump. Thankfully for me, the glass that fell on its side was empty. I lean my head back and groan. If Eleanor wasn’t awake already, she’s bound to be after that mess.
Come on, love. We both know I woke up as soon as you left the bed.
And there she was.
“Sorry,” I call to her from under the balcony. It used to just be her lounging area before she finally decided to properly move to the backroom with me. We have a nice big bed set up there now.
Pray tell, what exactly do you have to be sorry for?
My eyes dart to the floor. “For waking you up?” I already know what's going to come next.
I didn't realize you'd done so maliciously! In that case, I'll be expecting a long written apology detailing exactly what you did wrong, and how you–
“Okay, no, no, you're right. It wasn't on purpose and I don't need to apologize.” I chew on the inside of my lip. “Bad habits.”
I know, darling. Would you like me to come down there?
I take another deep breath. This time I'm trying to hold back the tears that have been threatening to escape over the last few minutes. I don't know why I'm even bothering. It isn't like Eleanor doesn't already know exactly what I'm feeling right now. She wouldn't even need to be psychic to figure it out. “No,” I say quietly. A moment passes. “Ugh. Maybe. But be careful, please.”
I pull my knees up against my chest. I don't even realize the tears are falling until they're already halfway down my cheek. I don't want her to see me like this, no matter how many times she has before. The Drifter is someone who comes to help. Someone who is there to save the world. I'm not supposed to need saving. I've had my share of assistance from all kinds of people through my journeys, all of which I'm eternally grateful for. But at the end of the day, I am the one expected to finish the job.
When people interact with me, they often just see the frame. Which makes sense, right? There's a lot of time spent in those bodies, and it's not like my body is anywhere to be seen nearby outside of very specific circumstances. And frankly, most of the time, I don't like seeing my body either. It's hard to deal with seeing the form that's constantly failing me in ways I can't help or fix.
I don't generally tell people about what I'm dealing with. I will if someone asks, of course, but I do my best to keep people from having a reason to ask. There are only so many times I can handle being told that I'm brave or strong for it. It wasn't a choice I made, and there's no way to fix it. I either live with what I have or I don't.
Come on then. Eleanor reaches down and grabs one of my hands still wrapped around my legs. You're coming over to the couch with me. Can you make it?
I wipe the tears from my eyes and start to unfold myself. It's a slow process, but eventually I get my feet under me and she guides me to the couch. Eleanor gestures to the corner where I usually sit. I ease myself in and she sits next to me, draping the blanket she had under her other arm over the both of us. When she finally rests a hand on my shoulder, she's gentle. I still jump a little bit; my skin is hypersensitive, and even the lightest touch can be too much. She starts to pull her hand back. “No, no, it's okay,” I whisper, voice hoarse. “Please. Just…”
Hurts. I know. She gives me a reassuring smile and puts her hand back. Whatever you need. What's on your mind?
I take a deep breath again, this time to prepare myself to start talking without having a sobbing breakdown.
In. Hold it. Count to five. Out.
“I just…” Another breath. “I am so sick of living in this body, constantly feeling betrayed. I know I just got cosmically unlucky. Lots of people are, one way or another, but I can't stop thinking about how there are people who just… aren't. It makes me feel crazy. Like I'm the butt of a joke that I never get to laugh at.”
She runs her hand down my arm and back up to my shoulder, over and over. You have survived much more than anyone should be asked to. But you're not a punchline. You're a good person.
“I know. I think, anyway. And thank you.”
Mhmm. And I do understand. Not perfectly, but the sentiment at least.
“Yeah. You would.” I put my hand on her knee.
That said... Why don't we get you a few days off? I open my mouth. Ah! No. You need to listen first. I close it again. When was the last time you took a break that wasn't directly caused by a night like this?
While she's asking, she's already put her finger to my lips. You don't need to bother answering. I already know. It was April.
I lean my head back away from her hand. “I don’t need to. Not yet,” I say. I pretend like it wasn’t as petulant as I know it was. “Can I just think about it?”
Eleanor puts her hand in my hair and tilts my head back down so I can look at her again. You can. But you’re going to listen to me before you make any decisions.
I blink a few more tears away. It’s not even the pain fueling those. It’s the fear. The shame. “I suppose I owe you that much.” I force a half-smile and it does make me feel a bit better. I pull the blanket tight against me and Eleanor shifts, getting a bit closer. I nod when she gives me an “is this okay?” look.
I know you, Renee. Whenever you show up anywhere, the first thing you do is figure out what you can give. Who you can help. It’s one of the things that I love the most about you. It’s also something that often leaves you exhausted. I think sometimes you forget that resting is not a punishment.
One of my favorite things about Eleanor is how she speaks. You can hear her without a sound. It helps on nights like this especially, when I hurt so much that it’s difficult to process anything else. Right now, it means that her gentle voice in my head hits me like a truck. I finally sob and it feels like I’m letting go of a weight I forgot I was carrying. She leans her head on my shoulder while I cry. It’s okay. Let your friends– let me– give to you in the same way you give to us.
I nod. We cuddle there together for another fifteen minutes before I yawn hard enough that it hurts my jaw.
That’s our cue.
“You’re right. You always are, aren’t you?”
Don’t you forget it, kitten.