lay upon him like a stink. He felt the instinctive pity and fear of the people and he hated them for it.
As it grew late he knew that the two of them would be brushing out their hair and lying down together in the huge wooden bed that dominated their shared room. When he crept home after midnight he would sometimes stand at the bedroom door to watch them sleep. He made sure to note the rise and fall of their chests, like a pensive father would. Someday he knew he would have children, and he tried to make himself feel protective, benevolent. But he never could.
In his room he lay awake, fearing unknowable sleep. As exhaustion grew upon him he began to see things in the corners of his eyes. Often they appeared as tiny insects, running across the cover of his bed. Or sometimes he would see bigger things, like mice or rats, scutter by just out of sight. Each phantom would disappear as he turned his head to look at it directly. These hallucinations surprised, but did not scare Charles. He was aware of that they were unreal and it concerned him hardly at all. But as his head became heavy and he sank towards sleep one thought spun around his mind in an ellipse: if the world seemed unreal, then hallucinations were as real as everything else.
And then he dreamed of giant, meaty rats, and smelt that singular tang of foul, corrupted mud. Something gargantuan loomed overhead but he could not run. Cloying, sticking clay sucked at his legs and a warm, familiar feeling of death crept up his body. It was comforting, restful peace and he felt himself slide inexorably, gratefully towards it. He inhaled, ready for the death-blanket of mud to draw itself above his head
Kit's boots boomed out on the stair. Charles awoke to the rude and garish day. He tried to grasp at the dream, but it was gone. Now there was only frigid sunlight and clamorous women.
In the pocked and pitted glass he looked at his pale, naked body. The sparse room behind him, with its unvarnished floors and neutral bed sheets looked like a painting he had seem once, though somehow he could not remember which one. His rough fingers, with their ragged, bitten nails traced the patterns of white scar tissue, shrapnel-kissed.
As it grew late he knew that the two of them would be brushing out their hair and lying down together in the huge wooden bed that dominated their shared room. When he crept home after midnight he would sometimes stand at the bedroom door to watch them sleep. He made sure to note the rise and fall of their chests, like a pensive father would. Someday he knew he would have children, and he tried to make himself feel protective, benevolent. But he never could.
In his room he lay awake, fearing unknowable sleep. As exhaustion grew upon him he began to see things in the corners of his eyes. Often they appeared as tiny insects, running across the cover of his bed. Or sometimes he would see bigger things, like mice or rats, scutter by just out of sight. Each phantom would disappear as he turned his head to look at it directly. These hallucinations surprised, but did not scare Charles. He was aware of that they were unreal and it concerned him hardly at all. But as his head became heavy and he sank towards sleep one thought spun around his mind in an ellipse: if the world seemed unreal, then hallucinations were as real as everything else.
And then he dreamed of giant, meaty rats, and smelt that singular tang of foul, corrupted mud. Something gargantuan loomed overhead but he could not run. Cloying, sticking clay sucked at his legs and a warm, familiar feeling of death crept up his body. It was comforting, restful peace and he felt himself slide inexorably, gratefully towards it. He inhaled, ready for the death-blanket of mud to draw itself above his head
Kit's boots boomed out on the stair. Charles awoke to the rude and garish day. He tried to grasp at the dream, but it was gone. Now there was only frigid sunlight and clamorous women.
In the pocked and pitted glass he looked at his pale, naked body. The sparse room behind him, with its unvarnished floors and neutral bed sheets looked like a painting he had seem once, though somehow he could not remember which one. His rough fingers, with their ragged, bitten nails traced the patterns of white scar tissue, shrapnel-kissed.
