Jack lingered, just a moment. A space with no words or anything, as though he was waiting, but not for anything he could specify. And then he went. Turned and made for the stairs, up and away.
He was alone then. Alone but not really, and he went to his bedroom and quietly shut the door. When in there, he breathed in a way he had seemed to have been holding back. Not sure why, and not sure how, but it came with a flood of emotion and then it made sense.
The emotion was there, brimming on the top, and he held it back then. Held it back as he dropped the sheet to the floor and quietly walked into the bathroom. He stood, staring into the mirror, looking at himself now and trying to see through the lies his body outwardly told to see the damage of the last 14 months. It wasn't there of course, but he could still feel it. He could feel it all, inside and out, and though a death might make it look renewed, it wasn't.
He took himself into the shower, under water that was a little too hot. It burned his skin but that didn't matter, it felt good. It was cleansing in more ways than one. While in there he leant himself against the wall, closed his eyes, and finally allowed that emotion forth.
He cried. He cried then, and cried for some time, the tears mingling with the water of the shower. It all hurt, but it had to come out, and this would maybe be a start.
It was half an hour or more before he thought to emerge, coming out and wrapping a towel about his waist. He wondered then if it were a good idea at all that he'd brought one of France's historic women to a little house in Wales while he was anything but himself. But then he found he still struggled to mind.
His room had clothes, and not just the same he always wore, but for now he dressed in a simple deep blue towelling robe. He took one more look at himself in the mirror, and he headed back downstairs.
no subject
He was alone then. Alone but not really, and he went to his bedroom and quietly shut the door. When in there, he breathed in a way he had seemed to have been holding back. Not sure why, and not sure how, but it came with a flood of emotion and then it made sense.
The emotion was there, brimming on the top, and he held it back then. Held it back as he dropped the sheet to the floor and quietly walked into the bathroom. He stood, staring into the mirror, looking at himself now and trying to see through the lies his body outwardly told to see the damage of the last 14 months. It wasn't there of course, but he could still feel it. He could feel it all, inside and out, and though a death might make it look renewed, it wasn't.
He took himself into the shower, under water that was a little too hot. It burned his skin but that didn't matter, it felt good. It was cleansing in more ways than one. While in there he leant himself against the wall, closed his eyes, and finally allowed that emotion forth.
He cried. He cried then, and cried for some time, the tears mingling with the water of the shower. It all hurt, but it had to come out, and this would maybe be a start.
It was half an hour or more before he thought to emerge, coming out and wrapping a towel about his waist. He wondered then if it were a good idea at all that he'd brought one of France's historic women to a little house in Wales while he was anything but himself. But then he found he still struggled to mind.
His room had clothes, and not just the same he always wore, but for now he dressed in a simple deep blue towelling robe. He took one more look at himself in the mirror, and he headed back downstairs.