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SLEEP IS AND HAS ALWAYS BEEN A FICKLE THING. Lulling one into a profound and peaceful slumber or into the most fitful states of unrest – all things certain, it was unavoidable, and lead to a state of complete and utter vulnerability.
Thomas was, once upon a time ago, a heavy sleeper of a man. His aunt Polly often remarked that he could sleep through the end of the worlds and still wouldn't wake. Unfortunately, due to the atrocities of the war, the soldier would never be lulled into a profound nor peaceful slumber ever again. Thomas was doomed to fall prey to an eternity of agitated and fitful sleep. Unbeknownst to him, much more is to come. Events that will haunt him until the end of his days. A man forever without peace.
Though at that moment, in the present, the man gradually roused from his slumber to the sound of people talking – more precisely the sound of someone getting an earful in a foreign language. He was no stranger to reprimands– for he once was well acquainted with it as a child. From his parents (when they were still present in his life), his aunt, his uncles and his teachers, he was often at its receiving end. Thomas sensed the familiar patronizing tone float in the atmosphere of the infirmary as soon as he woke. He was well aware of its presence originating between the two individuals 'conversing' at his bedside.
The man peaked an eye open and immediately noticed Yelena engaged in a heated conversation with a nun. More specifically, the nun was scolding the nurse who nodded obediently at the harsh-sounding French words thrown in her direction, occasionally interjecting softly in the foreign language. Thomas's brows furrowed, unable to pull his eyes away from the scene – more specifically he couldn't tear them away from the dark-haired nurse.
The scene was comparable to one of a most pious believer casting his newly blessed eyes on an angel of the lord. He was a junkie and she was the heroine he craved; Thomas was hooked on the vision of her, from the tip of her white shoes, to her smooth olive-toned legs, to the white uniform she wore - her hands clasped harmlessly behind her back – to the calm and collected expression that graced her innocent features. Her soft waves were pulled into a neat braid. Her dark eyes batted innocently as she agreed to whatever the old lady was saying. If the man didn't know any better, he would have thought her submitting to the older woman's authority, but looking past the scene at the bigger picture, he understood that he knew better. Thomas knew a bit of French – only the essentials – but couldn't keep up with their fast-paced conversation.
"Oui, mère supérieure," Yelena said softly. Her eyelashes kissed, then separated to show her drifting eyes that met Thomas's inquisitive eyes. She subtly raised a brow, expecting the man to still be asleep. Without letting her amusement show, she sent him a quick wink. [Yes, mother superior.]
