The Returnee

Chapter 4

Sunlight invaded from the open blinds, the noise from the street below equally oppressive and crowding as Lee panted. A cold sweat covered him, running down his back and plastering his hair to his head in a greasy mess. His breathing soothed from fire to a more tolerate chill gradually as he focused on calming his racing heart. His knuckles moved in time to a silent countdown. His breathing fell into the pattern as control returned.

A chill clung to his bones. His shirt crinkled with every harsh movement, ruined from a night of sleeping in it. Grant's scolding voice returned. The suit wasn't cheap; it would need a dry cleaner to return to an acceptable state. He didn't have time to go to a dry cleaner. Or he did. It wasn't the thing he wanted to do on his day off.

Standing, it took another moment to step forward. His reflection banged against the generic mirror, screaming and threatening to crack the glass. The internal shriek scratched down his ears like claws down a chalkboard. He looked away, shame filling him.

He didn't look healthy. He looked ready to collapse again. Right now, it was tempting. Just crumble to the floor and shiver on the cardboard carpet under housekeeping came to disturb his nest of despair. His shoulder ached. Laying like that wouldn't be a good idea. Wasn't healthy or sanity. Someone who had slept a full eight hours shouldn't look like this. Grey not green, drenched in sweat and distressing, heavy bags under his eyes; this was the appearance of a man who'd pulled an all-nighter. His toes curled in his socks, equally stiff from how long he'd worn them now.

Whispers wriggled into his cracks and scars, taunting, insulting until one gave an order that forced him forward. 'Shower.'

No one could see him like this. The family would go to decon one if they caught one of theirs in such a state. A summons to the farm would be guaranteed and enforced by the first enforcers to gather them up. Lee couldn't risk that.

The bathroom was a white expanse. Cold tiles pierced through his thin socks, and it took him a few moments to figure out which taps could cover him in heat. He shed the clothes, leaving them crumbled in a heap on the floor. The warm water sunk into his bones and returned feeling to his chest and fingertips. Soap washed the nightmare away, the sterile lack of smell of the hotel soap miles better than the bitter tint of horror. Shampoo and conditioner to fix his hair and vanish the sticky feeling of grease from his skin.

A moment to breath passed; he let the water flow over him, and the sickness fell off him in clunks, flowing down the drain with the water. The visualisation exercise was familiar and easy to do. His shoulder remained sore, his chest aching, but his shoulders lightened as the weight fell to the plastic tub below his feet. Better to do it in cold water, but that was out of reach at the moment.

When the cracks felt solid enough to move again, Lee stepped out of the water and pulled a towel around his hips. The suit couldn't be fixed, but leaving it like this would make it far worse. The socks would make fantastic ammunition to keep rodents away. The boxers and socks went in a plastic bag. He hung up the shirt to try to steam out the worse creases and folded the trousers up. Every act reclaimed his sense of self, and by the time he'd brushed his teeth and sorted his air, the reflection no longer resembled a horror game monster and more a respectable member of society.

Fresh, clean clothes on, his phone rang. He scrambled to answer it, dimly remembering it ringing in the night.

Andrew.

"I was serious about you sending me a picture of your breakfast, Rayson! At this point, I'll take a verbal confirmation that you did, in fact, eat and a picture of the bill," Andrew demanded. The iron in his voice would not bend for any flimsy excuse. The family would welcome the man into the caretaker's sect with open arms should he ever be taken.