The Basilisk's Mouth

09: UNDEFINED

 The night is too warm, and there are tears on Johann's face. He holds a wet fingertip to the light. The water on his skin has grown pink from mixing with blood, and he has trouble imagining it coming from his own body. I can't remember the last time he cried. Judging by his disgust, neither can he.

 He has been thrown from the restaurant like an unpinned grenade, and left to listen to the shouting filtering through from inside. He absently wonders what is going to happen to Riley, but he can't bring himself to care. He's holding a bloody tissue to his nose, and his knees are still too weak to let him stand unsupported by the wall. He doesn't want to know what will happen to her if the police come. Let it fucking happen, he thinks. He doesn't have the energy to pretend it matters to him.

 A stocky man with a long ponytail, whom Johann presumes is the owner of the restaurant, has his broad back turned away from him. He holds a phone to his ear, waiting for the voice on the other end to answer. It has rung out with no reply twice now. Johann only told him to try again, both times. She's always been mistrustful of phone calls.

 The tinny blare of the ringtone is suddenly truncated. Johann's heart unclenches as he hears a  sharp voice answer on the other end. The man's head bobs to attention, the dark ponytail bouncing on his back, and Johann's gut roils when he starts to speak in the wrong language.

 "Es tut mir leid, Sie Ma'am zu stören. Sein Name ist Johann," the man turns his head, nods at Johann uncertainly, "Fuchs, Johann Fuchs. Er hat mir gesagt, ich soll dich anrufen." Silence, then, "Er war in einem Kampf."

 "She speaks English," Johann barks. Please stop, he wants to say. A couple pass them on the street, glancing sideways at the harsh power of his accent. Please fucking stop.

 The man shrugs, runs an appraising glance over him. "Yes, a fight. He's not too injured, I assure you. I think you had best come for him. He's..." a wedge of shoulder turns in Johann's direction again, and he can barely hear the word "...unstable."

 Unstable. The word passes over his head as distant as a bird, a cloud skidding over the sun. It might as well be anything else; he doesn't know what he is anymore. A dangerous type of recklessness seizes him, and he is filled with a desire to break something, maybe strangle someone. Only his body feels leaden, like he's not slept in days, and he can't lift himself from this wall. He doesn't move even as the restaurant owner hangs up the phone and slowly starts to edge towards the door of his establishment, occasionally opening the door to look inside and releasing a wash of fragranced air. Johann wants to shout at him to go away, and a few other choice words besides, but he only stares at the man with a look so full of hatred and exhaustion even I quail under the energy he's putting into it.

 I hate seeing him like this. There's shoots rising from the soil in every direction, but they're already dead when they touch the air. Besides, I don't have time to spare for them. I'm knee deep in water, trying to lay down enough wood to erect a dam against the sporadic floods of German that burst from their banks like blood from a wound. I've never seen the river overflow so spectacularly. It's enough to make me quiver with uneasiness, and I wonder if he can feel it, too. The languages mix together in his mind until his thoughts are no more than a muddy soup of both.

 After a few minutes of agonising silence, during which the restaurant owner wonders about the best way to leave this volatile boy on his own and get back to work, the door crashes open against the wall and a furious blur rampages past them. Riley's hair still hangs halfway down her head, her clothes still dishevelled. Dried blood has collected at the sides of her mouth and nose, and she holds a hand to her side. Did he hit her there? Johann stares at his knuckles as if in disbelief that they could do something entirely of their own will. He didn't mean to hit her. He doesn't remember it, but then he can't remember much at all. Guilt is stuck at the back of his skull, trying to push through the fog of anger and confusion. As usual, it doesn't make it through.