nightsinger (currently updating)

07 - hunt

AS THE HOURS transform into days and the days shift into nights, Jameson reads. He goes through most of the books on Iris's bookshelf. He reads about science fiction and terrible stories about vampires and historical plots about world wars, which end up being so inaccurate that he has to put it down. When he wakes up after his third hour of sleep and switches the light on, he selects a book and flips through the pages until Iris eventually wanders downstairs with sleep smudged in her waterline and drowsiness creased into her cheek.

In his weeks being trapped inside of a human body, Jameson observes many things, like how Iris's expressions change and what those differences might mean. He learns how to wash fruit and how to use the microwave and how to fold clothes the right way. Sometimes instead of reading, he'll take a walk along the shore, thinking about Mara Nolsen and the tsunamis he sent in her name after she died. He's glad that they didn't damage this house, the one he's sleeping in, something he might be becoming fond of. He even thinks about Iris, until he decides to stop.

She's everywhere. She's in the humming he hears as she flits around the house, closing cabinets and washing dishes and telling him to dry his hair after the shower so he doesn't warp the floors. She's in the floral breeze he scents when the sun rises, the rhythm of the dancing grass outside the dock. She's in photos set up on the table and posted on the wall, the pair of strapped shoes set down next to his own at the front door.

A few days have passed since he and Iris went swimming right outside of the house, and he's accompanied her once to work in order to help save an injured dolphin. Although Jameson still feels the empty pang inside of his chest from being away from his pod, a part of him enjoys this mundane life, too. It's different. He imagines what his life would look like in a different universe if he wasn't born from the sea.

Coffee in the morning, rushing to get to work, running into the beach, rolling out of bed, blueberry jam on fingers, sweeping up crumbs from dinner, starting the car in the driveway.

The nights blend into days, and the days blend into another week.

But this night is different. Jameson wakes up on the couch with a coldness deep inside of his bones. His fingers ache like they're infected with frostbite, and his head pounds as if he's drunk, lips dry and cracking when he moves to sit up. As the moon still shines in the sky, Jameson squints at the windows in the living room and rasps to test his voice.

His throat is scrubbed raw with sea salt. His body feels weak and almost like it could fade away if the wind blew too hard, like it could shrivel up if he let himself. Spells of dizziness wash over him in great waves, and Jameson inhales sharply, fingers gripping the side of the couch as he doubles over and folds his body in half. He feels like how he did when he and Iris were apart were too long and the bond tried to signal it through sickness.

But Iris, Iris, Iris—

Iris is upstairs. She's closeby. So why, why is Jameson feeling like this—

Again, he doubles over, a pained sound escaping his mouth. It sounds constricted. His breathing is harsh and wet as it drifts up to his ears. Jameson slides back down to the carpet and lays down, palms pressed against the floor as he waits for the nausea to leave. It doesn't. His heartbeat, a newly developed thing, thuds wildly until it almost consumes him, something akin to panic firing in his bones.

It feels like all of his nerves are lit on fire and he's burning. Jameson shoots a hand out and pushes himself off of the ground, seeking water, something that will cool him off, anything that will just take away the pain—

When he stumbles over to the kitchen table, he accidentally knocks over a stray mug and stares at the shattered pieces while he takes a step, where he then hisses as a sharp edge embeds itself into his heel and blood blooms at the surface. Jameson grips a chair, but he does it at the wrong angle. The lights remain off as that, too, goes tottering and slams against the wall.