Music in its Roar

Music in its Roar: A Short Story

He wasn't entirely certain of the day. Morning, perhaps. But, no. The light was all wrong. Despite the mist that clung to everything, mingling with the fog that hovered several feet above the ground, there was a quality to it; a glow that spoke of a sun completing its journey towards the horizon, of stars springing back to light in an unseen sky.

He could've moved if he'd wanted, away from the questionable puddle by his right hand. The stench would still be there, but at least he would find a safe remove from its source. Instead, he flexed the fingers of that same hand, one at a time, wincing as he reached the third finger, the one he suspected was broken. The pain was fresh and raw, still throbbing as he took to turning his wrist once, and then again. Another thing broken. He recognized that feeling, along with the ache in his ribs, the grinding of fractured bone every time he drew in another breath of the foul, cloying air.

There were windows, though less resembling their namesake than existing as mere apertures in a crumbling wall. Even the door was gone, ripped free of its hinges some time before, enough years passed since its removal that ivy grew thick around the frame, as if it would reclaim the building along with himself, should he lie there much longer. And if he could roll onto his side, or at least turn his head, he knew that she would be there, too.

"Callum."

That her voice could trip from her lips with such coolness, while his every breath was like dragging his lungs over broken glass. He shut his eyes and waited for her to speak again. Because she would. Of course she would. If there was anything she adored, it was the sound of her own voice, and there he sat, bruised and shattered, her captive audience.

A minute passed, or several minutes. He opened his eyes again, wondering if he'd dozed, when a scraping noise caught his attention.

"You should listen to me," she said, above the rhythmic strike and scrape. "Your head will hurt for some time, I'm sure. I can't help that. If you hadn't fought so much, perhaps you'd have come through this mostly unscathed."

The rain had stopped. He remembered the deluge from the previous night, heavy enough to turn the ground into a bog while streams leapt past their bounds and ate up the loosened soil. It was part of the smell, he realized; his own clothes, drenched the night before, now mouldering on his frame. There would be moss and mildew soon, he suspected, where the blood hadn't adhered the garments to his skin.

The scraping ceased, followed by the clink of breakable things and a brief rush of liquid poured. "This will be hot," she announced, her only warning before she crouched over him, one hand gripping the lower half of his face as she turned his head up towards her. "Swallow it quick. Don't let it sit on your tongue long enough to taste it."

She tipped the cup to his lips, her fingers digging into the flesh of his cheeks in order to force his mouth open. The smell of it reached his nostrils too soon, and then it flowed into his mouth, coating his teeth, his tongue, pouring down his throat before he could stop it. He wrenched his head away, the liquid spilling down his neck, burning his skin as he spat out what was left of it onto the floor beside him.

"Fool." She struck the side of his face, her nails clawing his skin. The same fingers snagged a hank of his hair and twisted his head around until he had no choice but to acknowledge her. "This will help you." Her voice carried a cajoling note, a softness, despite the fresh pain that throbbed through his cheek and where she still pulled at his scalp. "All I want is to help you. Understand that, and things will be so much easier for you."

She released his hair, her fingers stroking the line of his jaw, the side of his throat where the skin was still wet from the wasted liquid. "Now, drink."

Another touch of the cup to his lips, and he swallowed enough to satisfy her. Her hand remained at the base of his throat, her fingers resting against his collarbone. He shut his eyes and turned his head away, too tired, too hurt to fight.