Watchers

Chapter 5: Daniel and the Lion

Daniel follows the nun down the hallway for his first shower since he arrived at the shelter. It's been three days, in which time he's been feverish, sick, exhausted, and barely aware of the room he was in, let alone the Haven itself.

He's grateful to have felt well enough to eat even a little bit of his meal, to keep down the milk he drank, and now he's looking forward to the feeling of hot water on his body, washing away the struggle of the last few days... which has been a struggle of the last few months, if he's being honest with himself.

The nun shows him to the washroom, then stands outside the door while he showers. He wonders if she's still worried about him, but it's not the heroin that's bothering him now.

He steps into the large, communal shower area with a mix of relief and reluctance. Thankfully, he has the space to himself, otherwise he might not have been able to undress. Slowly, he takes off his pants, and then his boxers, much worse for the wear after so long on the street. Then finally, he takes off his shirt. He throws it on the ground and puts his hands on the cool tile wall in front of him, staring fixedly at the wall so that he doesn't have to look down at his nakedness.

He doesn't want to see himself.

Daniel turns on the shower, wincing as the hot and cold water mix uncomfortably for a minute, and then he starts to wash away the filth of the streets and the sweat of withdrawal. He closes his eyes as his hands find the curve of his hips, and the roundness of his ass where once he was lean. When he feels the swelling of his chest and his fingers brush over the scars there, tears begin to form in his throat and they join the shower water.

He'd been so proud of those long, horizontal scars the day he first saw them. Now his body is betraying him, reverting to its old state faster than he thought it would. He's been ignoring it, but without the mood-altering effects of heroin - and prescription painkillers before it - he doesn't have a handy way to push the facts aside anymore.

It's been just over two months since his last shot of testosterone, and he thought he had more time.

After his shower, Daniel wraps his towel around his chest instead of his waist. Even without the pubescent mounds that are growing on his chest, it would feel indecent to show that much of his body to a woman of God, but they also increase his dysphoria.

He has never gone this long between shots ever since he transitioned - his whole life has become about needles of one type or another since he was sixteen years old - and he finds as he steps out of the washroom that he's terrified to find out what happens next. Almost enough to go home, to beg his father for forgiveness, to say and do whatever it takes to get back on testosterone.

He needs it even more than he needs the opiates.

The nun gives Daniel a fresh pair of clothes - a pair of jeans and an old, old Pink Floyd t-shirt. He's grateful for its bagginess, and for the sweatshirt she gives him to layer on top of it. Then she guides him back to his room, a small bedroom in the corridor right outside the vestibule. The room is vaguely familiar - he's been getting the drugs out of his system here for the last three days - but the time has been a blur. He doesn't even remember how he came to be at the Haven of Salvation, but that seems immaterial now.

The nun leaves Daniel alone in the room and for the first time, he has his wits about him enough to see how small and shabby it is.

He guesses based on the number of people in the great room at dinnertime that not everyone at the shelter is so lucky as to have a room of their own. This must be a sick room, where addicts and the elderly come to either die or get better.

Daniel isn't dying, and he doesn't want to spend another second in this room.

He still feels the phantom shivers and occasional wave of nausea as the heroin works its way out of his body. He has heard of junkies who say they feel it for weeks after their last dose, but the worst is over and Daniel doesn't want to spend another second in this room.

He puts his hand on the doorknob and for a split second, fear rips through him as he wonders if he's locked in this tiny room. He remembers the nun standing outside of the shower, as if she was keeping guard, and his heart begins to race. The door handle turns easily though, and paranoia is another symptom of withdrawal.

Daniel goes quietly down the hall and sees no one until he finds the large hall where he'd eaten dinner. He doesn't go there by memory - he had been feverish and weak with malnourishment when the nun led him there earlier. But the building is not so large, and he finds it in short order. The tables and chairs have mostly been folded up and stacked against one wall, and a few cots have begun to come out.

There are a lot of people in the room, talking or sleeping or just staring at nothing in particular. Daniel knows that look all too well. He goes into the room and looks around, noticing a few small cameras on the ceiling. They aren't the bulky surveillance types that are mounted on every street corner in the city - they're not Watcher cameras - but Daniel is familiar with them. They're the type of button cameras that are all over his father's house.

He's used to being watched, for his own safety or otherwise, and he looks up and smiles for whoever his audience is, then does his best to disappear into the crowd.