Forever Changed (Completed first draft for NaNoWriMo 2017)

Days seven and eight - chapter five

It's a frosty but sunny day. I sit outside on the bench feeling slightly disorientated by my vivid dreams. I shudder slightly. It seemed so real, especially as it was so mundane.

My hands are aching and my palms feel like they've been peeled. I prod the tenderness with my finger. I try to stifle the groan.

"Catch." I reach for the incoming apple and it bounces from my numb hands; the old man chuckles.

"Why did you do that?" I snap.

Turning, surprised I've spoken, he shrugs. "Thought you might fancy another apple before they turn."

I step forward now. "Not throw the apple, why did you make me struggle with the bale. I've never carried one before; you could have given me a few tips."

His eyes seem darker now. "And make your 'life' such as is, easier? Why should I? No one showed me how to do it; I just had to learn the HARD way." He smirks now and it changes his face. This seems out of character.

Turning away I whisper, "arsehole" under my breath. I'm feeling unsure of myself as he pushes me hard in the chest and I stagger slightly in shock.

"You're just the same as the others; all you see is an old man. You know nothing about me, nothing. Think I was born this age, huh? I was special forces out in the desert facing death to protect scum like you."

I step towards him, eye to eye. We are about the same height and as age has conferred on him a slight stoop he must have been taller when he was younger. Refusing to retaliate with force I face him straight on. "And what exactly do you know about me. My wiki page just doesn't do my life justice." I say sarcastically.

He scoffs haughtily in return. "You're here aren't you that's all I need to know; once a thug always a thug, no education, no respect, no prospects."

I don't flinch under his gaze or his summary of my life. "Just because I ended up in foster care doesn't mean I'm stupid or illiterate. I take full responsibility for everything I am, and have done." He doesn't move. Does this man do anything but wait?

I relax my shoulders. That's his technique for getting me to talk, prod, prod, push, push eventually I react and then once the floodgates are open he has me. I smile.

"My group were quite well known locally, we had a strong fan base in Germany and the Czech Republic." Why did I say that? I fight to keep the memories at bay. He steps away and starts up the hill. "Is that our little bonding session over?" I ask.

There is something I need and I can't verbalise it. I want to reach for his arm; I want him to push me again. I need him to touch me even if the skin on skin contact is encased in a fist, I'm used to that.

Goddam the man, I need some contact. He stretches out his legs and I try to keep up. I feel my heart pounding and my ears ringing with the exercise. I'm calmer now.

"I'm not really one for talking." He replies pulling out a handheld scanner. He collects a bundle from his pocket and hands me the tablet and a pair of gloves. "Protect your hands. These have a protective layer to stop scratches and scrapes, keep an eye on your wrist; broke this one seven times – weak as a kitten now."

I stare at his right hand as he talks. I want to thank him but I know that will break the spell. Out here working as a team we can pretend that we are equals working the land. He has the knowledge and experience and I, well I think, that push of his was mighty painful, that I may be just a little stronger. He's right, I had defined his whole life by what I saw in front of me and he's probably doing the same.