His Protection

3. silences

I heard a chap on the door but it had a familiar rhythm to it. Two short knocks, three slow long knocks followed by two short knocks again. It was the guards that were positioned next door for our safety. Still I kept my right hand on my holster and opened the door with my left only slightly. I relaxed when I saw the two of them.

"Hey, you look like shit" the guy standing right in front of the door told me as he nodded his head at me nonchalantly and held out a white plastic bag full of what looked like tin foil food containers.

"Yeah, I didn't sleep well last night" I mumbled.

"Tell me about it. These fucking motel beds are back breakers" the guy standing further back chuckled.

I gave them a tight smile as I grabbed the bag from his outstretched hand.

"Well there's some good ol' greasy burgers and fries in there to cheer you up and milkshakes" the guy at the front said before he saluted me and they both walked away.

I closed the door and walked slowly to the coffee table as I deliberated. I placed the bag down on the coffee table and stared down at it as I placed my hands on my hips.

We hadn't ran into each other since last night. More specifically, Vince hadn't come out of his room since last night and I had no idea if I should have gone in there. Protocol said I should have been in there first thing this morning and then another check in the afternoon to make sure he hadn't escaped. But protocol doesn't mention what to do if the client is suffering from what you personally think is Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder from experience. Protocol especially doesn't mention how to treat that when it isn't mentioned in the client's file at all. Which is why I was straying from protocol because nothing about this situation was of protocol type.

I grabbed a tin foiled container and a milkshake and headed past my bed. As I approached the door, I sucked in a huge breath.

I raised my hand and knocked on the door twice "Vince? Dinner is here. Its a burger, fries and a milkshake" as if telling him that was going to lure him to open the door.

Silence. No movement or sound but I wasn't going to try the door. If it was PTSD, which I was strongly convinced it was, then I would have to give him time to come out of that hallucination and for him to come to terms with the lasting physiological effects and for his mind to deal with it.

I stared at the door willing my gaze to bore a hole into the door so I just see if he was okay.

I tried once more by tapping on the door but there was no response "Okay, I am just going to leave the food here at your door" I bent down placing the container and milkshake there on the rough carpet praying he would open the door and eat it.

I walked away and changed into my pyjamas. I flopped myself onto the couch and flicked through the channels as I dug into my food.

I couldn't distract myself with anything on the five channels that did come on the tiny television. I kept glancing back to that white bag with the food still in it, untouched. My heart sunk every time I looked at the bag.

Vince was a big guy, he needed to eat. He needed to keep his health up. He was so close to the trial now.

To distract myself, I sorted my mini suitcase three times. It was already tidy but I like a challenge and the challenge was if I could pack things in a more practical way for myself so the things I needed would be easier to reach.

I always have to be alert for impending danger but these are the times I love and hate. No real threat and it gets so boring. Boring is good but I always feel on edge. Every single fucking time.