Mending Ryan Falls ✓

14 | in which she tells believable lies

We are all in a relationship,
Some with the person,
Some with the memories.

.\.|./.

Crystal Monroe

|in which she tells belivable lies|

He's trembling under my hands, before my very eyes, and I can't believe it.

A grown man, whimpering in pain, frozen in fear, giving me that pleading gaze as if asking me to save him, to save him from his own mind, begging me to hear the words he hasn't uttered yet.

"I'm here," I repeat over and over, not fully understanding why I'm saying them. It just seems like the right thing to say. It seems like the thing he wants to hear.

He closes his eyes, bowing his head so that his hair flop forward, half-hiding his face from my view. I take the chance to look down at the spilled soup, staining his clothes and burning through them. His skin is apparently scorched by the smoldering liquid, but pain seems not to bother him at all.

Pain is something he appears immune to.

Leaving him alone even though I don't want to, I hurry into the kitchen and grab the towel off the rack. Running back to him, I begin to wipe away the spilled soup.

"You don't have to," he mumbles. "I'm sorry I ..." His voice trails off.

I don't see why he thinks he should apologize.

My heart beats wildly against my ribs, and I don't know how to feel. The man is somehow always hurting, whether intentionally or accidentally, I don't know.

"What was this about?" I ask without meaning to.

I have seen attacks like this before. An uncle of mine went to war, and after returning, he sometimes experienced flashbacks and panic attacks. There were triggers, the tiniest thing that would set them off. Loud bangs that sounded like gunshots, fireworks, screaming, the sound of marching ... these were just some of the things that plunged him back into the pain of the past.

"I'm ... I'm allergic," he says. "To cardamon."

I glance up at his face, which is as pale as the walls around us. He's lying, I can tell, but I don't say it. If he wants to hide, he's allowed to hide. We all are.

"You should have told me," I say instead, rubbing the towel over his pants to clean them. They are sticky and wet, looking strangely gross, and I feel awkward, bent over his legs like this. "Is there anything else you're allergic to?" I ask, ignoring the strange situation.

"Just cardamon," he says.

Liar.

I push back my hair and straighten up, looking closely at his face. He's looking back at me, a kind of hesitancy in his eyes. Is he afraid of being judged? Is he afraid I can see through his lies?

I'm in no position to call him out for them.

"You'll have to change," I say, pointing to his soiled clothing. "Should I help you get to the bathroom?"

"No, I can ... I can do that, thank you." He's pushing himself out of bed before I can stop him, his breathing shallow and ragged.

I make no attempt to help him, standing by while holding the sticky towel in my hands. I watch him limp towards the bathroom, leaning against the wall for support. When the door closes behind him, I decide to do the inevitable -- make something for the man to eat.

Unfortunately for me, all his groceries are still in their brown bags like yesterday, giving me the impression that whoever bought them just stacked them randomly along the kitchen shelves and left them to rot. The only quick thing I can make is instant-noodles.