A Strange Kind of Hunger | FIRST DRAFT

Paradise Lost

The walk to Robert's house takes them through a grove of frowning pines, where even the sun fades into obscurity. Unlike the rest of the town, there is no birdsong or animal chatter; for once, Jonathan is relieved that the only thing he can hear is the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears. His head still aches, but the sharp, spiking pain is now a blunt throbbing behind his eyes, dulled by the cool darkness. It isn't nearly as bad as the rancid taste of rotten flesh in his mouth, that no amount of spitting and swallowing can erase, or the shame of the fight.

To his credit, Robert says no more about it; the only times he does speak are to point out interesting pieces of flora. As if Jonathan hadn't lived here for twenty of his twenty-three years — but he is grateful for the silence. It's never been Robert's way to pry or poke fun, even back at medical school. His way is to coexist, even when that means the forced politeness that exists between them now.

Jonathan could never quite work out what went wrong between them. Where the other students' relationships ended in a fiery conflagration, the one he and Robert shared for two years merely smouldered on, never quite dying, until all that was left were the embers of a once-inferno. Falling out of love, he supposes, is a lot like falling asleep: it happens slowly at first, so slowly you barely notice it happening, then all at once. You notice it then. You notice the eyes that used to touch something in your soul barely make it past your skin any more; the lips that used to make your heart sing can't elicit a single, faltering note. You grieve, for a bit, then you move on.

It must be coincidence, then, that has them walking side by side: Robert, tall, more gaunt than he should be, and Jonathan, leaning on the proffered, black-clad arm. Coincidence that drew them both back to the same town, which certainly has no need for two doctors. Jonathan would prefer to believe in coincidence than fate; of the two, coincidence is less meddling. It allows him to leave the past in the past, where it belongs.

They arrive at the door to the house; Robert fumbles in his pocket for a moment, searching for a key. The house is a new one, and the planks are still fresh, the size more suited to a small family than a young bachelor. Once he's inside, though, Jonathan can see why so much extra space is needed.

The place is crammed with books, boxes, wet preparations of every size and shape. Decrepit, crumbling midwifery manuals and atlases of the body lie strewn on a table, their browning pages sighing every time a slight breeze wafts through the open window. Even the hallways are filled: a hunchbacked skeleton stands to attention next to a door, saluting the rest of the clutter with jaunty cheeriness. The whole thing has a vague air of a curiosity cabinet — or would, if there was any kind of method to what distinctly looked like madness.

"What do you think?" There is a note of pride and interest in Robert's voice; one Jonathan finds hard to echo. The place resembles a museum in the aftermath of a hurricane.

"It's— something, I'll give it that." He says, with a forced laugh that brings out the pounding in his skull once more.

"It's the biggest collection of its kind in Wisconsin, I'd wager." Of course he would. If Robert is still himself, he loves a good bet.

Robert gestures to sit down and somewhere, somehow, Jonathan finds a chair amidst the detritus. Shutting his eyes for a moment, he relishes the cool, clean feeling of shaded air on his face, of the little puffs of wind that spin through the room. When he opens his eyes, Robert is crouched in front of him.

"That's some bruise you've got there," he says, and now Jonathan can feel his cheekbone begin to throb. "Can I—"

Without waiting for an answer, Robert presses down on the bruise with two slender fingers. Pianist's fingers, ones not suited to the poking, probing life of a doctor. They spark a sharper pain that makes Jonathan hiss, recoiling into the chair's embrace.