Silence | Book 1

2-2: Morning

The sweet, happy yet fairly plain tune that had come pre-installed on Tristan's phone permeated the dark room, spurring him up from a restless, anxious dream. A wave of deep relief spread over him as he sat up and realised he hadn't been called on to answer a maths exercise that he had forgotten to do and he took a few seconds to breathe deeply and wish he could go back to sleep, but the tune got louder and louder. With a soft groan, he searched between his sheets for his phone, finding it had somehow slipped into his pillow cover.
He opened it to turn off the alarm, and in the process checked his messages: a few documents from Liz concerning the fundraiser for his work with the Greens and an update on the upcoming Halloween party at the debate union, Sam who had sent him a few articles at two o'clock analysing why brexit still had made no progress, and a status update from Hibiki only a few minutes ago containing a picture of him and a large, white, grey and black dog with a curled tail and pointy ears somewhere out in the hills and some Japanese text with a ridiculously elaborate smiley below it. Realising that it was nothing of too much importance, he put his phone away again and started his day.

While he let the shower run to get warm, he took off the dress shirt he had slept in. As the cloth left his arms he was confronted with the bandages around his wrist once more, getting a bit frayed and dirty. Carefully he undid them, until all that was left was the gauze that got slightly stuck against the wound; he very slowly peeled it away, cautious not to open up the wound again. Luckily the cut had begun to heal quite well, and the gauze came off easily. The sight of the long, thin red line across his wrist was shameful, and part of him didn't want to even acknowledge it, but another more insidious sense took some strange sense of pleasure out of seeing himself as broken and mangled on the outside as he felt on the inside – as if the distress and fear that constantly clawed on the inside of his mind now had a hole to spill out from, at least for a little while. It made him feel better, not good, but better; like how nausea was relieved by vomiting even if the sickness stayed.
He knew that maybe in five, ten years the scars would just be shameful, but scars were easier to live with than the pain that caused them.
Yet that was for a later him to worry about, for now he just tore his gaze away again and stepped into the warm water of his shower. The best distraction was simply to function, to try and go through his routine like every other day in the hope that one morning he'd wake up as the well-adjusted person he wanted to be, without having to pretend.

The warm water spilling over his back felt far too nice, but he had only allotted himself fifteen minutes and his aversion to being late was a more powerful motivator than the desire to shower a little longer. He stepped out and dried himself off with a clean towel, making extra sure that his wrist was dry before he disinfected and rebandaged it just in case.
Once his wrist had been taken care of, he picked up his usual morning routine by shaving and putting on a matching aftershave and deodorant, before getting dressed in the grey suit that he had set on wearing for that day. His only real concern was what tie he wanted to go with, but eventually he settled on a simple blue and grey striped one.

His breakfast consisted of a few eggs quickly scrambled over two slices of toast, which he ate at the counter since there was no-one there to judge him for it. Once he'd finished, he immediately washed off his plate and the pan, even wiping off the counter so there was no trace of him ever having been there.
Now he was showered and fed, he put on a black trench coat and buttoned it up all the way to his neck, before giving his keys and wallet a pat-check. Certain that he wouldn't accidentally lock himself out, he took up his messenger bag from his desk chair, which he had prepared the evening before with his books, notes and documents. A moment later he stepped out into the hallway, and locked his door behind him.

The fluorescent lights cast a sleepy, greyish light into the early morning dark, doing nothing to combat the chill that spilled from the bare concrete walls. The only thing that caught Tristan's attention was an unusually early Killian walking down the hall with a sports bag slung over his shoulder and a tired frown on his face, but his expression lit up slightly when he saw him. A second later Tristan was met with an arm around his shoulder, tugging him along so he couldn't escape whatever gruesome tale needed to be told.
"Hiya mate." He heard, and even after two terms, Killian's Scottish accent still caught him off guard, especially since he usually toned it down.
"Morning." Tristan shrugged from under the weight of Killian's arm, already knowing that his only choice was to go with whatever story he was about to be subjected to. "Did you have an emergency? I heard you running down the hallway last night." He asked, figuring he'd better get into it early so it'd be over sooner.
Killian let out a deep sigh and shook his head before replying.
"Yeah, some focking cunts went out on motorcycles last night, prolly stunting and racing on the carriageway, you know how those pissheads are when they get their hands on anything with more wheels than a unicycle. Anyhow, one of 'em slipped, slid right under a passing lorry. Came in in three pieces."
"Three?" Tristan asked rather incredulous, knowing Killian had a tendency to embellish from time to time.
"Left leg above the knee, right leg below and the rest of'm. He managed to live too, nearly lost him twice but that hardy sob kept coming back. Whenever we put blood in it'd just come out the other end."
"Blimey..." Tristan stammered, unsure how he was even supposed to react to that. "So er... did it take long? I didn't hear you come back."
"Think I got back at around four? Didn't get much sleep in to be honest." Killian said while rubbing the side of his face and some stubble he clearly hadn't cared for to shave.
"You look like it."
"Well I'd like to see what ye'd look like after holding a loose leg at three in the morning, ye overachieving little cunt." Despite saying that, Killian pulled him in closer for a second to show it was the endearing kind of insult, but then let go as he went ahead down the stairs. Tristan wasn't sure how to respond, or even whether or not he should apologise. In his attempt to process it all, he froze up at the top of the stairs, only to have Killian notice and call out for him.
"You coming? Wouldn't want to miss the bus, would you?"
"Oh er... right, no." Tristan said, hoisting his bag up higher onto his shoulder before following Killian down the stairs.