Dead On Time (maylor)

Chapter 8

26th December 1969

Ruth's P.O.V.

"What does he think about mental illnesess?" Roger asked. I was eying Brian's cooking book in silence when he asked this. A bit unusual, it definitly surprised me. Harold didn't know anything about Brian's state, neither did I. I just knew that he was often very nervous, but he was a healthy boy, he didn't have any mental illness. Bold of me to assume Roger refered to Brian, but then why else would he ask me such a question?

I carefully thought the right words to express myself, which isn't easy if you've got a diffucult and fragile question  "If you refeer to Brian, he's just very nervous sometimes. If you really want to know, I've got no idea, but he hasn't got a really acceptive personality" he didn't seem satisfied with the answer.

"So, he thinks that people are... crazy or something similar?" 

"I'm not positive, but that's probably the truth" I told him. His face palened a bit and his pupils dilated the slightest, I assume in disappointment.

"Ah, okay, yeah. Yeah, thank you. And sorry for... for bothering you" he flashed me a smile and went back into the room, with my son.

I asked myself, why would he like to know that? Or why would he want to know that? It's no one of his business, but then again it's no one of my business to know the reason he'd ask such a thing. Maybe he wanted an opinion, or maybe he was asked to do the chore. Either way or another, I still had an interesting book in my hands waiting to be read.

Brian's P.O.V.

When Roger got out of the bedroom, I layed down on my bed, occupying all the space. 

Suddenly, a wave of thoughts passed through my mind. Thoughts about Roger, his questions, his answers, his behaving, his kindness, his passions, his feelings, his life, Roger. Lately he's not been himself, he didn't swear oftenly, he didn't pressure me to answer anything, he gave me anything I wanted, he's been kinder, he spent more time with me. He was worried sick about me and what was 'wrong', as he'd say. As much as I wanted to say anything to him, I couldn't. He'd be really upset if he knew why I harmed myself, and by really I ment really.

I heard a knock on the door, and before I could answer, Roger entered the room.

"Ever heard of knocking?" I teased him.

"I knocked, but I didn't wait for you to answer" he snapped. He loocked somewhat stressed, how could this man get in this mood in two minutes?

"Everything okay, Roger?" I asked. Now it was my turn to be the psychologist here.

"Why, yes. Why wouldn't it be?" he facked a smile and sat on the chair. I sat on the bed, too, and patted a spot next to me in hopes he'd sit with me.

"You want me to sit?" he asked. Something was definitly bothering him. Then it hit me, if this was how Roger felt when I was depressed, I'd try not to be. But that wasn't possible. Maybe I could try to have a normal day, with Roger, just like when he didn't know about the clock. And maybe sort out what's between us, but that was wishing too much.

Remembering his question I answered "Well, I think that's the message I tried to give you" 

"Yeah, yes, sure. My bad" I correct myself. Something really big was bothering him. Roger got up from the chair and sat next to me, facing the wall. I took this moment to admire his tiny nose, his pouty lips, his long eyelashes and his blue eyes. The only light in the room came from the window beside him, so half his face was a shadow, making him look mysterious and somehow even more attractive. He really was a pretty man, and now he was concerned.