My Mother Divinity [Unedited]

Chapter Eighteen

George has been in his bed ever since it happened, waiting for one of his fingernails to grow back.

The sensitive flesh where the nail should be is something he's afraid to touch, a cruel reminder of the secrets spilled. He told the assassins where they could find Jane, and - and he doesn't even remember what happened after that. He remembers somebody crying, perhaps - Lenny?

Lenny has been reading to him. His injuries have mostly healed and he doesn't have to worry about a missing fingernail getting caught on the pages of a book. They're powering through a copy of 'Wuthering Heights', a story George has always secretly hated - American classic literature has always outweighed English, it's less uptight, less mocking and presumptuous - but he's never had the opportunity to tell Lenny and it's too late for that now. Besides, the winding descriptions and frankly dull dialogue helps put him to sleep.

Sleep is something neither of them can get enough of now. George is used to feeling a pillow under his head almost the whole day but it's a different feeling when the moon is high in the sky and he can fall unconscious. He's never been a big dreamer so he doesn't need to worry about nightmares. He only thinks about the knife twisting around his fingers and toes when he's awake.

Lenny thinks George's arm is probably broken too. It does feel funny, and sometimes sore, but mostly it just feels dislocated from the rest of him, and it's stuck at an odd angle. The nearest hospital that might consider dealing with this sort of thing is in Inverness, and the term 'hospital' should be taken with a pinch of salt because a lot of the people who work at these private establishments aren't even registered doctors. Good luck if you need serious surgery or dental work because A&Es and orthodontists are a thing of the past.

George can deal with his arm and his fingernail and his scars and whatever other burdens he bears when the time comes. Right now they're too preoccupied with the thought that someday, someone might return to them - be it Jane and her companion or the assassins who have eventually decided they didn't suffer enough. George knows their torture tactics weren't even that bad in the grand scheme of things, and the men are probably knowledgeable with more advanced methods but chose not to use him in fear of giving George or Lenny a heart attack. People dying during torture is a real concern, and they were here for information, not blind pain.

Pain is such a ridiculous thing. Sometimes George wishes he could take his away, ignore the stiffness in his muscles from being bed-bound, the clicking in his neck from a lack of proper movement. Lenny feeds him soup and almost frozen water and even blinking his eyes shut hurts. How must Jane feel? Well, she won't feel much at all, wherever she is.

He shouldn't call her that. She's not that sweet girl she once was that they used to babysit. They're not neighbours anymore, not even in the same region, probably. George hopes she's far away and she's alive, and she'll keep being alive for as long as possible, because with hope, there isn't so much guilt. And for talking to the assassins, even under such painful conditions, there is a lot of guilt.

He thinks of Isla all the time, of course, but that gets him nowhere.

"If Isla was here," Lenny keeps asking him every couple of days, and it's getting tedious, "what would she say? She'd want you to get better, to put in some effort for your recovery."

"Some of us don't heal as fast as others," George grumbles. His partner gives him a wry smile. The cuts above his eyebrows where he's been punched have faded to white but they've messed up the natural crisscross of his eyebrow hairs. George, however, still thinks he's as handsome as ever - or maybe that's a lasting concussion talking.

"Well, I think you're about to ready to go for a walk," Lenny suggests. George freezes up and it must be quite obvious because it dislodges a sigh from his other half. "I know you're scared; so am I. But there's nothing wrong with your legs so you have no physical excuse. You've been in this bed for, well..."