Soft Spot [Sofia/Private]

"I don't know, I haven't talked to anyone they did that to." He wasn't the brightest crayon in the box-- especially on painkillers.  

Maybe he should have been ashamed that he didn't know-- or apologetic, or sympathetic.  But that was only if he found out.  She didn't seem that privy to tell him.  

And if he knew the variables she was testing his theory against, he'd certainly have something to say about them.  No one would have sympathy for his injuries-- he didn't exactly look like a puppy.  And who in the world didn't like blonde women? Before he'd agitated him into rage, he and his third ward pal (who was he? Cosim didn't even know--) talked about blonde women all the time.  Women in general, really.  Until that disembodied voice got just a little too deviant in his stories.  Then they just got disgusting.  

He wished he had a better plan, but what else was there?  "Don't worry," He assured her with a smile.  "I'll still come back to watch over you if the pills don't wear off soon enough." What else could he do? 

Was he afraid? "I've had worse... I think we all have had worse..." He looked down at his hands. "I don't know... I guess I shouldn't be afraid if it can help me." Unlike the some, he did have a problem. He didn't know how to get rid of Mr. Hyde.

Scratching his head again, he mumbled with some embarrassment, "I'm really glad I don't have to be here alone, you know? So... Thanks." For what? She hadn't done anything.  She was just... Blonde.  And pretty.  That's why he was thanking her.

"It's terrible," she insisted, voice choked, "You can't function without your brain; it's the most precious organ in your body...!" Unless he meant they only removed the forebrain, in which case he could still technically function...albeit as a vegetable. She would have to ask him to specify, later. ...If he even knew what the forebrain was.

When he promised to come back, though, all of the terror and upset suddenly seemed to be flushed from her system. She broke into a wide, hopeful smile, "Really--?" Someone was coming back for her. The fact that they didn't have anywhere else to put him didn't even matter; he was coming back.

So even when he mentioned that they'd all had worse (no truer words could be spoken about Chernobyl, though that didn't make it any easier to bear, in her case), it didn't disrupt the uplift in spirit he'd given her. She was, however, curious when he looked at his hands. Taking one in both of hers, she turned it slightly to see if he was looking at anything in particular. When it turned out that whatever it was he saw was only in his own mind, she asked him, blinking innocently, "Help with what?"

Smiling again at him, she agreed (with a hint of sadness), "Me, too. There's nothing worse than being alone."

He didn't know what a forebrain was.  If she had told him he would have immediately assumed that humans actually had two brains (nevermind the right and left), the front and the back.  He wouldn't believe himself but it would be the first theory to crop up.  

Suddenly she was smiling, and apparently what he was saying was too obvious, or didn't matter to her.  Because she was still smiling.  When she took his hand, he just about withdrew it jerkily on reflex (he knew he was surrounded on both sides by touchy-feely families but that didn't make it any less strange to just be grabbed out of the blue), but after realizing she was just looking, he left it with her, and contemplated the difference between his hand and the both of hers that had to hold it.  

His head started to pound with guilt at her inquiry, and he swallowed some emotion down that was barely staying there.  Did she not see he was covered in bandages? And that no one had beat him? "...If you don't already see it... Then I think I'd rather keep it to myself..." He didn't want to scare her away.  Not after he'd finally seen her smile. 

He laughed just as sadly with her.  "Yeah." There were too many different kinds of alone. It was too hard to avoid them all.
 

It likely wouldn't have helped if she told him there was a midbrain and a hindbrain, too. And a spinal cord that did some brain-like things. She might have blinded him with science.

She was entirely uncertain of what he meant. See what? His bandages? She didn't think the things on the therapy floor would help him with that. Patting his hand sympathetically, she worried aloud, "Maybe you should lie down and try to sleep, if your head hurts?" She didn't know if it did, but she assumed it did. Hers often hurt--probably from a tumor--and she didn't have bandages on hers.

Something still wasn't quite right about the way he'd replied, though. Tracing the lines on his hand absently, she was quiet for a moment, then spoke up, "Your fingers have ripples in them. Like water. They're moving, like this," she indicated by pointing. "That's what I could see. I have psychotic depression...or so they told me, anyways, and I think it's probably true." She held up her own fingers, so her could see them, "But I know what's real and what's not. Look: my fingers don't have proper ripples." Hers were a patchwork of prints and smooth skin--or to her eyes, patterns of moving water abruptly mixed with patches of still water. "So I know that's not real. It's just common sense, but that's how I know. And now," she nodded towards his fingers again, "it's just a hand." Normal. Non-hallucinatory.

Giving his fingers back to him, she looked at her own and mentioned practically in passing, "My gloves melted to my hands, in the explosion. After they cut them off, they had to replace the skin--most of my skin is like that." Over half of her wasn't even her. It was someone else, grafted onto her. 

"Anyways, sometimes I can't tell what's not real, though, if it's not obvious. And then I get scared and cause problems." She smiled sadly, "That's why I'm here...just in case you were wondering." Realizing what it sounded like, she added, blushing, "You don't have to tell me anything, if you don't want. I just thought..." That maybe he would wonder why they were shoving pills down her throat.

She was right.  It hurt.  Could have been still bleeding and he wouldn't have noticed, it throbbed so much.  But he was prone to lion-like snoring, and he wished he could wait until she was too deep asleep to be woken by it.  

What was she talking about?  Did she see things?  It unnerved him a bit-- no, more than that-- but he was more sympathetic than repelled, when she disclosed the unevenness of her handprint.  And apparently the rest of her.  

He thought for a moment, wondering why he didn't see thick stitches or Frankenstein bolts on her neck and decided it was bad to think that way.  Especially when he looked the way he did.  "Well... For what it's worth... I think you look really nice." Was it appropriate to say? "I wouldn't have noticed if you didn't tell me-- not that I do notice, now... I'll just have to take your... Word for it." 

He felt like slamming his head into the wall all over again. 

"What does it matter if it's real, if you think it is?" He didn't see how anyone else's opinion would change it.  Although he was never fond of opinion in the first place.   

She scared easily, and he wasn't sure he should tell her that he was in here because he had the tolerance of a bull in a ring.  "I do things that I don't mean to..." He offered, trying to equate her response but not wanting to reveal too much.  "...To people who only sometimes deserve it."

That was all he would say or could say to her, someone who looked as skittish as a deer and seemed to want someone to kill her-- he didn't want her trying to provoke him.  "I think I'll lay down... If that's okay with you."

There was only one bed, screwed into the wall.  He wouldn't fit, anyways.  So, trying to make his spot as bed-like as possible, he positioned himself under it, so at least he'd have a shadow to sleep under, for adequate darkness.  What time was it? Didn't matter. "goodnight, Sofia..."

If only he knew how intensely scheduled her sleeping was. One minute, she was awake, the next...a foghorn couldn't wake her. And if he knew the nature of her psychosis, he might have been more than a little unnerved.

Some moments, she was overcome with delusion and paranoia. Someone was watching her, she was going to be persecuted, there was something terribly wrong with her health, she was being punished for allowing the meltdown... She heard the dead whispering to her inbetween moments as silent as the grave. She saw entire rooms catch fire and could not understand why no one else was alarmed. She watched music and heard the stars and smelled the sickly-sweet beckoning of death. Time seemed to flow backward and forward. It wobbled like gelatin.

And then she was normal. Utterly depressed, but normal. It was something she could not help and could not always see coming, when it did.

She wasn't sure what to expect after revealing this, but it definitely wasn't a compliment. Blushing and looking down shyly at his (somewhat awkward) response, she murmured, "Thank you..." Was that the appropriate response? She glanced up again, for a split second, about to say something, but couldn't. Her eyes dropped to her quilted hands again.

It mattered quite a lot if other people didn't think it was real, she wanted to say. Other people didn't think the problems at the plant were real. They didn't think the dangers existed. She did, but they told her she was wrong, they told her to keep her mouth shut, told her to deny what she thought to be the truth. And then the reactor blew up. And she was right. And she was the one who paid for it.

And then she didn't know what was real, anymore.

She didn't know what he meant by 'things he didn't mean'. What kind of things? Who did he do them to? What was the ratio of people who didn't deserve it, to people who did? What exactly did they deserve? Too many questions to be asked, and it didn't seem like he was particularly inclined to shed light on any of them. So she just nodded, playing with the edge of her shirt.

"Goodnight," she replied meekly. Now what to do? She couldn't tell what time it was, either. Deciding that she might as well lie down, too, even if it just meant staring at the ceiling for a few hours, she climbed onto the "bed" he was under.

As per usual, she pulled off her skirt and practically threw it to the other side of the small room. Her bra, which she managed to pull off from under her shirt, followed in a similar trajectory. They'd broken her habit of undressing completely before bed...but not entirely. Satisfied, she lied down.

It was hard. And uncomfortable. And, she soon found, cold. There were no blankets or pillows.

Hugging her knees tightly to herself, she trembled and shivered. It must have been close to evening after all, for she found herself slipping into that familiar state inbetween consciousness and unconsciousness. But it was still so cold... What did people do when they were cold?

She could have put her skirt back on, but that might not have been sufficient. And besides, it was all the way across the room and she was too groggy to get up.

But there was a source of warmth right under her.

Dragging herself to the edge of the bed, barely awake, she rolled off and dropped next to him. Immediately drawing as close as possible, she drifted off into a deep sleep as the shivering finally subsided.

It was all too strange-- scratch that, she was all too strange. How long had he been in that little room? Maybe she really didn't exist and all that about seeing things that didn't exist was just his subconscious trying to tell him he was crazy.  Maybe he had a concussion and he was asleep and dreaming all this, and going to sleep was just him dying. And she had told him to because she was some kind of angel, or just a comforting delusion.  He found himself not caring, and while she was thinking about what he said, he finally sank into sleep, the pain medication weighing heavily on his eyelids.  

Thus, he didn't notice when she glued herself to him and fell asleep, too.  

He did notice, however, when he finally woke up (it must have been early, no one was walking around in the hall yet), and tried to roll over.  There was something in his way.  Thinking she had maybe fallen off, he reached over without looking to shake her by her side.  And somehow ended up with a handful of bare thigh.  

Not quite understanding why, he squeezed it for a moment before he realized, catching the skirt and bra in his periphery.  He scrambled out any way he could without rolling over her-- how? Didn't even know, it was almost miraculous, in his panic-- and decided that this must be some insane delusion.  

"Wake up-- hey! Sonya!" He attempted, from the other side of the room.  He kicked her clothes back over to her side.  What the hell was going on??

Unfortunately for him, she was not a sleeper that could be woken by words alone. Barely even stirring when he scrambled to get out of her immediate vicinity, she rolled onto her back, smiling vaguely at some unknown dream. The thin shirt did not do much to hide the fact that she wore nothing under it.

After a bit of tossing and turning, she shivered once or twice, murmuring her discontent. And finally, her eyelashes parted blearily. Rubbing them, she yawned and sat up, looking considerably dazed.

Blinking at him, she seemed to be taking a moment to recognize who he was. After a few blank looks, she identified him. "Cosim...?" Yes, that seemed correct. Content, she laid back down in an attempt to drift off again, but only a moment had to pass before she recalled why she'd woken up. Chilled, frowning with her eyes squeezed tight, she half-crawled, half-dragged her way over to where she'd spotted him standing. Stumbling to her feet, she clung to him again like a parasite.

And fell asleep. Just like that.

Judging by the fact that she could hardly recognize him, he figured she must have been pretty out.  He still didn't feel comfortable with her latching on to him-- well, he did, but he didn't feel right about it.  

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence (he was afraid to move), he slowly and gently pried her off again.  Judging by the movement of the light under the door, the hospital was running again, and he would be taken out of the room shortly.  

He picked her up and put her back on the bolted-in bed, and in a wild thought to make sure she didn't wake up again, he pulled off his shirt and draped it over her like a blanket-- it was almost big enough-- and draped her discarded skirt over her legs.  He hoped it would be enough to keep her asleep until he was put back in.  It wouldn't have been much of a stretch to assume she slept quite alot.  

At least he still had an undershirt-- not that it mattered.  A few minutes passed, and lo and behold the door began to creak open.  But not all the way.  "Zahorchak." They were probably afraid of being thrown around again.  

"I'm coming." He muttered, and looked down at the small woman he was leaving alone.  Putting a hand to her hair briefly, he assured her, "I'll be back..." and left for the unknown-- well, not unknown to him, really.

It was, indeed, a long time before she woke up, given that she was now able to sleep relatively more comfortably. Curled up in her pseudo-blanket, she tossed and fidgeted for a while before finally opening her eyes. With a drowsy yawn, she sat up in the bed, and...

She was alone.

A pang of fear struck her heart--had it all been a hallucination? Or had he really left, never to return? Eyes welling up from the uncertainty, she bit her lip and looked downward, whereupon her gaze fell to the shirt. For a moment, it only confused her, until she realized--it was his shirt. It wasn't a hallucination. And maybe the fact that he'd left it there meant that he was coming back.

Filled with a kind of pathetic hope, she quickly got up and put her clothes back on. And then she sat facing the door. And waited.

Contrary to what he thought, they didn't treat him any gentler because he was already injured.  That was his fault, they said, thus it shouldn't interfere with their plans.  He got the full treatment, plus a little more, probably out of revenge for their orderly friends.  

They dumped him on a stretcher before his eyes even had a chance to roll back into place, wheeled it down the halls (begrudgingly, he wasn't the lightest man), and unceremoniously dumped him into the bed, not taking much notice of the woman, as long as she stayed out of their way.  There were still not enough cells for individuals.  Best to ignore the tiny woman stuck in the room with the giant, violent man.  

Perking up for a moment, he exhaustingly turned and saw his shirt under him.  He pulled it out, but didn't have the strength to put it on himself.  "Thanks for keeping it warm for me," He laughed unhappily.  "You look like you were crying...?"

Squeaking with fear, she leaped to her feet and pressed herself back against the wall automatically when they entered. But the fear for herself could not match what she felt immediately upon seeing him.

He was dead...! They killed him! It would have been better if he'd left and not returned at all. Unable to control herself, she broke into horrified sobbing--

...At least, until he moved.

Gasping, she dashed to his side, kneeling on the padded floor next to the bed. Still hiccuping, she hastily wiped her eyes on the edge of her shirt (not that it made much of a difference) and said in a wavering voice, "I...I thought you were...!" She shook her head, as if to shake the notion away even before saying it. Taking his hand in hers, she ventured fearfully, "Did they...hurt you?" Her voice sounded dangerously close to breaking again (tears still streamed down her face, unsurprisingly), "It's all my fault...!"

He didn't even have the energy to be exasperated at yet another crying session.  Why hadn't her tear ducts dried up by then?  Of course, he wouldn't say it to her face-- because she was in real distress-- but it was cute, in a way. And honest.  So many people tried to hide it when they were upset.  Including him.  But he suspected it wouldn't look as good on him as it did her.  

At least the crying quieted down once she realized he wasn't... Paralyzed? Oh, dead.  That's what she meant.  It wouldn't have made sense to throw a dead person back where they came from and lock it.  It was just plain irresponsible.  

"I'm okay," He assured her, although he wasn't.  All she could do was cry more.  "And yeah, it hurt, but... It'll fix me." That he sincerely believed.  He knew nothing about science beyond gunpowder and smelting, but doctors were doctors for a reason.  "If you say it's your fault, I should probably thank you."

Weakly raising his arm, he tried his best to wipe the tear track of of one of her cheeks.  "So don't cry.  I told you I'd come back."

She never tried to hide when she was upset. It didn't even occur to her to try. She'd been alone for too long for any prevailing social laws to tell her that it was embarrassing to cry--that it was embarrassing to show compassion, empathy, sorrow, that which is too human. Too warm-hearted.

And she would have cried even more, when he proclaimed that he mistakenly believed the treatments there to actually be effective, if she were not so taken aback by it. Blinking at him in surprise, she found herself at a loss for words. It seemed cruel to tell him the truth, when 'therapy' was unavoidable for all of them, anyways.

But...there was someone else she'd also lied to before, saying that everything would be okay. That the doctors knew what they were doing. Right before they pulled the plug.

Silently, she raised her fingers to his, holding them against her face.

Then the door was thrown open.

"Therapy time," the therapist standing in it directed at Sofia. It was a middle-aged man who oversaw her and her sister's usually-weekly family counseling sessions. He used the time for napping, leaving them to sort out their problems alone. Or, occasionally, for responding to Vesna's occasional inappropriate advances (she did not understand why her sister seemed to change personalities on the fly). And not in a professional manner. Either way, it was all very uncomfortable for Sonya. So she shook her head. No, she didn't want to go.

Unfortunately, this was how it always went. And the outcome was always the same. "Come on," he grumbled, grabbing her arm and pulling her away. No doubt that after the 'session', she'd be going back to her proper ward; she and Vesna were typically escorted back together. She held onto Cosim's fingers, but they slipped out of her grasp.

"Wait for me; I'll come find you, later!" She managed to tell him, in a pleading voice (as if he had the option of losing patience, waiting for her in a locked cell in third ward), before the door shut behind her. Leaving him alone.