The Killer, Part V
Wednesday, April 1st, 2015 12:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
serai.
Many years ago, I wrote this in another fandom. I just came across it and found it interesting. It's part of something that never came together, and truthfully, most of it is not up to par. It sputtered out after this part, and looking at it now, I think it's because it's here that the whole thing...got real.
She looked up from the file, from the frustrating enigma contained in it, at the boy himself. He sat on the edge of the examination table, shoulders hunched, arms braced against the edge. His head was lowered, and it was hard to see his face for the unwashed hair that hung over it, obscuring his eyes. It was hard to see any of him, really; his habitual baggy clothes hid his body as effectively as his diffident silence hid his personality. The sleeves of his oversized plaid shirt hung loose, unbuttoned, around his hands, leaving only the ends of his fingers visible, their dirty tips leaving smudges on the cold metal edge of the table.
David Spencer, age seventeen. Father deceased, mother his only living relative. How many times had she seen him here, in the three years he’d been attending Ross? The file said eight, but she somehow had the impression that it was more. Always at the request of some teacher who had noticed something odd about the way he was walking, or some furtive expression of pain, or, once, a fit of shivering that wouldn’t stop. Strange complaints that seemed to have no discernible cause, and no explanation forthcoming from the patient. He was polite enough, and answered her questions. But she hadn’t failed to notice that they were one-word answers whenever possible, and he never looked up at her when he gave them; though he would turn his face to her, his eyes remained down, looking at the floor. Even so, he seemed genuinely not to understand why he was here.
She looked back down at the file, then closed it, setting it on the counter. Crossing her arms, she turned to the boy, puzzled and frustrated. Something was wrong with this kid, but she was damned if she could figure out what it was.
“David?” she asked, watching his face for a reaction.
After a moment, he lifted his face, eyes down as usual. “Yes?”
His voice was whispery and soft, just hitting its depths. It was a voice that held a promise of warmth, interrupted by a rough edge. It occurred to her that he always sounded like he was coming down with a cold. With his head up, she could see more of him. His skin, dirty and lightly broken out, was nonetheless a warm golden color, his lips soft, the upper one marred by a scar from an incident with a farm cat earlier this year. He was an attractive kid, but clearly did not know it. She smiled a little.
“Mr. Prescott says you were limping this morning. Did you have an accident?”
Again a pause. Then, a slow, careful nod.
“Want to tell me about it?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
He shrugged. Everything this boy did seemed to be done in slow motion, as if he needed to consider every movement, as if everything he did carried some weight, or some risk.
Damn it. She wanted to help him, but like all teenagers, he was indifferent to her offer. God, it was maddening. She sighed, puffing out a helpless breath, then was shocked to see him flinch. Not obviously, but there was a definable movement in his shoulders, a drawing back that he tried in vain to control, followed by a barely discernible shivering. If his hair wasn’t so long, she might not have seen it, but the tips of the locks around his eyes quivered. His body had tightened, again almost imperceptibly, but being a nurse, she was tuned to these physical changes. The muscles of his lanky frame had definitely contracted, giving the impression of an animal ready to spring away at the slightest threat. My god, she thought, what brought this on?
“David? What happened?” she softened her voice, hoping he would calm down enough to respond.
He took a long time; she had begun to think he wasn’t going to answer, when his voice emerged again, as if coming out of hiding.
“I was chopping wood. Fell and twisted my ankle.” It was the longest statement he’d made since he walked in, and the effort it cost him was obvious. Then, for the first time, he lifted his gaze to meet hers.
Many years ago, I wrote this in another fandom. I just came across it and found it interesting. It's part of something that never came together, and truthfully, most of it is not up to par. It sputtered out after this part, and looking at it now, I think it's because it's here that the whole thing...got real.
She looked up from the file, from the frustrating enigma contained in it, at the boy himself. He sat on the edge of the examination table, shoulders hunched, arms braced against the edge. His head was lowered, and it was hard to see his face for the unwashed hair that hung over it, obscuring his eyes. It was hard to see any of him, really; his habitual baggy clothes hid his body as effectively as his diffident silence hid his personality. The sleeves of his oversized plaid shirt hung loose, unbuttoned, around his hands, leaving only the ends of his fingers visible, their dirty tips leaving smudges on the cold metal edge of the table.
David Spencer, age seventeen. Father deceased, mother his only living relative. How many times had she seen him here, in the three years he’d been attending Ross? The file said eight, but she somehow had the impression that it was more. Always at the request of some teacher who had noticed something odd about the way he was walking, or some furtive expression of pain, or, once, a fit of shivering that wouldn’t stop. Strange complaints that seemed to have no discernible cause, and no explanation forthcoming from the patient. He was polite enough, and answered her questions. But she hadn’t failed to notice that they were one-word answers whenever possible, and he never looked up at her when he gave them; though he would turn his face to her, his eyes remained down, looking at the floor. Even so, he seemed genuinely not to understand why he was here.
She looked back down at the file, then closed it, setting it on the counter. Crossing her arms, she turned to the boy, puzzled and frustrated. Something was wrong with this kid, but she was damned if she could figure out what it was.
“David?” she asked, watching his face for a reaction.
After a moment, he lifted his face, eyes down as usual. “Yes?”
His voice was whispery and soft, just hitting its depths. It was a voice that held a promise of warmth, interrupted by a rough edge. It occurred to her that he always sounded like he was coming down with a cold. With his head up, she could see more of him. His skin, dirty and lightly broken out, was nonetheless a warm golden color, his lips soft, the upper one marred by a scar from an incident with a farm cat earlier this year. He was an attractive kid, but clearly did not know it. She smiled a little.
“Mr. Prescott says you were limping this morning. Did you have an accident?”
Again a pause. Then, a slow, careful nod.
“Want to tell me about it?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
He shrugged. Everything this boy did seemed to be done in slow motion, as if he needed to consider every movement, as if everything he did carried some weight, or some risk.
Damn it. She wanted to help him, but like all teenagers, he was indifferent to her offer. God, it was maddening. She sighed, puffing out a helpless breath, then was shocked to see him flinch. Not obviously, but there was a definable movement in his shoulders, a drawing back that he tried in vain to control, followed by a barely discernible shivering. If his hair wasn’t so long, she might not have seen it, but the tips of the locks around his eyes quivered. His body had tightened, again almost imperceptibly, but being a nurse, she was tuned to these physical changes. The muscles of his lanky frame had definitely contracted, giving the impression of an animal ready to spring away at the slightest threat. My god, she thought, what brought this on?
“David? What happened?” she softened her voice, hoping he would calm down enough to respond.
He took a long time; she had begun to think he wasn’t going to answer, when his voice emerged again, as if coming out of hiding.
“I was chopping wood. Fell and twisted my ankle.” It was the longest statement he’d made since he walked in, and the effort it cost him was obvious. Then, for the first time, he lifted his gaze to meet hers.
