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I see him writhing, hear him panting.
When I check on him a while later, offering some water, he won’t move his arm from his face.
“Hi there, Sailor. I’ve just come to offer water.”
“I had some.” The words are half groaned.
“Is there anything you need…that I could—”
He shakes his head. He’s quiet and still, and then he’s trembling again. I curl my hand into a fist and press my lips together as I look down at him. “Tell me if there’s something I can do to ease you. Do you promise?”
He nods.
I return to work, going hard until I feel delirious. As I’m swinging the hammer, I notice him get up. He walks to the stream and then back toward me, stopping a few meters away to steady himself with a palm against the wall. After a long moment, he walks to me without looking at my face. His eyes are lifted to the cave’s mouth. Standing near me, he frowns at the boulder. When he doesn’t remark on the truly massive amount of rock I’ve brought down around the rim, my stomach flips.
“Declan?”
His eyes move over me. The look is fleeting; flat. I watch as he walks behind the rubble pile to tend his business. I wait for him to emerge. When he does, he’s staring straight ahead and walking slowly. He walks halfway to the stream before abruptly stopping. He sits against the wall across from his pallet, knees raised, his hand curving around one of them.
I watch as he rubs his hands back through his hair. He appears to stare out at the pallet. I can see his shoulders rising…falling. Another few times with his hands back through his wild, dark hair, and he gets to his feet. He walks toward the cave’s rear, pacing with his shoulders heaving. Even from a distance, I can feel him working to contain himself.
Back and forth he paces.
I don’t know him, I realize. I know nearly nothing of him. Only that entrapment is his greatest fear, and he can’t bear life fully conscious. I’ve had thoughts of that myself, looking at the bottles in the clinic. They say ignorance is bliss, and numbness surely is the chief respite of any feeling person.
I wonder what kind of pain he must be in, and, once again, I ache to go to him.
I turn my want into brute force and bring down showers of stone.
Finally, he returns to the sleeping bags, this time stretching out face-down. He wraps his arm around his head and shifts onto his side…then stretches back out on his belly, flexing his legs. He’s breathing so deeply, his back pumps.
“Declan?” It’s so soft, he doesn’t hear it, so I set the hammer down and go to him. I kneel beside him, touch his back.
He moves like a viper, so fast I can’t process. I see nothing but the cave’s ceiling rocking in my field of vision; he’s on top of me, his body warm and heavy as his forearm pins my throat. I try to scream, and when that doesn’t work, I sink my nails into the arm that’s propping him atop me.
Declan blinks down at me. He looks dazed, confused, and then his eyes pop open wide in horror. He scrambles away from me.
A sob escapes my sore throat as I sit up.
“Finley?” He looks anguished.
I put a hand out, warning him to stay away, and watch as his face crumples. “Oh Christ, did I say Laurent?”
“What?”
“Did I hurt you?”
“You were dreaming.” Even as my voice cracks, I feel calmer. I see sweat roll down his temple, and I’m quite sure that I’ve never seen his face so drawn and weary.
His shoulders start to heave as he clutches his brow. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you were dreaming.” I swallow, rubbing my throat. “What was it about?”
“If I say that name again, just get away.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t wake up.”
