The door slammed shut, a coat and scarf were hastily thrown off onto a desk chair, followed by a shirt. Boots were set at the side of a bed, along with socks. A body fell onto the bed, creaking and sighing. Heavy breathing, a yawn, a clucking in the back of a throat. A silent scream, a tossed pen, a fist pounding a pillow. Silence, impregnated with anger and disappointment, resounded and reigned as king of the room. Light breathing usurped its rule, rhythmic and soft. Slumber ruled the space now, not having usurped the throne, but inherited it, with Dreams as its own heir.

Eventually, the kingdom crumbled as dawn invaded. The body stretched and groaned, picked up the thrown pen, and was out of the room before the sun had fully made its light known. The body, belonging to a man, was back in the room with a mug of coffee in tow. Said man was slowly waking up, soul included. Yesterday’s events hadn’t been good on the soul, and forced it into shutdown. The soul was Alexei Evan Jamil, Life trainee and recent victim of a five foot two woman slapping him across the face. It still stung, but luckily that was just emotional pain. He took a gulp of the coffee, letting the warmth soothe his soul and make its way all over his body. He stood there, staring out the window as if there were something out there, calling to him. Nothing was there but the sunrise, which the man ignored. He needed to think, to draw in on himself; to ‘turtle’, as he had called it. He felt like a hypocrite when he started doing it, remember all the times he’d told Ami to do the exact opposite, but justified his actions with the backwards logic that it was okay for him to turtle, because he was alone and awake in the wee hours of the morning. No need to interact with those who weren’t awake.

She was probably awake, he thought. Ami was awake right now, reading about stupid Mr. Darcy and his stupid horse, with stupid Elizabeth Bennet who was stupid enough to think that Darcy would ever stay humbled. Either that or being a productive little thing; either way, she was doing what she needed to do. She was so certain that she would be put into the pods to never wake up again, so certain that she’d actually screamed at him. The girl hardly ever showed emotion, and she’d shown him a mixture of sadness, anger, desperation.

A sip of coffee.

It was his fault. He’d triggered those emotions by pushing her far too hard and far too much. He honestly deserved to be slapped, to be rejected the way he was. You didn’t just prod a wounded lion and expect not to get bit; but he did just that. And now he was having a pity party because it hurt? Stupid, stupid and foolish. Regal was right about Lex, really – the man was a stupid and foolish whelp, a pup who thought himself so big he could take on the wounded and make them all love him.

There was a problem with wounded people – they were wounded. Anything wounded tends to panic, to lash out and strike anything they can get their claws, hands, feet, teeth on, because they’re confused, scared, scarred, afraid. You couldn’t blame a wounded person for lashing out from time to time, but you did have to be wary of them. Lex hadn’t been wary, and he deserved what he got.

Sip.

That logic still didn’t make him feel better. All he wanted to do was help; to heal – but it seemed that he had just hurt. Pain upon pain upon pain; an endless cycle that hurt everyone in the general vicinity. He was sitting on the ground now, blank eyes boring a hole into the carpet. He was useless, wasn’t he? A total wreck of a man.

Maybe that was why Dad didn’t even try for custody? Who would want a scarred little boy who saw the shadows move? Lex wouldn’t have even taken that charity case, not even to get into the pants of the social worker.

<< Whelp, get off the damned floor. >>

No retort.

<< Whelp! Up! >>

A groan.

<< WHELP. >>

The man stood, setting the mug on his desk. A towel replaced all his clothing, and he was out the door again. A cold shower, a vigorous brushing of teeth, a quick trim of the face. He was back in the room again, getting dressed. Zip the jeans, pull the undershirt over the head, button up the copper buttons of his shirt, roll up the sleeves, put socks on, slip feet into boots, lace boots, button coat, wrap scarf. He appraised himself in the mirror, giving a half smile.

”Face the day with pride and courage, you’re a Jamil.” Warm words used for comfort, a clear memory of his father. The mug was picked up, the light turned off, and the day was fresh