ANGEL OF THE BRONX
The room was silent mostly. The tick of a clock and the taps from the keyboard providing the only break in the monotony. Connor shifted uncomfortably on the couch. His head hurt, but he could ignore that. Glancing over at Anna, he saw she was thoroughly engrossed on the content of her laptop. The soft glow of the screen filled in along her cheeks, casting shadows ne'er seen before. Beneath a pair of thin-rimmed reading glasses, her green eyes seemed lighter as they ran across whatever page she was reading. Her legs were tucked comfortably up underneath her and for a moment, the silence between them felt almost homely. Closing his eyes, Connor shifted once again on the couch. Even with his eyelids down, he could picture Anna sitting in her chair. As his mind slipped farther and farther away into the abyss of the pain medication that had begun to take affect, that same picture began to take a new twist. Slowly, Anna was drawing closer and closer to him. The shadows cast by the laptop were still there, but with no discernable origins. She was beside him, long graceful fingers gently grazing over his temple... He jerked awake without a sound. Glancing up, he saw Anna had remained where she was before, still staring into the bloody screen. Forcing his breathe to remain steady, he waited for his heartbeat to steady itself out as well. A quick glance down assured him he hadn't yet made a complete ass of himself, but it had been a close thing. Shaking his head, he could almost here Murphy's voice chiding him for being to easy. "One look," He'd say, "And ye be done fer before ye knew what ta fuck happened." "Oh like you know a thing or two," Connor replied in his own head, "You, with your infinite experience. How's that seein' as ye were born after me." "Oh, don't start that argue-" He couldn't finish the rest of the imaginary conversation because at that moment, he felt his heart would stop from the pain. Pain that wasn't physical. Pain that no doctor (however close to God's ear he might think himself) could fix. Pain he hadn't felt since Murphy's and his second meeting with the Russians. "Connor?" He blinked, realizing his eyes had become moist without his consent. In the vague outlines of the world, he could see Anna's profile close to his. A hand reached out from the darkness, touching his arm. The contact startle him for a moment as he felt the couch lower slightly under Anna's weight. He could feel the blanket lift up from his waist to be gently moved onto his shoulders. She spoke softly, like one would to a frightened child or animal. Her hand never broke contact from him, running small circles along his shoulder and back. That hand was a barrier, the only barrier perhaps, bottling the rage boiling inside of him from breaking out. A subtle reminder that he was not quite alone in the world, even if Murphy was. Connor wept. It wasn't long before Anna re-settled herself back in the chair that was far to large for her, despite her height. Connor had drifted off to sleep fairly quickly after the outburst, especially with the medication in his system. Glancing at the computer, she sighed leaning into the chair. The clinical side of her had already expected and prepared herself for it. Training along the therapeutic side of psychology, she had suspected the physical trauma would have forced his mind to isolate itself from the traumatic emotions associated with it, including those of being without his twin. She suspected, based on observation and things Connor had said, that the two men (already closely bonded as twins) had grown to depend on each other for a coping mechanism. With his injuries taken care of, Connor's mind found itself prepared to confront the emotional traumas but was without his mechanism. It surprised her it had taken him this long, but she assumed her assistance might have provided him a partial net. She closed her eyes briefly. The other side of her, though, knew the clinical analysis was a bunch of bullshit. Fancy words did little to explain the raw weight of sorrow and loneliness. The crushing wave of feelings breaking through walls and walls built up, slamming you to your knees before you even had chance to catch a breath. It may very well all be a matter of coping mechanisms and supports, but when did the mechanics of the human mind translate to comfort. Her eyes scanned her computer once again, waiting to see a message pop up on the screen. It struck her how deep in she was now. Her eyes strayed to Connor's sleeping form, her wrist aching from where he had grabbed it. Maybe that's why, she thought to herself, recalling what had made her help him even when she found out who he was. Because she knew how he felt... The door opened with some effort, it's hinges rusted in the dank air. He hardly expected for the Saint to attack him, and his expectations were met. As light bathed the small room, no more then two feet across, he could hear the sound of shuffling as something tried to move farther back into the hovel. Glancing up from his efforts, his eyes fell on the mostly unclothed body of the Saint, still now, with his eyes closed and breathing shallow. A moment of brief disgust filled his mind as the form reminded him of others. Weak men, unfit to take on the mantels they felt they had a right to. He had made examples of them. Forced them into early retirement in a way, all while subtly demanding the proper men take over their responsibilities. Reaching down, he picked up the granola bar and flask of water he had brought with him. Entering the cell, he kneeled down beside the Saint. The young man's eyes fluttered open slightly, regarding him with something akin to hatred. Those same blue eyes. He smiled, grasping the Saint's jaw. The body put up little resistance, deprived of food and water to long. Forcing open his mouth, he fed the Saint slowly and gave him the water in tiny sips. He was not a murderer. His task was to make examples out of men. Dropping the Saint's head, hearing it hit the concrete floor with a dull thud and a soft wimper, he turned to leave. Slamming the door shut, he calculated the time it would take before the Saint started to scream. A.N. Boy, do I love writing dark chapters...well, you guys know the drill!
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