“I really think it’s best not to ask. Ignorance is bliss, Martin.”
“Yes, Douglas. It is,” he said pointedly. Douglas raised a sardonic eyebrow and poked the grey...thing on his plate, just making sure it wasn’t alive. Martin eyed the more orange concoction on his plate and made a face of disgust. They both looked at each other.
“Arthur!” they called in unison.
“Yes chaps,” he grinned, bounding into the flight deck.
“Biscuits. Now.”
“Oh,” he said, looking a little crestfallen. “Not good then?”
“Well let’s just say it’s not the finest example of your cooking.”
“Oh. Okay. Be right back.”
“Was that cruel do you think?” Martin asked. Douglas eyed him.
“Do you think it was?”
“Maybe a little.”
The biscuits arrived promptly with an apology in the form of two cups of coffee and an Arthur that beamed when Martin said he was getting better at making the coffee and an Arthur that then bounced away humming.
“That was nice,” Douglas said after a while. Martin made a non-committal noise. “Felt a little sorry for him, did you?”
“A bit. He does his best.”
“Like you.”
“Douglas.”
“Recognised something of yourself in our dear steward?”
“Douglas, you are not going to force me into a discussion about this.”
“Look, Martin. I saw you cutting away at your arm yesterday. I don’t understand why.”
“It helps.”
“But why and with what?”
“Oh just...you wouldn’t understand.”
“Exactly, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I want to, though.”
“But...no matter what I say... you just wouldn’t get it.”
“Try me.” Martin looked at him, searching, trying to find something in Douglas’ face. Whatever it was though, he didn’t see it and sighed.
“You’re you, Douglas. The wonderful sky God Douglas Richardson,” he looked away. “You just wouldn’t get it.”
Douglas sighed in exasperation.
“Maybe if you just started from the beginning.”
“Douglas,” Martin began looking back at Douglas with pleading eyes. “Please. Let it go.”
“Four hours.”
“Yep.”
“Two hundred and forty minutes.”
“Well done.”
“Martin...”
“Oh Douglas I am tired of this.”
“Look at me. It’s hard. If the past three hours in a confined space with you has taught me anything it’s that it’s hard. To talk about it and to forget about it. You’ve been playing with your shirt cuff incessantly.”
“Oh, have I?”
“Yes. But think about it. I know now, and I won’t let it go, you know that. Wouldn’t it be better to just talk it through? It might help you. And you can lay whatever ground rules you feel necessary.”
“Really?” Martin asked, wary.
“Absolutely.”
“It will work better if you ask questions I think, I don’t really know what to say otherwise.”
“Alright.”
“But if I don’t want to answer you can’t force me. If I don’t know then, well, I don’t know. Okay?”
“Fine.”
“You promise?”
“Of course.”
“Right. Okay.” He took a deep shaky breath and nodded almost imperceptibly.
“When did it start?”
“My first cut was when I was fifteen. I was bullied at school, of course. It was the fourteenth of November. It was just something one of them said. They’d been calling me names for years but something about that time was different. I remember crying, a lot. And I went into the kitchen and found one of the sharp knifes my dad used to peel potatoes. It was small, easy to hide. I remember putting it to my wrist and I remember how scared I was at how good it felt, how it made everything go away so easily. I mean afterwards I felt awful. Guilty, shifty, I thought everyone knew and was looking at me strangely. I thought my dad looked disappointed in me every time I saw him. Funny thing is, I can’t remember what the boys said. It’s like someone has deleted the memory. I think I prefer it that way, to be honest.”
“So it started when you were fifteen. You’re what thirty four now? That’s nineteen years, Martin.”
Fill: Part 7 (Trigger warning)
“I really think it’s best not to ask. Ignorance is bliss, Martin.”
“Yes, Douglas. It is,” he said pointedly. Douglas raised a sardonic eyebrow and poked the grey...thing on his plate, just making sure it wasn’t alive. Martin eyed the more orange concoction on his plate and made a face of disgust. They both looked at each other.
“Arthur!” they called in unison.
“Yes chaps,” he grinned, bounding into the flight deck.
“Biscuits. Now.”
“Oh,” he said, looking a little crestfallen. “Not good then?”
“Well let’s just say it’s not the finest example of your cooking.”
“Oh. Okay. Be right back.”
“Was that cruel do you think?” Martin asked. Douglas eyed him.
“Do you think it was?”
“Maybe a little.”
The biscuits arrived promptly with an apology in the form of two cups of coffee and an Arthur that beamed when Martin said he was getting better at making the coffee and an Arthur that then bounced away humming.
“That was nice,” Douglas said after a while. Martin made a non-committal noise. “Felt a little sorry for him, did you?”
“A bit. He does his best.”
“Like you.”
“Douglas.”
“Recognised something of yourself in our dear steward?”
“Douglas, you are not going to force me into a discussion about this.”
“Look, Martin. I saw you cutting away at your arm yesterday. I don’t understand why.”
“It helps.”
“But why and with what?”
“Oh just...you wouldn’t understand.”
“Exactly, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I want to, though.”
“But...no matter what I say... you just wouldn’t get it.”
“Try me.” Martin looked at him, searching, trying to find something in Douglas’ face. Whatever it was though, he didn’t see it and sighed.
“You’re you, Douglas. The wonderful sky God Douglas Richardson,” he looked away. “You just wouldn’t get it.”
Douglas sighed in exasperation.
“Maybe if you just started from the beginning.”
“Douglas,” Martin began looking back at Douglas with pleading eyes. “Please. Let it go.”
“Four hours.”
“Yep.”
“Two hundred and forty minutes.”
“Well done.”
“Martin...”
“Oh Douglas I am tired of this.”
“Look at me. It’s hard. If the past three hours in a confined space with you has taught me anything it’s that it’s hard. To talk about it and to forget about it. You’ve been playing with your shirt cuff incessantly.”
“Oh, have I?”
“Yes. But think about it. I know now, and I won’t let it go, you know that. Wouldn’t it be better to just talk it through? It might help you. And you can lay whatever ground rules you feel necessary.”
“Really?” Martin asked, wary.
“Absolutely.”
“It will work better if you ask questions I think, I don’t really know what to say otherwise.”
“Alright.”
“But if I don’t want to answer you can’t force me. If I don’t know then, well, I don’t know. Okay?”
“Fine.”
“You promise?”
“Of course.”
“Right. Okay.” He took a deep shaky breath and nodded almost imperceptibly.
“When did it start?”
“My first cut was when I was fifteen. I was bullied at school, of course. It was the fourteenth of November. It was just something one of them said. They’d been calling me names for years but something about that time was different. I remember crying, a lot. And I went into the kitchen and found one of the sharp knifes my dad used to peel potatoes. It was small, easy to hide. I remember putting it to my wrist and I remember how scared I was at how good it felt, how it made everything go away so easily. I mean afterwards I felt awful. Guilty, shifty, I thought everyone knew and was looking at me strangely. I thought my dad looked disappointed in me every time I saw him. Funny thing is, I can’t remember what the boys said. It’s like someone has deleted the memory. I think I prefer it that way, to be honest.”
“So it started when you were fifteen. You’re what thirty four now? That’s nineteen years, Martin.”