Wounded Angel SOLO Finished

27 December 2023.


It wasn't long before he awoke again, this time with less pain since it was in a more upright position. Okay, so that wasn't some weird fever dream he had experienced before. He was still there, but now was alone in the room so he got up slowly to explore. There were wooden bowls with various sweet-smelling herbs inside, more thin cloth for bandages, and what looked like water and maybe some wine. He also found some larger sort of knitting needles with some thread that was already a work in progress.

Simon, this isn't where you belong. It was like a voice within him, maybe his conscious, telling him that none of this was normal. What was normal? He dedicated some time to his thoughts. Simon Ezra Kincaid of London, England.

And in a flash it all seemed to rush back to him - everything at once; an entire 14 years of existence - memories and self awareness until he felt once again at least whole with his identity. That alone felt like a win.

With that now set, he went about looking at his surroundings once more and looked back to the knitting needles. Mrs. Higgins from his youth book club back in London liked to knit when she wasn't at the helm of a meeting or helping someone with a question.

The fireplace/stove was still in full swing and Simon realized he missed the warmth of the blanket he had over him while sleeping. He stepped closer to warm himself before discovering the rest of his clothing in the corner. Movements caused discomfort, especially leaning down, but he was able to get his pants back on and get his shirt on over the bandaging around his chest.

He wasn't supposed to be here and it was time to go.

Still, all that mind-work and movement just now made him tired - very tired. Needing a rest from all that activity, he went to the window. Some snowflakes were falling in the now darkening sky as day was turning to night, but not enough to accumulate down on the ground. He could see the waves as they crashed to the cliffs and was glad they were high above, probably benefiting from the high position with less wind on this chilly day.

Water. He watched the water and then realized just how thirsty he felt and his dry lips indicated that he could probably use a nice long drink. He found some resting on the small table with the items from earlier. Simon got the water, although it was in a bowl, and brought it to the bed where he sat on the edge of it, pulling the blanket up to him before drinking from the wide basin.

"Mans eņģelis, nē!" [*My angel, no] the girl from earlier's voice could be heard in the doorway and Simon lowered the drink. "Ja vēlies ūdeni, varu iedot ūdeni," [*If you want water, I can give you water], she came over to the bedside and reached out, placing her hand gently on his face and then ran it through some of his hair as she looked him over. She then held up both hands with her palms facing him and raised and lowered them, as if indicating for him to stay.

She left the hut momentarily but came back with a leather sort of cup filled with water and handed it over to him. "Thank you," Simon said and gave her a soft smile. Not that she would understand. This language barrier between them was something awful and he hadn't any idea where to start in trying to lower it. It seemed as impossible as the situation in the film The Miracle Worker, where teacher Anne Sullivan tried to teach a blind, deaf, but also unruly bright young Helen Keller how to communicate.

That gave Simon an idea. "Water," he said as he held up the glass and took a sip of it. He then placed his hand in the basin he had drank from earlier that was now resting on the wooden stool and drew out some of the water in his hand. "Water," he repeated. He let the water cup in his hand and slowly trickle down back into the basin.

She was quick to understand and smiled. "Ūdens," [*water] she stated her word for it but then came over to take hold of the basin and moved it back into place so she could sit down beside the bed. She then pointed in his cup and repeated "water," trying it in his language. Simon returned the smile, brighter this time. "Water," he nodded and glanced around at what else he could label. "Bed," he said as he rested his free hand not holding the cup flat down on the mattress.

When he had finished the drink, she took the cup from him and went to set it before returning to him. "Simon," she pointed to him, "Clara," she drew her hand in toward herself, "bed," she also said as she stood up to leaned down and rest her hand on the bed.

She then came back to his side, standing before him. "Vai tev tas sāp?" [*Does it hurt you?] she asked as she gently traced her hand over his shirt, along where the cloth covered his chest, and stopped as she got to his side, not applying any pressure.

Simon didn't know what she was saying, but her words were gentle. He looked over to her, knowing whatever had happened to him that she was the one who had helped him, bandaging him up and tending to him. "Thank you," he said to her, and she just continued to watch him with those blue eyes fixated upon him.

She seemed quite transfixed upon him and he didn't know why. Was she concerned for him? Was she taken with him? Simon inched the slightest bit away from her on the bed but she just continued to focus on him, appearing to take in every feature of his face and detail of his body, almost as if she had never seen anything - or anyone - quite like him.

"So, Clara, I should probably go...." he said, knowing she wouldn't understand him. But he did need to go. He didn't belong there.

As he began to attempt to stand back up, the excruciating pain in his chest could be felt in such a quick blow that he laid back down on the bed. The pain caused his breath to quicken, which only continued the pain and it began to lessen as his breathing began to grow steady. He didn't belong there and he needed to go - but he wasn't quite ready.

"Clara, maybe I need to be in a hospital, like Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, on Fulham Road," he opened his eyes from the pain and she was sitting at the edge of the bed, taking his hand. "I need a doctor. A healer."

But all he had right now was a lack of communication and some disorientation on where he was, and some increasing pain that once again took over his clear thought processes to where he didn't even try to get access to his phone.

Sleep found him once again.

1 January 2024.



"Sveiki," [*hello] she began in her own language but could now translate this greeting into his own. "Hello, Simon." She would greet him this way each time she came through the doorway of the small hut, rapping upon the wooden door-frame before she entered - either in warning so not to startle him or in hopes that he was decently clothed.

She came often.

In the days that followed, she would come and go; sometimes for a short stay to bring food, water, to change his bandages, provide blankets, and to check the fire. Other times it was for longer stays and they did their best to communicate with one another. She seemed far more efficient in learning his English than he was at learning her - well - whatever language it was. On her longer stays, she'd sometimes bring her knitting to work on with threads often in deep burgundy or hues in shades of brown. Her knitting needles, if that's what they were, were wooden instead of being made from metal and he wondered if he wasn't currently resting in some very poor civilization. That would explain the lack of electricity, indoor plumbing, and the primitive sort of lifestyle.

He didn't get up much, except when he had to, so they learned words for the tangible items around them in the room or from what she brought with her. From there, they expanded to some in which they could act out, like various emotions and some animals - like bird, but he wasn't sure they were always on the same page with that. She seemed confused when it came to ones like 'cat' or 'dog' and some other simple animals.

One day she brought a book with writing and hand-drawn pictures inside and they went over the words that they could from there and she brought a notebook of sorts. It reminded him more of a pad of parchment that he would use at Hogwarts and in trying to guess whether she was of magic, he just got a strange sort of blank stare in response as the girl seemed to unsuccessfully attempt to figure out what he meant.

He did take some of that parchment and the ink that she had and drew a grid on a full sheet, coloring every other square fully. That filled some of his time while she was away. He then would draw out circles and color some in and leave some the white-parchment color and tear those out, creating a homemade checker board.

It took an entire day and into the next, but he was finally able to get her to understand the game of checkers. By the end of that second day, she was able to win - several times over.

The two were creating a bond and developing a strong friendship but still, Simon knew that he didn't belong there. This place, wherever it was, was foreign to him, and as soon as it didn't take all his strength just to get up to do the things he needed to do to suit his basic needs, like eating and such, he would have to get dressed and get back to where he belonged.

He had school that would be starting. He had his father he was supposed to be visiting. He had Aunt Maggie and friends back in London. Most importantly - he had AngelFyre. Each time he put more than a quick thought of these things into his mind, he quickly grew overwhelmed and out-of-sorts with his thoughts, often growing tired.

But he needed to get back.

January 1, 2024. The first day of the first month of a new year. He didn't know the date but he knew it was time to get back to reality.

He had made his way over to his clothing in the corner of the shelter and removed the old-fashioned attire that she had given him to wear. It still hurt to move, especially when he twisted his upper torso, breathed heavily, or bent over, but it did feel nice to put his own clothing on again. The shirt took some small tugs here and there to try and prevent too much movement and then he went to put on his hooded sweatshirt. He picked it up and his cellphone dropped out and crashed down onto the flooring.

Cellphone.

Why hadn't he thought of that before? He blamed his hazy thoughts for the last previous days as he leaned down, painfully, and picked it up to reveal only a pitch-black screen as his phone battery had since died.

There was a rapping at the door-frame and Clara slowly entered.

"Hello, Simon," she said and then froze when she saw him, maybe aware that his return to normal clothing also meant a return to whatever his normal life was. "No hello?"

He shook his head slowly.

"No hello. Goodbye. Goodbye and thank you. Thank you - for everything, Clara," he said as he slipped his phone into his pocket and approached her, bringing his hands to overlap one of hers and smiled to her appreciatively.

"No goodbye," she said to him in a sad voice as her eyes looked up to meet his own.They seemed so full of questions, questions that she couldn't convey to him.

She looked away and Simon took a quick glance, one last time, around the space; wishing that he could have taken a photo of it on his cellphone, and of he and Clara together: something to help him remember; something to convince him this was real.

"Goodbye, goodbye?" she asked him and he wondered if she was attempting to ask him if this was a forever sort of goodbye, as in, farewell.

He didn't want it to be. They had become close friends.

Simon didn't know how to answer.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze with his own two. "No goodbye, goodbye. I hope not."

Without realizing exactly what had transpired in the last few days, nor what would come of it, Simon exited his refuge and made his venture back into the world of the reality in which he knew. Someday he would reunite with this reality and eventually have to come to terms that this reality was a reality in itself and he couldn't turn a blind eye to what was happening.