Adrianus "Achilles" Leventis (chink_in_armor) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2010-09-21 00:13:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | achilles |
This time...
Who: Achilles chink_in_armor [Narrative]
What: Taking a therapist’s advice, seeing an old Vietnam comrade.
When: Tuesday afternoon
Where: Dewitt Rehabilitation and Nursing Home, NY
Warning: None
Achilles listened to the cars go by as he walked down the street. The lights flashing, skid of tires, puddles of grungy city water splashing as his feet padded down the sidewalk. The hum of the underground subway system buzzed in his ears as he made his way down the dingy steps and into the car.
He was silent as he stood amongst the array of people that piled in. Most of them said nothing, few chattering in a nearby seat, teenagers, girls, laughing and giggling about their day. Carefree. A feeling he knew so little about, but longed to understand for longer than a breath of cold air passing by. He gripped the steel pole as the train pressed forward, screeching wheels of metal against metal before halting at the next stop, the garbled message from the driver coming across the intercom.
The destination was on the Upper East side.
Carl Webster. That was his name. Another man that had served in his platoon, one who still knew him as Leon Kalivas, Lieutenant. Despite the fact that the therapist Achilles spoke to only scratched the surface of the root of his problems, he at times had decent ideas in controlling this incurable anger that welled so deep inside of him. To make him humble. It was the reason he’d chosen not to drive, and instead take in the New York atmosphere no matter how loud and obnoxious it became. He needed to connect with the modern world, instead of constantly forcing himself back. Patroclus was making the effort to do the same, and it was time his general grew from his warrior’s pride.
The train came to another stop and he pushed his way through the mass of people, keeping the hat pulled over his eyes so no one could recognize him as he reached the top of the steps and out of the darkened abyss. He looked back once, a light prick hitting the back of his neck as in some ways it was like leaving the dark pools of the Underworld. Scaling hordes of souls grabbing towards the light above, stepping and walking over those they came in contact with just to feel that breath of life once more.
His gray-green eyes adjusted to the light, walking pridefully down the street until he came to 211 EAST 79 ST. The building towered, panes of windows piled upon the other as they scaled up the brick wall.
Most of the men that he knew in Vietnam were either dead or in the comfort of old age. It was something he would never see. A white beard, silver lined hair and cracks embedded into his skin. His body was as toned and tight as it had been before, never aging. Inside however, he felt the pain of an old man. The creaking and tired body, a mind that had seen countless horrors that in all honesty, no one should. He could feel that unusual pang in his stomach as he entered, a compassion for the men he fought with.
“Good afternoon,” the woman at the desk answered, a cheerful smile across her face. “How may I help you?”
“Carl Webster,” he spoke simply.
She shuffled through the computer, tapping keys with her grossly long fingernails before giving him a room number.
“He’s in 315,” she announced, She stared at his back as he turned around, trying to figure out where she’d seen his face before. Her nose twitched, tapping against the counter before it finally hit, but by that time Achilles was already gone.
There was a abhorrent smell in the building, though nothing like the smell of rotting flesh and blood. Perhaps it was supposed to be a cleanly one, comforting one, but it only made him feel awkward. His boots clanked against the newly waxed floor, turning his gaze occasionally towards the residents with their doors open, feeling their eyes and almost desperate cries for attention as he passed.
315.
There sat an elderly man, hands shaking almost violently, the signs of wrinkled skin, sunken in bottom lip as he grumbled to the nurse that sat attempting to get him to eat. He was in a wheelchair, his legs chopped off above the knee where he’d lost them those thirty odd years ago. He slapped the spoon away from the nurse, the plastic skidding against the floor, food dispersed in various places as it flung off the utensil. Achilles picked it up as he stood in the doorway, biting the inside of his cheek. There was something almost more heartbreaking about seeing a man reduced to this than when he’d seen Steven Bennett on his death bed those months ago. Webster had been at least thirty-five or older when under Achilles’ regimen. Unlike Bennett he never knew who he really was.
Achilles set the spoon down on the rolling cart of a table, which awarded him a sigh from the nurse. “Thank you,” she said, “are you here to visit?” He nodded and she felt somewhat relieved. “Good, I’m tired of fighting with him,” she spoke her voice raising higher so that Webster could hear. The old man glared, his eyes closed in from folds of skin, hardly any whites of his eyes showing as she got up to leave, resting a hand against the tall blonde’s shoulder. “Good luck.”
Webster had not been an irritable person when Achilles had known him. He was kind, and often acted like a father to the younger boys in the platoon. He helped out when he could, and never questioned what he was asked. He’d been a champion fighter. That all changed when he’d lost his legs and was sent home. The man Achilles saw now was defenseless, and the light in his eyes was gone, much like the feeling every veteran came to when war had changed their entire life. Everything looked different, and their mental state was unpredictable.
Achilles’ eyes softened as he stepped in closer, taking a seat in the chair beside the bed. Webster was about to gripe again, yell, scream and throw the young man out. That was until he met his eyes. His skin paled, and his mouth dropped.
“You...” he said in a voice mixed between amazement and even terror. He rolled his chair back, closing his eyes tightly, hoping that when he opened them someone else would be in Achilles’ place.
“What are you doing here?” the old man yelled, as if he were screaming at a ghost. It was obvious in his tone, this wasn’t the first time he’d seen Achilles since the war. If he fought his nightmares in the same way, he saw him. It was an uncomfortable place.
“I’m Adrianus,” Achilles spoke, his voice quieter than the other man’s.
“NO! No your not!” He seemed scared now, and felt choked up, tears lightly hitting his face. He pointed a wrinkled finger towards the blonde warrior. “Kalivas,” the name rolling off his tongue as if in warning. “Why are you here! Why now?” He took what was left of his food on the rolling cart and tossed it towards the ghost. “Your not here! Go away! Go away!”
Achilles’ brows moved in concern. This is what demons did to a man. Made him angry, made him fight even when there was nothing left to fight. This is what he would reduce himself to if he chose not to come to terms with his arrogance and how he let his anger control every aspect of his life.
As he had with Priam, back in the days of Troy, Achilles laid out a warm hand against the elderly’s. It was enough to make a grown man weep, cause him to question every thing he’d ever known about himself. To humble him, to make him see and understand his own undoing.
To make him overcome it.