Henry Westphal (hwestphal) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2014-04-03 03:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | #solo, 2009-10-05, henry |
In the morning, everything is new
Who: Henry Westphal, NPC Max Simpson
Where: Ballard House
When: Just after sunrise, October 5
Status: Complete
Henry woke with a gasp, as if surfacing from a nightmare. His eyes popped open and black-and-white vision swirled into color. He lay curled on his side, drawn-up knees protecting his belly, arms wrapped around his chest to try and conserve warmth. He was naked, his skin cool, the concrete floor he lay on cold. Surprisingly, he didn't feel chilled.
It was sunrise. How he knew, locked below ground, he wasn't sure, but the moon had set, the sun had risen over the horizon, and he was human again. What he'd been before, he didn't know, but he did remember the bone-ripping pain, his screams, as he began to change, before who he was faded into Other.
Henry lifted his head a little. Before him the concrete floor had been raked with claw marks, wide, deep. He stretched out his arm and placed his hand there and even as big as his hands were, he couldn't stretch his fingers out to match the claw marks. Whatever he'd been, it had been huge.
Levering himself to a sitting position took a moment; his balance felt off, but then as he sat there, it smoothed out and he felt more like himself. He could hear others stirring, and he glanced to his left, saw a naked woman, barely more than a girl, and jerked his eyes forward again. It seemed incredibly rude to look. Henry sat up straighter, folding his long legs to cover as much of himself as possible because no one needed to see his scars and certainly, no one wanted to get an eyeful of his junk. He could smell musk and sweat and the lingering scent of something with fur. Someone had gotten sick and he could smell that too, bile and blood; that was a familiar smell from the hospital.
His belly rumbled loudly and he realized that he was ravenously hungry in spite of the smell of vomit. Hungry and thirsty. Since he'd woken from the attack, his appetite had been incredible; he'd been hungry constantly, starving. Because he'd had a belly wound they'd tried to keep him without food--logically so, but his recovery from his wounds was not logical in any way--and his sisters had smuggled in lots of food, whenever he'd asked, and he'd asked often. He was a bad patient, but he'd known instinctively that he needed to eat to fuel his recovery and his guts had miraculously sorted themselves while he'd been in a coma, short though it was.
Henry ran a hand over his stomach, then startled, looked down. Yesterday, the marks from his wounds had been red, raised, broad--ugly things. He thought of the claw marks he'd made on the floor last night as the Other and suddenly, the spacing of his wounds was understandable. But now? The scars looked old, well-healed. Still raised, but not nearly as much and they were the pale color of scars years old. He turned his head to look at his shoulder, and it was the same. He lifted his right arm and there was no weakness, no tremor; his range of motion seemed almost as good as it had been before.
Well.
They'd told him he would heal much faster, but this was astounding, beyond belief. Apparently, the stories of fast healing he'd always heard about werewolves was true. Two days and a Change--he thought of it in capital letters, for some reason--was enough to almost heal him completely.
The sound of the lock turning made his head snap to the left to watch the steel-reinforced door swing open and a few people come in. They looked pleasant, cheerful, saying hello and good morning and they were answered by others who were clearly familiar with the process. They went to the place where the crates were holding their clothing and began redistributing them to their owners, their attitudes much like his own when faced with patient nudity; in that instance, it wasn't sexual.
An older man unlocked his cage, passing him the milk crate with his clothes folded neatly as well as a big bottle of water. Henry opened the bottle and drank it down in nearly one go; thirst was more pressing than modesty. After the water was gone, he dressed in the clothes he'd worn yesterday, his back turned to everyone else, and when he'd cinched his robe belt around his narrow waist, he felt more himself. His mother's rosary was still in his robe pocket and he smiled as he fingered the familiar beads.
He was nearly the last one out. Henry trailed up the stairs, through the second reinforced steel door--the place was a bunker--and out into the main house, blinking owlishly at the light. He followed the others and soon found himself in the room where he'd talked with Jo the night before.
"Westphal."
Henry turned his head and saw Max there, still in his black hospital security uniform, taser and cuffs and leather gloves tucked into his belt. He looked tired but pretty cheerful, and Henry smiled at his familiar face. As he approached, Max's head tilted a little to the side as he watched Henry move.
"Seriously, man, you look better," he said. "I expected to have to drag your sorry, sick ass out of here and you almost look as if you could pick me up and carry me around."
Max was inches taller and nearly twice as broad, and oddly, Henry just knew he could. Well, maybe after breakfast, anyway. He smelled familiar--hospital antiseptics and his own cologne.
"I feel...better," he allowed. "Almost normal."
Max made an amused sound. "You were never normal."
"I'll give you that. Do I need to check out?" He looked around, but people seemed to be just going.
"Don't think so. C'mon. I want to get you back so I can go home and sleep."
Max's easy acceptance made something tight loosen in his shoulders. "You're a lying liar," he said, falling into step with him. "You want to go home, have a beer, play Call of Duty. No sleeping for you for hours yet."
"You're just jealous that you suck so much at games," Max replied, leading them to a parking lot where the hospital van sat idling. Henry paused to look around at the cloudy sky. Everything smelled sharper, more acute, pulling at him as it never had before, and his vision seemed sharper as well, things sliding into keen focus.. He could smell the rain scent in the air, leaves and trees and grass, the sharp metallic smell of cars and exhaust.
The driver was different, a man with white hair and a Detroit Red Wings jacket on. He nodded as Henry climbed into the van--so much easier than yesterday--and Henry slid into the same seat he'd had yesterday.
Max set a brown paper bag on the seat beside him and curious, Henry looked into it. A bottle of water, a bottle of orange juice, and four sandwiches of different kinds. Henry's stomach growled loudly. "Hey, thanks," he said, and looked up, offering a half-smile to Max.
Max shrugged and settled into his own seat. "I just didn't want to hear your belly growl all the way back," he said, his voice a little gruff.
Henry wasn't fooled. His smile grew wider. Pulling out a sandwich, he sat back and unwrapped it. Tuna. He ate it quickly enough he almost didn't taste it. The term wolfing it down came to mind and he dismissed it. The second sandwich was peanut butter and he had enough control to eat a little more slowly.
"Amy likes you," he said, "She won't say anything because she's shy, but when you walk by, it's like she's seen a super-hero," he said casually. "Thor, maybe." He side-eyed Max. "You're about the same size, anyway."
Max looked interested. "Yeah?" Amy Mason was tiny and blonde and heartbreakingly pretty, and Max always looked for her when he did his walkthrough in ER or when he was called there for someone rowdy.
"Yeah. No accounting for tastes. I mean, why you when she could have all this--" Henry waved the remainder of the sandwich at his own lanky body, "--but that's the way it goes." He popped the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and fished out the OJ, opening it up. "Maybe you should say something." He took a drink. "I happen to know she's off on Wednesdays. She really likes Chinese food and she's been talking about wanting to see this movie called The Proposal."
Henry got out the third sandwich. Roast beef. He was still hungry, and unwrapped it happily.
"Sometimes you're all right, Westphal," Max said.
"I have my moments," Henry replied, and licked mustard off his thumb.