cameron wallace. (insideandout) wrote in ofourowndevice, |
When Cameron made his way down to reception, his fingers fiddling nervously with the cuffs of the hooded sweatshirt he had pulled on, there was a fresh bandage hidden from sight along his right forearm. Frequently he glanced down at his sleeve as if concerned that evidence of what he had done was showing through, a spot of blood where it shouldn't be perhaps, or some other sign, something he simply couldn't afford or even really deal with. He had gone this long without anyone finding out, it was important that he keep that up. That the dream had disturbed him enough to push him that far was no surprise, it didn't take much to trigger those little episodes and Cameron didn't even realise they were happening, half the time, on some level they had become normal for him. Far from healthy, but as unchangeable, in his eyes, as the need for oxygen to survive.
Stepping out of the elevator he fidgeted for a moment, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other, before he made his way to the reception desk. It was the same young woman who had booked him in, he'd seen her working the desk several times since he'd arrived, and as he approached, before she lifted her head, he searched his memory for her name.
It came to him as she was lifting her gaze and bringing that smile to her face. Christine. That was it. "Good morning," he responded, not really thinking about it and certainly not feeling it, still unconsciously plucking at the end of one sleeve. His right sleeve. "Um." Cameron cleared his throat quietly. "I just wondered if there were any--" he hesitated without meaning to, and pushed himself to continue, "--any messages?" A stupid question, really, there was no one to contact him and no way for anyone who might contact him to know where he was. Cameron immediately felt ridiculous for asking the question at all.