☩ Ben Krohn Hawkins ☩ (taravata) wrote in thereincarnates, @ 2014-05-18 00:11:00 |
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Entry tags: | !plot week, levi haines, quinn mcfarlane |
Who. (Levi Haines & Peter Haines and open.)
What. Levi's father dies and there's nothing he's allowed to do about it.
Where. Reincarnate clinic.
When. 05-17, mid-afternoon.
Warnings. Warnings for death and illness.
Don't touch me, boy. While Ben had flinched in painful recognition, Levi stared down at the body of a man dying in a stranger's bed and saw his resolve. Every inch of the man's body, even it was ravaged by illness and twisted by pain, said 'or if'. And in that moment, he'd changed back to the young kid he'd once been, the one who'd learned to fear his father's shadow just a little too late. He'd been slow on the uptake back then, and not as eager to please as the others had been and still were. And Levi had foolishly believed that that ship had since long sailed, but this time and for the last time - he chose to obey. And after he'd fumbled with his father's old family Bible and had managed to push it into his hands without touching him, Levi sank to the cold tiled floor, as close to his father's bed as he'd allow.
The hours seemed to hold their breath as Levi stared at the bed and counted. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-o[...] Torn between relief and disappointment and finally settling on relief, he saw his father's chest rise weakly. Twenty seconds. Twenty whole seconds. That was how long Peter Haines went without breathing, had been for the last two hours. Death was near, but he was stubborn, clinging to his bible, clinging to life. A hacking cough, when and if he could manage one, seemed to resounded like cannon in Levi's head, daring him to jolt into action, lay his hands on him. Levi drew in a deep breath and pressed his fingernails into the palms of his hands, deep into already tender, deep half moon indentations. And Ben, having seen the painful parallels between his own life and this one long before Levi could, told him to leave - over and over. It was just noise by now.
Eighteen, nineteen [...] "But I can fix this," Levi tried again, his desperation clinging to every word. But that was how he'd learned in the first place, learned that another man's son who he'd had no choice but to raise, was - marked. Ben had flinched at that word too, and had almost lashed out at similarities that shouldn't existed. This wasn't the Dust Bowl. Superstition should have been a thing of the past. And for almost any other family, it would've been. But even in America, Levi had been raised in the old ways of the Romani people, where superstitions still held true. He'd learned to read the cards, learned the language of his parents' people. But the words Levi heard weren't meant for him. 'Glory to you, King, God almighty, who through your divine and loving providence have consented that I, an unworthy sinner [...]'
He waited, with all the reverence and patience of a man who'd been raised to believe in God, but without looking up, he spoke. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five [...], thirty. At the count of thirty, Levi looked up at the bed and waited. For a cough, a shaky breath, anything. But he only found stillness. His gaze fell on his father's hands, still clasped around the Bible, his opened brown eyes, frozen in death. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. His trembling hand reached out for his father's arm. A life for a life. Any life. What was one more death, in a building that was keeper of the last breaths and words of the dead? Nothing. No one would suspect. But his father's words echoed through his head, reminding him of their ominous warning and the far worse promise that lay ahead. Don't touch me, boy. No. His hands dropped to his side like stones and stayed there. There would be no touching.
Hearing footsteps, he blindly looked around. Help, he needed help. He needed someone who knew what to do next.