"I'm Lauria, the medical officer on the FSW Peacemonger.” She was pretty in a friendly way. “Our ship is on a mission to collect fresh water from the Arctic Ice Caps, when we found you during the capture portion of the mission. You slid off of the ice harvest into the Arctic Ocean like a fucking ragdoll. Honestly I’ve never seen something so fucking scary, you... honestly no one knows how the fuck you are still alive; you must have dropped a hundred feet.” She shook her head as though to clear it. “The Peacemonger is bound for New York with the payload intact. You should see it, a fucking great bloody ice cube trawling behind us.” Here she paused, inhaling deeply. I’ve been looking directly in front of me, not at her, but out of the corner of my eye I can’t help but notice that inhalation. How long has it been since I saw a breast? I’ve got no idea besides too long. Is this amnesia? How long was I out?
“When we brought you on board you didn’t have anything on you but some rags. Some deckhands said that they saw a black speck go into the water next to you that might have been some sort of pack.” I perked up for a moment, but she bulled onwards, “It’s long gone, pulled by the current to only god knows where.” She pauses again, this time it seems to be in sympathy. She sits down on the bed. She has reddish blond hair and green eyes that are now looking at me with concern. I look back, thinking of the witch's eyes. Belatedly, I realize that my eyes are leaking tears: my life was that pack for… I have no idea how long. Gently she begins, “Besides hypothermia, sunburn, and acute malnourishment, you don’t appear to have any injuries. But as soon as we got your body temperature above ninety-six you started raving.”
Her eyes turn inward. What was I saying to make her look scared? Barely a moment passes and they clear. “Excuse me. You were talking in English, which is why the captain chose me to talk with you.” I don’t imagine her charm had anything to do with it. But, seriously, if anything could make me want to give civilization another chance it would surely look something like her. “You have been on board for sixteen hours.” She says, before repeating, “We were unable to find any sort of identification on you.” No surprise there, it was all in the pack, forgotten about for who knows how long. “If you don’t mind, I am going to ask you a few questions. Is that OK?”
I nod.
“What is your name?”
An interesting question, that, and one which I am not eager to answer. I don’t imagine that ‘the Tripping Prophet’ is exactly what she was looking for. I know my mother’s name, and my father’s, and my brother’s. I could even tell her all the teams that I have ever played on. I could probably remember it; I just am not ready to go into that part of myself. Looking back up at her, I can see a pity that she isn’t trying to hide. It's my turn to say something, but I can’t. What is there to say?
I shrug.
“What year is it?”
Another shrug, but this one is accompanied by a smile that hurts the sunburn under my eyes.
“How did you get to the edge of the ice caps?”
I shrug again. Smiling feels good, despite the pain, and strangely fresh for my face. Her eyes still show concern, but a ghost of a smile appears on her face, a reflection of mine.
“Hmm.” The smile is a little bit bigger, and when she lifts her eyes to mine, there is a twinkle, a lightness, that is different from what has been there before. “Have you ever gotten laid?”
A sound like breaking wood is pulled from my throat. Lauria moves towards me quickly, anxiety written on her every motion. I try to brush her off while the explosion in my mind settles. The hacking soothes into rocking and exhaling that I finally recognize as laughter. The realization that her hand is resting on my arm breaks the spell; I look up at her, smiling like it is all the communication that I need. Lifting my hand, I signal that she should continue.
“So have you ever gotten laid?”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“Yes.” is what I try to say, but it comes out more like some sort of animal cry. The look of faded anxiety is more like confusion. Holding her eyes for a moment, I nod, twice. Then I signal for a drink.
Jumping to her feet, she starts rambling “You shouldn’t even have to ask; me, a nurse and you in the condition that you are, and here I am like a fuckwit bothering you with questions that must be traumatic as all get out on you.” While this performance is going on, she walks to one of the walls and pulls open a compartment that I hadn’t seen. A nozzle squirts water into a cup that she pulled from another cabinet that is quickly closed. “I go and ask you all kinds of shit and expect you to be able to answer without so much as a drop of goddamn water in your mouth.” The overall effect of her babbling was to disarm me. How long has it been since I really heard any voice but my own? Gods, it was nice.
“Here. And uh, if you don’t mind keeping this one between us.” And she winked at me. It looked like a practiced motion, but to me it was so new, so charming. I don’t know what happened on my face, but hers turned a bright red color after looking at mine for a single second. She handed me the water with downcast eyes.
I sipped. Fuck, it hurt. Another sip, another grimace. One last time, and the water tasted like coming back to life. Still looking down, I form words that seem strange. “Yes, I have. The first was Karie when I was 18. The last was Bella when I was 35.” Surprise paints her face. I hadn’t realized I was sitting forward, but I slump back into the hospital bed. She sits down next to me and arranges her hands carefully. I’m looking at my own hands, remembering the women and the moments and the clarity that I felt with them. I don’t know how long we sit like this.
When I look up, there is a look of repose on her face. “So there is something left up there after all. The brain scans didn’t show any signs of damage, but a lot doesn’t show up on those scans. Even now.” We sit awhile longer. “We’ll have to call you something while you’re here. What would you like it to be?”
The Tripping Prophet. My name is the Tripping Prophet. But I don’t say it. I can’t say it to her. She has gone to the effort of making me feel welcome, human, and just to feel something. As I sit there trying to come up with something to give her, it hits me why it felt so strange when I started talking. I don’t know when I last talked to a person. “It’s not my name, but you might as well call me TP.”
To her credit, she doesn’t laugh. “All right TP. I’ll be back in the morning to see how you are doing and see if you can’t take some solid food.” She smiles once, and the turns toward the hatch which just opened.
I panic, fast and hard. Worry has never felt so fucking present. My breathing accelerates, I look from one barren corner of the room to another. Even the ridges which I can now recognize as storage and doors do nothing to calm the inferno of emotion building up in me. What is going to happen to me? What am I going to do? “Wait. Lauria.” Even her name sounds panicked rolling off my tongue. “What is going to happen to me? Am I a prisoner?”
That got her attention and a bit of a chuckle. “Hell no, you are not a prisoner. Well, except in as much as we all are out to sea for another couple weeks. If you get any sicker we’ll fly you off the ship to the closest hospital, but that costs an arm and a leg. You are probably out of the woods.” She smiled at that. “Your appearance doesn’t match any records of criminals. Or any other records for that matter. Maybe once you put some weight back on or we shear that sheep on your face be on you’ll get a match in a database somewhere and we’ll be able to figure out who you are.”
That’s good to hear. I am not especially eager to be reminded of the past. At least I have some reprieve before I have to face the world again. Why is the panic still here? Weeks on a ship? I could hold my breath that long after who knows how long on the glacier. That can’t be the cause. It’s been so long since I had to ask, or even had the chance to ask anyone for anything. “Um… Lauria, I was more wondering about the immediate future. What’s the plan?”
When she answers, her brows draw together, and a tiny line appears in the space just above where her eyebrows would meet. Why am I noticing it? “You’ll have a few days to get your health back, or more if you like. Then we’ll find some busy work for you to do, something to keep you busy and to compensate for your rescue. Our captain only has one rule: everybody works. Do you have any skills?”
I am looking at the only person that I have talked to in fuck knows how long. Is this what it means to fear loneliness? “I can throw a disc. I can do math in my head. I can teach a dog to sit.” That one got a smile. Here it is, the moment of truth. “I can type eighty words a minute, juggle three of anything, and unclog a toilet.” She’s looking at me now, and the twinkle is back in those emerald orbs. Maybe she sees a person instead of a patient; I have to hope.
“As soon as I’m, you know, up and around, can I cook you dinner?”
Now it’s her turn to laugh, a low and throaty sound, that I keep hearing after she’s gone. “TP, I’m sure we’ll find something to do with you.”