Page 85 of The Words Beneath the Noise

The door opened.

“Tom?”

Art's voice. Of course it was Art. Of course he'd noticed me leave. Of course he'd come looking.

“Go away.” The words came out wrecked, barely recognisable as my own voice.

He didn't go away. The door clicked shut, and then he was crouching beside me, his face swimming into focus above mine. Pale. Worried. Glasses slightly askew.

“You're on the floor.”

“Observant.” I tried to laugh. It came out closer to a sob.

“What do you need?”

Such a simple question. Such an impossible answer. What did I need? To stop seeing dead men every time I closed my eyes. To unhear Danny's last words. To be someone other than what the war had made me.

“Nothing. I'm fine. Just needed a minute.”

“You're shaking so hard I can hear your teeth chattering.” His hand hovered near my shoulder, uncertain. “Should I fetch Dr Hart?”

“No.” Too sharp, too loud in the small space. I forced myself to breathe. “No doctors. No one. Just... give me a minute and I'll be fine.”

“You keep saying fine. I don't think that word means what you think it means.”

Despite everything, my mouth twitched. “Did you just quote Lewis Carroll at me?”

“It seemed appropriate.” He sat down properly, back against the wall, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him. “I'm not leaving.”

“Art—”

“I'm not leaving you alone on a bathroom floor on Christmas Eve.” His voice had gone quiet but fierce. “So you can either tell me what's happening, or we can sit here in silence until you're ready to get up. But I'm staying.”

The carols had stopped. Or maybe I just couldn't hear them anymore over the ringing in my ears. I stared at the ceiling, at water stains that looked like maps of countries that didn't exist, and felt something crack open in my chest.

“Sometimes I can't make it stop.” The words scraped out raw. “The memories. They come and I can't... I'm back there. In France. In the mud. Watching Danny die. Watching all of them die. And I know I'm not really there, I know it's not happening now, but my body doesn't believe me.”

Silence. Then Art's hand found mine on the cold tile. His fingers were trembling too, but his grip was steady.

“The medical officer called it an acute stress reaction. Said it would pass. It's been months and it hasn't bloody passed.”

“Maybe it doesn't pass.” Art's thumb moved across my knuckles, a small repetitive motion. “Maybe it just... changes.Becomes something you carry instead of something that carries you.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“I don't know. I'm not very good at comforting.” A pause. “I'm better at patterns and problems. And right now you're both.”

The shaking was starting to ease. Whether from Art's presence or simple exhaustion, I couldn't tell. But the wire around my chest had loosened enough that I could take a full breath.

“Everyone saw me leave.” Reality crashing back in. The chapel. The turned heads. Father Avery pausing mid-sentence. “Everyone saw me run out of Christmas Eve service like a madman.”

“So?”

“So they'll know.” I sat up too fast, head spinning. “They'll know I'm broken. That the sniper they brought in to protect everyone can't even sit through a church service without falling apart. Christ, Art, how am I supposed to do my job if everyone knows I'm?—”

“Human?” His voice was sharp. “If everyone knows you're human?”

“Weak.” The word tasted like ash. “If everyone knows I'm weak.”