11th January, 1895 — East Staple House, Kent
Eleven days in, and he was learning the routines. There were parts of the place that ought to be oppressive, Ari thought, in spite of the private hospital’s quaint, homely appearance – strict hours, forced mealtimes in the downstairs hall, enforced bars just out past the windowpanes; the narrow room with its spare furnishings, just faded curtains and cot and desk and a single rickety chair. He had been allowed a few books to keep, but was left no quill and ink when he was unobserved; of course none of the patients here were allowed to keep a wand. Ari understood the rationale.
But the new shape of his life was simple and solid. No margin or freedom left for making mistakes. He could not hurt anyone else by being here (Elliott: he was always thinking about Elliott); he could no longer hurt himself. He thought about it as often as ever, but – he felt almost placid besides some of the other patients he had met, and if he didn’t make a habit of hurting himself, the staff would perhaps not need to give him the same restraints.
Ari had spent most of the morning reading, after the morning meal; he hadn’t slept well for some upsets somewhere down the corridor during the night, and his whole body ached a little even just from traipsing up and down the stairs. His mind must have been elsewhere, because he hadn’t heard the visitor being shown into his room until he looked up and –
“Ben?” Ari said, throat dry. He shifted on the bed, straightening up to a proper sitting position against the wall. The nurse left them, visitors always with instructions to ring for help in the hallway if they had a problem; she had closed the door, but there was a small glass window in the door. “You came.”
He hadn’t had a chance to write back to Ben yet, now that he was here – no quill and ink – but he had the parchment with Ben’s answer folded into his book as a bookmark, and had spent as much time in his days tracing that letter as he had focusing on the novel. I will wait for you. As long as it takes. That was more than he deserved from Ben, already – but it did not tell him much about how he actually was, how he actually felt. Ari gazed hesitantly at him, waiting.
But the new shape of his life was simple and solid. No margin or freedom left for making mistakes. He could not hurt anyone else by being here (Elliott: he was always thinking about Elliott); he could no longer hurt himself. He thought about it as often as ever, but – he felt almost placid besides some of the other patients he had met, and if he didn’t make a habit of hurting himself, the staff would perhaps not need to give him the same restraints.
Ari had spent most of the morning reading, after the morning meal; he hadn’t slept well for some upsets somewhere down the corridor during the night, and his whole body ached a little even just from traipsing up and down the stairs. His mind must have been elsewhere, because he hadn’t heard the visitor being shown into his room until he looked up and –
“Ben?” Ari said, throat dry. He shifted on the bed, straightening up to a proper sitting position against the wall. The nurse left them, visitors always with instructions to ring for help in the hallway if they had a problem; she had closed the door, but there was a small glass window in the door. “You came.”
He hadn’t had a chance to write back to Ben yet, now that he was here – no quill and ink – but he had the parchment with Ben’s answer folded into his book as a bookmark, and had spent as much time in his days tracing that letter as he had focusing on the novel. I will wait for you. As long as it takes. That was more than he deserved from Ben, already – but it did not tell him much about how he actually was, how he actually felt. Ari gazed hesitantly at him, waiting.
