Six Times Face Cried - Time Three
Sep. 15th, 2011 12:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
indigo_angels..3..
When you start doubting your own mental stability it’s probably time to get worried. But standing in the tiny kitchen of the house that Hannibal’s team (plus me of course) were staying in on base, with my hands shoved deep down into the hot, almost scolding, soapy water, watching the suds settle around my arms and enjoying the burn of the water on my skin, I found it hard to care whether the fact that the pain was making me feel better was a sign that I was mentally damaged in some way.
The last fourteen days of my life had been really pushing to get into the ‘Worst Days of my Life’ category, and to be honest, I think they made it hands down. It’s hard to think what, out of all of that, was the actual worst. I’d thought at first that it might have been the fact that the entire camp knew that I’d made a complete balls up of the best chance I was ever going to get in my whole career, and of course the fact that they let me know what they thought of that at every possible opportunity. Or maybe it was finally realising that someone spiked my food, that someone actually hated me enough to go out of their way to ruin my life. Then I thought it was possibly the actual graduation day, being the only graduate there without one single family member, friend or new CO come to support them.
It was only when I finally got back to Benning and reported to my new CO that I realised that no, this was the worst day out of a whole stack of possible worsts. I’d really hoped that Hannibal would have calmed down since that morning in Florida, and he had; now he was so calm he was just icy cold. He hardly spoke two words to me when I arrived, didn’t introduce me to the rest of the team, said it wasn’t worth it since I wasn’t staying, then he palmed me off onto some Corporal that wasn’t even in the team and walked away.
I could have stayed away, walked off to lick my wounds and leave him to it until he could get me reassigned, but, well, I don't work like that, I don't generally see why I should make anyone else’s life easier when mine isn’t. So, next morning I turned up at the house they were all staying at and just made myself comfortable. Smith looked shocked to see me there, I suppose I should be pleased, I bet it takes a lot to shock him, but he didn’t send me away so I stayed. No one talked to me, no one even seemed to know what the hell was going on, but Hannibal ignored me so they followed his lead.
It should have been an appalling way to spend a week, and I if I’d let myself feel at all then it would have been. The bitter truth is though, I’m actually used to staying places where I’m not wanted; it might still hurt like hell, but I can compartmentalise with the best of them, and I didn’t get my nickname for nothing.
I knew he couldn’t ignore me forever, and he didn’t. This morning, just after everyone had finished breakfast and headed out he called me into the kitchen with a barked, “Peck? Get in here; I’ve got a job for you.” It was pretty pathetic the way my heart started beating like crazy, but I managed to keep my face empty at least.
“Sir?” I stepped into the kitchen, still devastated from the breakfast rush, and found him leaning against the counter looking at me.
“We have a job,” he told me and I could hear my pulse thumping in my ears, “we leave tomorrow for at least a month, and today will be spent on all the last minute preparations.”
“Sir,” I nodded, biting back the wild hope that raged through me, I knew my organisational skills were second to none, whatever he wanted me to do, this way my chance to impress him, to prove to him he hadn’t made a mistake with me.
“The team will be flat out all day which I why I need you.” I wasn’t bothered why he needed me, just that he did; I nodded eagerly, “So you need to sort this kitchen out.” I actually felt my heart stop at that. “None of the team has time for things like that today, so get all these dishes washed and put away and wipe everything down. I don’t want to come back to a mouldy mess.” And now I was struggling to persuade my lungs to work as well. “By the time we get back, your reassignment will have come through as well, so you need to make sure you have packed up and moved out today. I’ll be back briefly around five to get the last of my gear. It would be good if you were gone by then.”
He didn’t even wait for a response; just turned from me and walked out of the door. Five seconds later I heard the front door slam shut and then silence descended over the whole house.
I had no idea how long I stood there for, clinging onto the counter top with white hands to stop myself from falling to the floor, refusing to let my brain go back over any of the conversation at all before I finally admitted defeat. Why the Lt. Col. had taken such violent exception to my faux pas that morning in Florida, I really couldn’t pin down, but he had, and it was blatantly obvious that he was never going to forgive me. Giving up was fairly rare event in my life, but I realised that this time it was the only way out, that I was never going to win against Smith, so I walked to the sink and filled it with hot, hot water, plenty of washing up liquid and then my hands, watching as the bubbles crept up my arms.
Whether it was the pain of the water or the fact that I couldn’t stop the replay of the whole god-awful conversation playing over and over in my head, but I hadn’t even got to the first grease covered plate before my eyes misted over and that all too familiar tightness gripped the back of my throat. Before I knew it, my knees were giving up and my back was sliding down the cupboard doors behind me and my burning, soapy hands were in my hair and I was sobbing into my thighs, the familiar pain of rejection and humiliation lancing through my chest and burning its way out through my eyes and my throat.
I’d just about given up on life at that point. Everything I’d dreamed of, worked for, aimed at, had simply disappeared along with that man who had just walked out of the door. I was lost, aimless, friendless and right at the end of my endurance. What should have been the week that saw my life really get going, found me huddled on the floor of a filthy kitchen trying to persuade myself to breathe between sobs. I doubted that anything in the entire history of the world was as pathetic as me at that minute.
I never heard the door open, or the footsteps that must have sounded across the lino; was far too deep in my despair to notice him standing there watching me, it was only when I felt a hand on the back of my neck that I jumped, throwing myself into the corner, knowing I looked every inch the trapped animal, and staring up at him in horror.
What could possibly be worse than the CO who already thinks you are a complete and utter waste of Army time and resources, finding you curled up on the kitchen floor crying when you are supposed to be doing a job for them? Yeah, I’m struggling with that one as well. For at least the third time in this man’s company I just wanted the ground to open up and let me slide right in.
But then, for at least the third time since I’d known him, Hannibal Smith surprised me again. He dropped to his knees right in front of me, effectively trapping me in the corner, and slid one hand onto the back of my neck once more, the other moving to grip my shoulder. Then he pulled me into him, the hand on my shoulder sliding down so it rested flat against my back, holding me flush against his chest, cradling my head and rubbing my back and whispering into my hair. “Oh, god, kid, don't do this,” he whispered, and I felt the stupid tears start up afresh at the vaguest hint of sympathy in his voice, “I’m sorry,” he actually sounded it as well, “That was an appalling way to treat you, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise any of this was bothering you, I’m sorry.”
How could it not be bothering me? Was my act that good that I had fooled him completely? I gave up trying to fight against myself and just let the tears pour out of me. There was no way that I could possibly make this worse, and maybe it was even getting just a little bit better. But either way, sitting here like this with these hard, strong arms around me, a large hand warm against the skin of my neck, the flat of my back... god, this was the best I had felt in as long as I could remember. And perversely enough that made me cry even harder as I clung to him.
Next
When you start doubting your own mental stability it’s probably time to get worried. But standing in the tiny kitchen of the house that Hannibal’s team (plus me of course) were staying in on base, with my hands shoved deep down into the hot, almost scolding, soapy water, watching the suds settle around my arms and enjoying the burn of the water on my skin, I found it hard to care whether the fact that the pain was making me feel better was a sign that I was mentally damaged in some way.
The last fourteen days of my life had been really pushing to get into the ‘Worst Days of my Life’ category, and to be honest, I think they made it hands down. It’s hard to think what, out of all of that, was the actual worst. I’d thought at first that it might have been the fact that the entire camp knew that I’d made a complete balls up of the best chance I was ever going to get in my whole career, and of course the fact that they let me know what they thought of that at every possible opportunity. Or maybe it was finally realising that someone spiked my food, that someone actually hated me enough to go out of their way to ruin my life. Then I thought it was possibly the actual graduation day, being the only graduate there without one single family member, friend or new CO come to support them.
It was only when I finally got back to Benning and reported to my new CO that I realised that no, this was the worst day out of a whole stack of possible worsts. I’d really hoped that Hannibal would have calmed down since that morning in Florida, and he had; now he was so calm he was just icy cold. He hardly spoke two words to me when I arrived, didn’t introduce me to the rest of the team, said it wasn’t worth it since I wasn’t staying, then he palmed me off onto some Corporal that wasn’t even in the team and walked away.
I could have stayed away, walked off to lick my wounds and leave him to it until he could get me reassigned, but, well, I don't work like that, I don't generally see why I should make anyone else’s life easier when mine isn’t. So, next morning I turned up at the house they were all staying at and just made myself comfortable. Smith looked shocked to see me there, I suppose I should be pleased, I bet it takes a lot to shock him, but he didn’t send me away so I stayed. No one talked to me, no one even seemed to know what the hell was going on, but Hannibal ignored me so they followed his lead.
It should have been an appalling way to spend a week, and I if I’d let myself feel at all then it would have been. The bitter truth is though, I’m actually used to staying places where I’m not wanted; it might still hurt like hell, but I can compartmentalise with the best of them, and I didn’t get my nickname for nothing.
I knew he couldn’t ignore me forever, and he didn’t. This morning, just after everyone had finished breakfast and headed out he called me into the kitchen with a barked, “Peck? Get in here; I’ve got a job for you.” It was pretty pathetic the way my heart started beating like crazy, but I managed to keep my face empty at least.
“Sir?” I stepped into the kitchen, still devastated from the breakfast rush, and found him leaning against the counter looking at me.
“We have a job,” he told me and I could hear my pulse thumping in my ears, “we leave tomorrow for at least a month, and today will be spent on all the last minute preparations.”
“Sir,” I nodded, biting back the wild hope that raged through me, I knew my organisational skills were second to none, whatever he wanted me to do, this way my chance to impress him, to prove to him he hadn’t made a mistake with me.
“The team will be flat out all day which I why I need you.” I wasn’t bothered why he needed me, just that he did; I nodded eagerly, “So you need to sort this kitchen out.” I actually felt my heart stop at that. “None of the team has time for things like that today, so get all these dishes washed and put away and wipe everything down. I don’t want to come back to a mouldy mess.” And now I was struggling to persuade my lungs to work as well. “By the time we get back, your reassignment will have come through as well, so you need to make sure you have packed up and moved out today. I’ll be back briefly around five to get the last of my gear. It would be good if you were gone by then.”
He didn’t even wait for a response; just turned from me and walked out of the door. Five seconds later I heard the front door slam shut and then silence descended over the whole house.
I had no idea how long I stood there for, clinging onto the counter top with white hands to stop myself from falling to the floor, refusing to let my brain go back over any of the conversation at all before I finally admitted defeat. Why the Lt. Col. had taken such violent exception to my faux pas that morning in Florida, I really couldn’t pin down, but he had, and it was blatantly obvious that he was never going to forgive me. Giving up was fairly rare event in my life, but I realised that this time it was the only way out, that I was never going to win against Smith, so I walked to the sink and filled it with hot, hot water, plenty of washing up liquid and then my hands, watching as the bubbles crept up my arms.
Whether it was the pain of the water or the fact that I couldn’t stop the replay of the whole god-awful conversation playing over and over in my head, but I hadn’t even got to the first grease covered plate before my eyes misted over and that all too familiar tightness gripped the back of my throat. Before I knew it, my knees were giving up and my back was sliding down the cupboard doors behind me and my burning, soapy hands were in my hair and I was sobbing into my thighs, the familiar pain of rejection and humiliation lancing through my chest and burning its way out through my eyes and my throat.
I’d just about given up on life at that point. Everything I’d dreamed of, worked for, aimed at, had simply disappeared along with that man who had just walked out of the door. I was lost, aimless, friendless and right at the end of my endurance. What should have been the week that saw my life really get going, found me huddled on the floor of a filthy kitchen trying to persuade myself to breathe between sobs. I doubted that anything in the entire history of the world was as pathetic as me at that minute.
I never heard the door open, or the footsteps that must have sounded across the lino; was far too deep in my despair to notice him standing there watching me, it was only when I felt a hand on the back of my neck that I jumped, throwing myself into the corner, knowing I looked every inch the trapped animal, and staring up at him in horror.
What could possibly be worse than the CO who already thinks you are a complete and utter waste of Army time and resources, finding you curled up on the kitchen floor crying when you are supposed to be doing a job for them? Yeah, I’m struggling with that one as well. For at least the third time in this man’s company I just wanted the ground to open up and let me slide right in.
But then, for at least the third time since I’d known him, Hannibal Smith surprised me again. He dropped to his knees right in front of me, effectively trapping me in the corner, and slid one hand onto the back of my neck once more, the other moving to grip my shoulder. Then he pulled me into him, the hand on my shoulder sliding down so it rested flat against my back, holding me flush against his chest, cradling my head and rubbing my back and whispering into my hair. “Oh, god, kid, don't do this,” he whispered, and I felt the stupid tears start up afresh at the vaguest hint of sympathy in his voice, “I’m sorry,” he actually sounded it as well, “That was an appalling way to treat you, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise any of this was bothering you, I’m sorry.”
How could it not be bothering me? Was my act that good that I had fooled him completely? I gave up trying to fight against myself and just let the tears pour out of me. There was no way that I could possibly make this worse, and maybe it was even getting just a little bit better. But either way, sitting here like this with these hard, strong arms around me, a large hand warm against the skin of my neck, the flat of my back... god, this was the best I had felt in as long as I could remember. And perversely enough that made me cry even harder as I clung to him.
Next
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Date: 2011-09-15 09:07 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for commenting, and I hope you get enough revision doen for your exams! :)