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120 decibels is capable of instantaneously damaging one’s hearing; coincidentally, naturally occurring lightning strikes clock in at exactly that, an average of 120 decibels. Who knew how many decibels it was, as the electricity surged down his left arm, up his fingertips and…
“Balsa!!” Lorenz’s scream for mercy was the last thing the young inventor heard before his ears were filled with sirens
The cold air hit Luca’s lungs immediately upon waking, his heart already hammering in his chest as if he’d been struck all over again. Phantoms dug their keen fingernails into his old scars, never letting him forget what little he could remember. Sometimes he wished the accident didn’t spare his mind at all; wouldn’t that be easier than living as this half-formed version of himself?
The young inventor clutched his head, which felt as though it was splitting right down the center. The ringing in his ears never did fade. Sweat-dampened sheets clung to his skin. Luca fought them away, frantically climbing out of his bed. Every hair on his body stood at attention, the air was mercifully cold on his lightly fevered skin. Static plagued his vision and his ears. Quickly, his fingers found his hair– he pulled himself to reality, the sharpness of his tugging was almost like a hand saving him from drowning. Fistfuls of hair came with his hands, fluttering slowly to the ground in sharp juxtaposition with the violence of Balsa’s movements.
Vaguely through the sirens in his ears, he heard his own ragged breathing. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered to attempt to control it. When he couldn’t, he quickly became angry. He raised a hand to himself.
Edgar Valden was racing through the corridors of Oletus– the scream and subsequent disturbances had a gut-wrenching familiarity by this point.
Luca Balsa’s story was not a happy one. Though he had a friendly disposition and was a formidable decoder… everyone who came here had their problems. Most minded their business. Shrieks from the ex-con’s room weren’t out of place. It wasn’t any of his neighbor’s business what was going on.
Valden felt differently.
This is not to say the painter would go nosing about in just anybody’s business, especially not at these hours. But this was different.
The door was thrown open with force and closed with consideration.
Footsteps. He could hear footsteps. He could hardly see, who had just entered the room? He had to pull it together, how humiliating.
Frozen, he was frozen– literally, frozen. Ice cold water was poured over his head and Luca gasped in a full breath, shocked. His fried nerves struggled to reset themselves. Slowly, his vision cleared. The sirens in his ears dulled to a distant ringing.
Valden stood before him. Slowly like a steady drip of honey, what remained of his sanity came back to him.
Oletus manor. The resident painter stood before him. He looked pale, shaken even.
“...Valden?” He found his mouth blearily forming the word without full permission from his addled brain.
“Yes,” the smaller man came closer to him. “You’ve had one of your episodes, Luca.”
Right. Yes, he remembers– he must’ve had a night terror.
“Do you know where you are?” the artist prompted him. When the hesitation grew too long, he spoke again. “Luca.”
The inventor blinked and seemed to respond to his name.
“Do you know where you are?” he repeated, uncharacteristically patient.
“..Yes, I… Oletus Manor. My quarters….” he mumbled, not quite meeting his eyes. A burning sensation began in his scalp like tiny needles jabbed at each follicle. He rubbed his head in regret, the center of his forehead was tender.
“Come with me. Let’s get you cleaned and dressed.” Edgar’s voice was pragmatic and even. It was a perfect foothold for Luca at the moment. Wordlessly, he went with him.
The washroom tiles were cold on Balsa’s bare feet, continuing to ground him. Small hands were helping him undress. Something about the process was nostalgic. The soaked clothing fell heavily to the floor. The sound of running water faded in and out of static. Each gradient on the marble tiles curled and stretched into storm clouds, a vignette forming at the edges of his perception. He could almost hear the rolling thunder, the static became raindrops…
“...sa. Balsa.” A voice brought him back to earth, one of those hands coming to rest on his bare shoulder overtop of his prickling scars. Hazel eyes met icy blue ones. “...your bath.” Edgar gestured to the washtub, filled with lukewarm water.
It seemed as though he was taking time in leaps and bounds, as the next thing Balsa could see was his knees in front of him, half submerged in water, and the sensation of the inoffensive liquid being poured over his head. His sore follicles prickled with protest, though his fried nerves the inventor couldn’t find the energy to wince.
Small hands carefully carded through his locks, and washed away what little blood accumulated from the violent tugs.
His new clothing was warm and dry. Finally, ease tentatively began to tiptoe its way back into his chest, then up his neck, and finally came to rest behind his aching eyes. Small hands held him steady as he shakily made his way to bed. They rested upon his chest as they laid together.
As Luca’s breathing evened out, Edgar’s became quietly disrupted. His eyes burned, and his tears were quickly soaked into the fabric resting just above the inventor’s fernlike scarring. His throat tightened as he sighed in absolute, helpless despair. The painter allowed his own feelings to release silently as the sun kissed the horizon good morning. His cries fell upon deaf ears and a broken mind.
Edgar’s delicate, small hands wiped his own tears away.