Dynamics of a Human Heart Ch. 05

Grey was quiet for a while after that before nodding, "Yeah, I can see that," he admitted as he took another drag off his cigarette, "Anyhow, we're getting off track, we were discussing how I knew poppet here was taking the piss.

"Actually, we were discussing Miranda's taste in cosmetics and how you knew it would be expensive," Sam replied.

Grey blew out a cloud of smoke and counted on his fingers, "Tennessee lavender to remind her of you, something from her home; and since she doesn't have a lot of warm fuzzy feelings towards her mum, I get the feeling that her da is closer to her heart. So, it would be something from where he's from; South Africa, as I understand it." Before Miranda could even open her mouth, Grey addressed her,

"Accent, dearie: you can drown it in as much Kyoto as you like, but Joburg trumps it any day of the week and twice on Sunday." He paused before adding; "Now if you'd been raised back east from start to finish, you'd sound more like people probably expect you to sound."

"Like bad 'Engrish'?" Sam interjected.

"Essentially," Grey replied, "Personally, I like the way you sound when you speak; it's unique."

Miranda's eyes lit up like a star before she quickly turned to look at Samantha.

Sam rolled her eyes, "Yes, he's talking about YOU, my adorable idiot, so feel free to swoon."

"I'm not swooning," Miranda replied defensively.

"Uh-huh." Sam just shook her head in amusement; Grey didn't seem to be paying attention.

"How did you know that I take after my dad?" Miranda asked, "That I don't get along with my mother."

Grey snorted, "You mean aside from the fact that you just referred to them as "my dad" versus 'mother'? Helpful hint: happy children have 'moms' and 'dads', unhappy children usually are the ones with 'mothers' and 'fathers'."

"Grim, but not entirely wrong," Sam added but Miranda gestured at her to be silent.

"Yes, besides that and assuming you didn't hear me say it at some point, how did you know?"

Grey exhaled a slow breath of smoke, "You sure you want to hear this, poppet? It is quite the minger."

"Tell me."

"Because strong Asian women, don't tend to get along with their mothers."

Sam's mouth fell open, "Wow that was just savagely racist."

"You asked," Grey finished his cigarette and coughed, "It's a dying mentality; too many young Asian women have decided they don't want to be pregnant and barefoot in the pagoda, but 'dying' does not mean 'dead'. It's still a reality for a lot of girls as I understand it and it's not pretty."

"No," Miranda said quietly, "It isn't," she looked up at him and the others were surprised to see tears forming in her eyes, "Is that all I am to you Grey? Just a puzzle to be solved? You take one look at me and think you know what it feels like to be me, just because you can pick apart every single detail of my life without trying?"

"Again, you asked," Grey reiterated.

"Enough, Grey," Sam said quietly, "We get it. You told us so."

"Maybe next time, you'll listen," he coughed again, "Now, I need your help with something."

"Yeah, what's that?" Sam asked bitterly, she was looking anywhere but at him.

"Well, see, the fact of it is: I'm about to pass out."

Both girls wrenched their heads around just in time to see Grey collapse onto the floor like a rag doll; his blanket falling free from his scarred body.

"Shit!" Sam cried out, wheeling over to him as Miranda raced to his side and helped the unconscious man to his feet.

"I really wish he'd stop doing this," Sam muttered as she and Miranda manhandled Grey back into his cot, "It's a tad on the nerve-wracking side."

Miranda touched his face and brow gently, "He's still got a fever," she said aloud, "But I think it's gone down a little."

Sam took over; cupping the man's face in her hands and placing the back of her hand against his forehead and cheeks.

"Yeah, it's down," she confirmed as she reached over and gently peeled one of his eyelids up, "but not out. Good news is that his eyes haven't rolled into the back of his head, so that's good," she touched the scar near the discolored eye, almost completely swallowed up by the swollen tissue surrounding it as a result of the beating he had received "I wonder how he got this," she murmured.

She turned to face her lover,

"None of your goddamned business," they both said aloud, and laughed a little.

"Or, it's 'a long story'," Samantha added.

"Can't a man," Grey whispered, "just have a few private matters?"

"Maybe," Sam replied as Grey opened his eyes, "But you're abusing the privilege, big time."

"Uh huh," Grey struggled to sit up and Miranda placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Stop that," she said softly as he flinched from her touch. Reluctantly, he let her help him into a sitting position. A coughing fit overcame him; hoarse and deep, as if it resonated from deep within his ribcage somewhere, where only the worst of pains reside.

Sam brought him some water, which he took gratefully and gulped down in a single breath. He coughed again and handed the glass back to her.

"Thanks, gimp," he said, favoring her with his scarred smile.

"Anytime, prick."

He gestured, "My kit and blanket."

Miranda scoffed and dumped the green bag and blanket into his lap, "Are you seriously just allergic to basic civility?"

"Only when it comes to whiny, self-important, birds," he replied without missing a beat as he covered himself in the blanket once more.

"For fuck's sake," Sam threw up her hands. "You're not even dating and you're already in the most dysfunctional relationship I've ever seen."

For a moment, both Grey and Miranda regarded her with a kind of mute horror at the mention of "relationship."

"What?" Sam asked innocently.

Grey turned his attention back to the kit and removed from it a small box made of cherry wood.

"What's that?" Sam asked.

"An old friend," Grey replied. He opened the box to reveal a silver handle roughly seven inches in length, cradled snugly in velvet the color of blood.

"What is it?" Miranda frowned at it as Grey gently pried it free from the contours of its case.

"A family heirloom of sorts," he replied, running his fingers down one side of it, then the other. It was made of chased silver and was heavily engraved with designs thorns and roses.

He brought his thumb up to a small lever near the top of the object and gently pushed and a single-edged blade, polished to mirror brightness smoothly slid out and into place.

"What. The. Fuck?" Sam asked as she stared at it.

Grey smirked, "Fancy a shave?"

Sam gulped audibly; the instrument was now over ten-inches long and the blade looked sharp enough to cut through bone.

"Buddy, if you think I'm letting that machete near me or any of my girly parts, you are sadly fucking mistaken."

Miranda was busy admiring the quality craftsmanship of the straight razor: there was no discoloration of the silver, no scuff or smear on the blade itself. It was flawless and a work of art to her eyes, "I like it," she said.

"You would," Sam commented before addressing Grey, "She has a fondness for sharp objects. Must be the samurai in her."

Miranda scoffed but didn't reply, instead reaching into the case and removing a small card: it was thicker than a business card; with deep blue colorations and gold script.

"'George Attenborough and Son, Silversmiths of Fleet Street," she read aloud, "Established 1843. 193 Fleet Street. London, England," she looked up in surprise, "This is over two-hundred years old?"

"Closer to one-seventy, but essentially, yeah," he took a moment to remove a small cloth from the case and carefully move it up and down the length of the razor; first the handle, then (gingerly) the blade, "Got a nice, long, history that goes along with it."

"Would you be willing to share said nice, long, history?" Sam inquired testily.

"Don't be snarky," Grey put the blade down long enough to fish out another cigarette and light up, "Yeah, sure, all right," he took a long puff and went back to polishing the razor.

"Way back in the 'Please sir, May I have another,' days, there was some judge or some such high and mighty type, had an eye for the ladies," he took another drag before continuing, "Anywho, this bird's bloke was not, if we are being kind, the stable sort."

"And if we're not being kind?" Miranda asked.

"Mad as a goddamn hatter but he was the quiet kind."

"Don't follow."

"Well, in his nine-to-five life he was a right proper gentleman from sole to crown," he took in a deep breath of smoke and exhaled thoughtfully, "But we've all got our breaking points. His was having his better half kidnapped to serve as that twisted bloke's gimp whilst he rotted in the clink."

"Sounds horrible," Miranda commented.

"A fine grasp on the obvious you have there, poppet," Grey smirked. Miranda didn't rise to the bait and simply eyed him coolly until he had taken another puff from his cigarette and resumed speaking, "Somewhere in that damned pit, our nice young man lost it. I'm quoting here but, 'Madness is like gravity, all you need is a little...push," Grey pushed forward with his hands to accentuate the point.

"Well, this guy wasn't 'pushed', he was beaten seven shades of shit and then thrown over the edge into the land of giggles and sharp objects."

"What happened next?" Sam asked breathlessly. Sure, she was hammered, but it was story time and getting Grey to talk about anything was a victory.

Grey smirked at her, "Settle down there, hot wheels; remember this is all myth, conjecture, and probably a double helping of proper British bullshit."

"Don't care, still cool, keep talking."

"He went on a murderous rampage; killed, fucked, or ate everyone involved; though nobody knows in what order, before carving a permanent smile on his collar."

"You mean--?" Sam looked pale, Miranda looked wildly skeptical as she sat on the floor opposite the cot.

"Indeed," Grey wriggled the straight razor for emphasis, "With this very tool."

"But if everyone died," Miranda observed, "How did it become a family heirloom?"

"Good eye, poppet," he grinned at her despite himself, trying to focus on her through his badly swollen eyes.

"Don't dodge the question."

"Right then. Well," Grey began, "rumor has it, my great, great, great-gran: Joanne I think her name was; pretty little thing. She was this bloke's housekeeper. Nearly got her throat cut for her trouble," he took a long pull off his cigarette, blowing out an acrid plume of smoke, "Instead she nicked this razor from off his body, pawned it, and her and a sailor she'd taken a shine to transport themselves to America."

"And the razor?"

"Bounced from pawnbroker to broker with occasional stint in a museum or a private collection, before it wound up in the care of my granddad during the war."

"War?" Which war?"

"The one what was supposed to be 'the war to end all wars'."

"Huh?"

"World War One, sweetie," Miranda answered helpfully. Sam was not a great fan of history. Drunk Sam even less so.

"Spot on," Grey confirmed, "At any rate, he passed it on to his brood, one of which being my father," Miranda winced slightly at his tone: there was an undercurrent of hostility when he spoke of his father that set her teeth on edge,

"And eventually I got my hands on it," Royce finished.

"I'm surprised you didn't hock it," Sam commented.

"Sentimental value."

"My ass," Sam belched semi-delicately then waved her hand frantically back and forth in front of her nose and mouth, "Oh, that does not smell good at all," Sam took a moment to refocus on Grey, "So, great story and all, but what made you think of it."

Grey was scrutinizing the edge of the blade carefully, appearing to be deep in thought, "Well, my dear, let me ask you this: have you ever seen the film 'Rocky'?"

Had Sam been sober, she would have instantly caught the red flag.

"Huh?"

Miranda, on the other hand, nearly leapt at the man.

"Don't--!"

Without hesitation, Grey drew the blade across the swollen flesh above his eyes; the skin split and burst causing fresh blood to flood from the thin cut. A second cut, this time at the tissue underneath his eyes and as he wiped the blood from his face, he was at last able to open his eyes fully and peer about.

"Fuck!" Grey commented, "Forgot what a mess this makes," blood was almost pouring from the two cuts.

"What the shit?!?!" Sam screamed backing away in a hurry even as Miranda reached out and took the, now-bloody blade from Grey, who offered no resistance.

"What the fuck is your problem?!" Miranda screamed at him, getting right into his face. With blood pooling under his eyes, it gave the bizarre impression of that he was actually weeping blood.

"Couldn't see proper," was the only explanation he gave as he continued to wipe blood out of his eyes.

"I hear 'ice' works pretty well to bring down the swelling!"

"This is faster," he grimaced, "Although messier than I remember."

"Of course it's a mess, you psychopath; those wounds were practically purple, they were so swollen."

"I think...," Grey began as he got unsteadily to his feet. Blood continued to pour from his eyes and he was moving clumsily, "I think..." he began again, sounding confused.

A coughing fit seized him then and it drove him to his hands and knees. Miranda and Sam were at a loss what to do.

"I can't....I can't," he coughed and choked, "fuck! I can't..." blood obscured his vision and had pooled around his face. He could taste it in the back of his throat, smell it in his nose; it was suffocating him; the pain was nearly incapacitating

Miranda cautiously approached him and was shocked to see that he was now crawling on the floor towards the door to the bathroom. He used a single hand to drag himself forward, the other was desperately trying to clean his face, as he moved inch by hellish inch. With no more strength to support himself, he collapsed onto his stomach.

He doesn't look broken Miranda thought to herself, or beaten. He looks....spent. Exhausted.

"Fuck," he hissed as he continued to crawl, but it was of no use. Soon the man was curled in the fetal position, coughing so hard it sounded as if his ribcage would splinter.

Then, he could move no further, only roll over onto his back.

"Help..."

"Of course," he heard someone whisper into his ear. He felt strong, cool, arms gently lift him up under his arms and pull him into the bathroom. He leaned his head against her arms; welcome for the comfort.

Miranda propped Grey up against the bathroom wall and took the blanket from off his body; he offered no resistance. She handed it off to Sam who had come wheeling in behind them.

"Is he still alive?" she asked.

Miranda turned to face her and nodded, "Yes," she turned back to Grey and touched his face, "or as close as he manages to be, at any rate."

Grey began to moan slightly, trying to push her away but Miranda was implacable.

"Enough Grey," she said, once again consulting her feelings for him, "You've been brave enough for one night. Rest."

Grey exhaled quietly and no longer struggled. Miranda unfastened his pants.

"Hey now," Sam commented.

"He needs to get cleaned up and you and I are going to make certain that happens," Miranda stated.

"Okay then," Sam nodded, only a little reluctant, "What do you need me to do?"

"Help me get his pants off."

"First time for everything, I guess," Sam quipped but did as she was bidden. It took some doing, but ultimately they were able to peel the stained and blood-soaked garment from Grey's body.

The burns, the girls noticed, did not extend much further past his waist; there was some damage to the tops of his legs; but it was minor compared to the rest of the damage.

He was now only clad in a pair of black boxer-briefs.

"Black undies," Sam commented with smirk, "Shocker." She gave Miranda an acquiring look, "Are we...?"

Miranda pursed her lips: logic and care raged against each other as that felt a great deal, like intense desire seemed to permeate her entire thought process, making it difficult to think clearly.

She shook her head, "No, leave them on. It shouldn't be necessary to tend to....that particular region," Miranda answered; doing her best to keep her voice steady, "I don't think he's ready for something like that."

"I don't think any of us are ready for that."

The girls gently maneuvered the semi-conscious man into the shower stall, propping him up against the tile wall.

"Are we thinking cold shower?" Sam asked.

"That would be the opposite of soothing," Miranda replied, "Warm water, please."

"You're the boss," Sam twisted the dial mounted underneath the showerhead and fiddled with it until it produced a steady stream of warm water.

"You are so lucky Miri won't let me indulge in a little payback," Sam growled at Grey, remembering when their positions had been reversed the other night.

Heedless of the water, Miranda took off her shoes and socks, entered the shower fully clothed, and began to wipe away the remaining grime and gore from his body. She had no washcloth, so instead she used her bare hands to lightly rub or scrape away each bit of muck from his scarred body. Soon her clothes were completely soaked through; her shirt became translucent and stuck tightly to her frame.

"Wet t-shirt contest," Sam commented dryly, "Nice."

Miranda sent her a wry frown before smoothing back Grey's hair from his face, trying to get the blood out of it. The young girl's hair was soaked and plastered to her head and she would push her hair out of her eyes to see more clearly. Her fingers left smudges of dirt and blood on her skin.

He began to twitch then, whispering quietly. Miranda leaned in closely to hear him,

"I'm tired."

Miranda touched him on the shoulder gently, "Then rest."

"I...I can't," he sighed, "Can't rest. Can't...stop."

"Stop what?" Sam asked as she maneuvered herself into the bathroom behind Miranda.

"You don't...understand," he coughed, trying to catch his breath. Miranda titled his head back gently to aid his breathing. "Eyes open two-four-seven, have to stay sharp, stay hard. Ready. Or else I'll lose."

"Lose what?" Miranda asked, peering deeply into his mismatched green eyes. For a second, they seemed to come into focus as they bore into her eyes with an intensity bordering on madness.

"Everything," he began to cough and shiver, despite the warm water, "Must be ready."

"Ready?" Miranda sent a confused look at Sam over her shoulder.

"The girls. Got to. Have to keep the girls safe."

"Is he talking about us?" Sam asked, looking perplexed and a little disturbed.

"I'm not sure," Miranda admitted.

"He's delirious."

Miranda's violet eyes opened wide, "No, no he's not, Sammy he's projecting," she touched Grey's grizzled face, wiping the water from his scarred eye, "He's remembering."

Grey began to move then, attempting to get away from Miranda's touch, to pull away into a far corner or get past her. In his weakened state though, Miranda wasn't having any of it.

"When was the last time you slept, Grey? Real sleep, not 'got drunk and passed out?"

"Can't sleep, leaves you helpless; makes you a target."

"Great, throw in chronic sleep deprivation to our diagnosis."

"It's the final problem."

"What's that?" Sam asked.

Grey tried to push his way past Miranda again; he made it up to his knees and shoved. Miranda did the only thing she could

She got her knees and reached out to pull the man down to her breast, wrapping her slender arms around, holding him tightly.

Everyone held their breath for a moment. Then slow, almost imperceptibly, Grey wrapped his arms around her and returned her embrace resting his head against her small breast.