new salt on wounds
being watched in thought · 01/19

Fight club came and went. Securing the wave of battles that money of his tripled on. His bets were placed and plausible to a cause of concern when it meant that life or death was the thread of measure to anyone's outcome. Occupied, keeping his fluttering mind from breaking down the stations of operations, he clocked in hours or so attending to the needs of the house while someone above on the second floor was resting. His wife. The word was an anomaly while spoken in a sentence he still had to let sink in. Not for anything of fear when the final act of commitment sunk in where it was supposed to be. Where he had thought unlikely months before the new year exposed itself. Not even weeks were given a full chance and the bullshit kicked into gear again. Stirring a pot on the stove with the pad of a wooden spoon, he shut out the properties of probable occurrences that raised his blood pressure.

She was safe now. Resembled a UFC fighter in a marathon of matches but was resilient. He had an inkling of hope she would be but what had gone on, from the inside, would wait to be found out until the ready. Until she was able to shake from the daze of painkillers that held her over in a sleep stasis. Preparing a pot of bisque should be enough. He was relaxed in the role of caretaker but one that looked over the house. The individuals that belonged. The pets they shared between the two as if they were extension of children, he hoped one day they would have together. Instead unconventional were the family that was still in running to fitting together like a puzzle piece. In his elongated stance, he noticed the patterning scratches of a post. Nails running along the textured toy, signaling where at least one of his cats were. The other two, fluffy as their coats allowed, stood at the doorway. Twins of habit much as animals of habit, watched on.

He felt their gaze zeroing in. Like trained predators, awaiting those bowls of fancy cat to be lurched upon. Out of the corner of one eye, where impairment never struck, a visional disturbance flashed forward. It could have been a lapsed time of five minutes, an hour, or so but there it had been of the kitchen being overrun by every creature that lived in the house. Where cats and dogs somehow lived harmoniously with another, wildly fighting for scraps. And why idly thinking of them seemed to find parallels of how different, maybe at some point if not still, two broken people found a way not to rely on that embedded tale as their crutch. The lock of suffering that always felt real than the uncertain parts no one would gather up and immediately chucked into a pail because it did not belong to a narrative of pain.

If anyone knew what pain was, it was him. Dishing it out was preferable than enduring it, both physically and in the emotional spectrum. He knew what pain she must be in as it was dulled enough to sleep. To forget of the days being conditioned by low basic needs in order to put on a show. The pain of then was only half the battle and he was doing to do his best so that pain lessened it's impact on healing. It started by providing the comforts missed. Food, home-cooked as it started. Fresh linens that lined the bedding for the scent sometimes laced with lavender, tried not to overrun his senses. Water. Ice packs and heating wraps when it called for it. The medication he had left over since the last time his own body became vulnerable, waiting on the night stand.

A role of being there with the critters who were now all filing at the door watching as he continued cooking down a simmering pot of a tamed red sauce. He heard the retired greyhound. The patterning of a stubby leg french bulldog. The last cat and alpha of the entire clique, following in as well. No name, his dearest pal wedging right through them all to prance in closer. Being brave enough to paw at his leg. He trained his ear on guessing their moves. On point of figuring out what they collectively wanted he looked down and corner of his mouth tried to lift into what resembled a smirk. One look over the shoulder gave a clear view in a once over before he abandoned the pot to post near the pantry. Most if not all of the selections strict to schedule was collected. One by one he went around the kitchen, filling bowls with chow. Dry, wet, a mix of both. Remembering the habits of all who dwelled when he had not been back for no more than some odd weeks.

The space remained the same. Unchanging to his absence but still a change was sound in the air. Where to move on from the act of being captured, being there himself, he couldn't put full thought into another contingency plan. They were useless. Even the once stray cat who leaped on the chair to lick his paw, would agree. Possibly every last one could nod if Slade asked. Questioning the validity of secure ways to avoid the inevitable. No source of strength, know how, or previous experience would predict fighting off what was to come. He relied on narrowing attentions on their now. Getting familiar with feeding schedules once again. Preparing a long day's worth of work. Making efforts to supply his partner with the things she needed, deserved, because he had yet to make a few wrongs right in all of its entirety.

The last bowl was filled and he saw his cat leap off the chair to stalk the dish. Bailing away from their dinner gathering, he moved to the sink to wash his hands. Stationed back at the stove, he peered down at the pot which was simmering at the state he wanted it to. There were a couple of more things to prepare as the cast iron pan sat free on an open burner. A knob was turned, heat gradually rising to heat the pan's surface. As in a daze he had been then, the rest of the days would follow in the same fashion.