A day in the life

This is how it usually went: At six the alarm would go off, he would hit the stop button and get up. Just like that. When he wasn’t awoken by the digital clock on his bedside table, he had been lying awake for hours, watching the seconds blink away, contemplating getting up and going for a run. Sometimes he would. Other times he would simply lie in relative darkness and wait.
How considerate I am, he would think to himself, standing in the cold shower, not waking Dom up by snoozing, or using all the hot water. Then he would get dressed. Well dressed, shaking his head at himself in the foggy bathroom mirror, tying his tie or buttoning his shirt. Or he would be in his bedroom, in front of the full body mirror, if it was a busy morning, which it never was. No one had any reason to get up so early. So he could take his time, shaving, combing his hair while the coffee brewed. He might even make porridge if he felt like it, or a big portion to share.
Aurelius had gotten him into the habit of morning pages once, but since he had reverted to being vain, that was no longer the first thing he did every morning. He would still do it, when he had his second cup of coffee, in his room: three pages in the notebook that hid its secrets for anyone but him, three pages, often variations of the same nightmare, beginning with; Tonight I killed him again. But it would be different. Sometimes he meant to do it, sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes it was because he had been slighted, sometimes it was in self defense, sometimes he enjoyed it, sometimes it was violent, sometimes an accident. No matter how, the result was the same, and when he finally awoke the reality of it all would remain unchanged, and it could echo in his head throughout the morning until he wrote it down. He is dead, he would tell himself as he turned off the alarm. He is dead, he would whisper, where the water swallowed up the sound. He is dead, he would think as he rinsed off shaving cream. Then finally staring down at his black coffee: And it’s my fault.

This is how it usually went: He would slam the notebook shut, with shaking hands and equally unstable breaths. Often very far from the three pages, but what did it matter? Aurelius was not here to see him either. So he would try very hard not to shake, try very hard not to cry, for he did not cry anymore. He had no right to tears, for it was his fault. No, it was better not to think about it at all. He had written it down, now, he had to move on. He would have to think of how one’s breath was supposed to sound: all calm and regular. It would sound like this for the rest of the day, no matter what. As he could breathe, he would owe them that.
Then locking away his past and grabbing his coat, he would congratulate himself on how good he had gotten, at not crying, at not complaining, at not feeling sorry for himself. At not stopping on the way out of his room to ponder at his reflection and allow himself to imagine what ifs and different timelines where he wouldn’t be able to tell that Dominic was awake, or who was and was not in the kitchen, and where they would still be alive and well and Cadmus would have never existed.
When he caught his own eyes in the mirror he only thought, congratulations.
He would walk through the kitchen with a goodmorning, maybe even stop to chat for a bit, if it wasn’t already eight, or if he didn’t have plans until later, coat hanging over his arm, waiting on him to finish and get outside, to go for a walk and clear his head, because it needed clearing, and he needed a cigarette.
Erast was as ugly as ever in the morning, so he might go to the university. No one noticed him if he sat around the library with a book all morning. Still he would activate a small zeal that made it harder for people to remember him. He had grown these past 7 or 10 years – had they gotten a newer photograph of him when Aurelius died? He couldn’t remember, and didn’t want to arouse suspicion by looking it up, but a little safety never hurt.

Sometimes he would meet a client at campus. That had been before the murder of course, before the Godia were all over the place.
The clients  wouldn’t know what he looked like, but he could easily tell who they were, standing where they had been told to stand, looking around with a nervous expectancy. And, from wherever he was standing or sitting, he would reach out with his powers, just to make sure they weren’t setting up some sort of trap, that they were who he expected them to be. This way he felt quite safe: If they were suspicious he could just leave. If not; he would simply walk up and greet them and tell them to tag along. It was not a long walk into Erast from there, where there were plenty of empty buildings for shady business of every liking, provided you knew the right people of course. Did it bother him that people got so nervous around him, when they learned who he was? (Well of course not who he was in the given name sort of way, but he was the healer of Erast, whatever that meant.) Maybe it did. But he liked to think himself charming enough to soften his clients somewhat. To get them to trust him enough to let him do his job. And he was good at it. Perfekt even. They got what they came for, and he got his money. Once they parted, they wouldn’t be able to remember his face either.

A meeting like that might take between an hour and two. Depending on where he met them, what they had to work with, and how much effort he put into trying to talk them out of it. Because he couldn’t help but despise people a little, who chose to forget. They took the easy way out, were not forced to remember. Feeling was normal, he would tell them, it meant living and being human and what not, and had they thought it through? It was not without its risks. They would be giving up a part of their soul (this he didn’t tell them, it sounded so dramatic, was it even true?). Despite everything they always went through with it, and why not? He was there to do it for a reason. Why else would they have gone to so much trouble? And the money… He needed it, although he didn’t fully understand why it meant so much. What he charged depended on the job, who they were, what and why. Sometimes he would feel sorry for them and undercharge. Sometimes, meaning once or twice, it was some infamous politician, who had to pay for his discretion too. What a blast the media would have, if they knew how politicians were able to feign ignorance like this. That sort of work paid so well he almost didn’t mind the risk.

Around noon he would check up on his contacts, pick up new work, numbers to call from one of the payphones of the area, or he might lunch with someone. It really varied a lot. But he liked it whenever someone could update him on either news, personal or EFA related or more work. There was always work. especially now that he had gotten himself a reputation. He was on pretty good terms with most of Erast and its shady business. Also the less ambiguous criminals, who made up another risky business. They too had much to gain by forgetting certain things, in case of mind interrogations. But the risk. He felt himself spread so thin around Erast, his web was bound to burst. No matter how careful he was, there were so many ways it could all go wrong. Better not to tell Dom exactly how much he made, or how he made it. Better to pretend like there were enough sad people, who needed his help for him to be gone so much.
The afternoons meant more work. A lot of scheduling and planning. Maybe another client. On the occasional day where he was really busy he might take upwards of five on a day. Mostly though, he would aim for two or three. That way, if he was paid in something other than cash, he would have time to pass by the black market to trade it for something useful or sell it for cash, or do whatever shopping needed to be done.
The evenings were mostly kept free. For temple or EFA stuff or well, Acheron. One always had to be prepared for Acheron.

There were other things to do as well, and coming home did not mean relaxation. Not purely at least. He was rarely on kitchen duty, half the time was not even home for dinner, but when he was, there would be the dinner table, and conversation, and making sure no one felt left out, or seemed down. It meant catching up with Dom on more work.
He sometimes ran errands for the rebels who were staying, if the sudden need for something should appear, and no one else was there to do it. They might play a board game after dinner, or watch a film. He did enjoy it when he got to pick.
If he still had energy left, he sometimes went for a jog. It was stupid and dangerous: Erast was not a nice place for runners, especially not after dark, but he was confident he would somehow manage. And the woods were nice enough. Most other parts of Ilomar served quite well for running without the risk of muggings. Although most were prettier in the morning. The woods, however, reminded him of home. Eleanor would surely have started university by now. He sometimes wondered if he would run into her one day, if she was here at all, she might after all study back home. He wondered what it would be like. As if it would be anything. She probably wouldn’t recognise him, and he would not approach her. How much had they told her then, about what had happened? To think of it, he knew so little about her by now, that he couldn’t even think of what she might be studying.

Some nights he did meet her. After having finally drawn the curtains closed, gotten into bed and picked up a book to try to postpone the nightmares; sometimes she too would be there.