Fool's Rook [Closed]

[saronym]

Slate grey eyes studied the doctor endorsing Owen’s good health. He wouldn’t admit he was supremely relieved to hear his body was in good shape. He nodded slowly noting his agreement with Kama’s assessments about his previously injured elbow and knee. Basking in reassurances was short lived when the topic of his cocaine use was broached. Indeed, Owen was back on the powder. He knew he couldn’t hide such use from blood tests and made no efforts to deny it. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t or wouldn’t make a disproportionate show offense to Kama’s rather mild cut.

“Well,” He sat up on his elbow so as to better direct his vitriol to the other man, “when you suffer a brutal execution sending your consciousness spiraling out of time and space into timeless black death and then wake up restrained to a psych ward bed pumped so full of Haldol your pubes are soaked with drool and Dr. Freud himself is asking you what the fuck decade you really think it is, then we can talk about appropriate self-indulgences. Until then, spare me the pearl clutching, doc.” Apparently, the blonde did have it in him to characterize the whole death-to-life experience. Perhaps some nuggets of truth were in there somewhere. Then again he did have a penchant for drama, especially when he could wield it to make a point with a flourish. For a man as impossible as Owen prided himself to be, the issue of whether a point was actually made or not was immaterial. This was particularly so, if he knew he was in the wrong but could still amuse himself with a ridiculous rejoinder. And he never bothered hiding that he was amused with himself. This day was no different.

A devilish grin adorned his lips revealing a touch of teeth as he observed Kama pulling his stool over in the typical doctor way. It indicated explanations were sure to follow. Owen thus resettled into a satirical posture of deferential listening. He leaned over on his elbow, propping chin on knuckles, with brow furrowed, as he listened to Kama begin his explanation of his resurrection. Upon the mention of his wife by name, he sobered up from what he was counting as his victorious repartee.

His visage momentarily transitioned into something akin an expression of physical discomfort. The frowning brow remained, but his eyes softened glazing over.  His wife’s history, it seemed, was a never ending matryoska doll of secrets. As you opened the deeper dolls the more deformed they got. “She never told me she had another brother.” He said it quietly more to himself than Kama. Hearing her name. Learning another significant fact he never knew about a woman with whom he spent near two decades. If expression and vocal intonation weren’t clue enough into his distress the quickening of his pulse on the monitor was a dead giveaway.

The change in the monitor beeps brought him out of the brief reverie. “Well it seems, I have a new favorite Darkwillow brother. Thanks are in order to dear Elliot. I suppose I have him to thank for curing permanent nerve damage in that elbow from a botched surgery. And preserving my taste for stimulants.” He isolated the elbow injury pointedly. Referring to, of course, a surgery performed by Kama himself to salvage devastating, irreparable nerve damage.