Bringing Him Back {Gypsy and Alan23}

[Alan23]

Bringing Him Back {Gypsy and Alan23}

The nightmares didn't improve with repetition.

Given the life Noel K Trent had experienced, he wasn't overly surprised he was experiencing bad dreams at this stage of his life. His military service - as a hired hand, without even the excuse of patriotism to comfort his conscience with - should have been enough to guarantee that. And that was before you even started to think about his childhood, the tiny, cramped slum in inner London, the constant hits and punishment from his father... yes, nightmares were no surprise. He'd always had them occasionally...

And yet now, it wasn't the pain, the fear of being crouched under the table, his father's hairy arm dragging him out for another whacking, that he dreamed of. Or the time he's seen Hans blown to a bloody mess by the landmine, or crouched under that thin cover while the enemy machine gun bullets whistled over his head. It wasn't the time he'd been charged by that mad bull in Roma, Australia, nor the time he'd been in that knife fight in Sydney when that mad, ice-crazed lunatic had come at him with a knife.

What he dreamed about held no violence, no direct threat. yet simply recalling that meeting in the secret apartment, in Montemarte, Paris - fuck, even remembering there had BEEN a meeting - that could bring him out in a sweat even when awake. To have nightmares about a time when your life had been in danger... that was normal enough, he guessed.

But to dream about a conversation, with a man who meant you no harm, who was simply honestly and truthfully supplying what you had purchased...

Oh well. The sheets were soaked, and he was still shaking. And It was, he saw as he checked the watch on his bedside table, only an hour short of the scheduled visit of the psychiatrist, or (he now recalled) the new one, the assistant. What did they tell him her name was? Something out of the Bible. Bathsheeba... no. Delilah. Just time to shower, fling on some clothes, change the sweaty sheets. Grab some of the stuff that kept him coherent. A few tabs should do it.

An hour later, he realized that there was always a chance a girl on the first meeting of a new assignment might be early. The knock on the door showed her to be ten minutes ahead of time. Rather than keep her waiting, he flung the towel around himself, and opened the door.

At least, he remembered, he'd had time to shave with the razor they'd only been allowing him for a few days!

 

[Gypsy]

"Do you have everything you need?"

Delilah Haswell glanced up from the patient file she was handed, meeting the quizzical gaze of the psychiatrist she was assisting over the year. Though her face showed no signs of the distress she felt within, her hands, cold and clammy, betrayed her indifferent demeanor. She prayed to whoever watched over pale, petite psychiatric assistants about to delve into the forefront of a metaphorical war field of the mentally ill that her superior, Dr. Walt, would fail to notice the miniature brooks that emerged in her palms. It wouldn't do her repertoire any good.

"Yes, I believe I'm ready," Lilah assured, closing the folder after skimming over the essentials one last time, the image of the patient engraved in her mind. "As ready as I can ever be anyway."

Dr. Samuel Walt was a forty-something psychiatrist with a crown of graying, sable hair, a set of colossal shoulders and a belly that held the potential to be pudgy if he didn't watch what he consumed. It was high time to let his assistant take the reins in this particular case, one that he trusted Delilah could handle without his supervision. She had been with him since the patient was admitted to White Lane, documenting his progress over the weeks from behind Dr. Walt's shoulder like a pirate and his parrot. It was safe to assume that Delilah knewNoel Trent.

"Very well. It's about time that you paid him a visit. You know the drill, right? Try to get him to remember. That's all. Any memory he can recall might aid his recovery." He stood, ushering his assistant off her perch and out to the beige wallpapered hallway of the ward. "If, by any chance, he becomes hostile towards you, alert the other orderlies. I assume it won't happen given his current state, but it wouldn't hurt to be cautious."

Before she could reply, however, the brass plating of Dr. Samuel Walt Ph.D. greeted her with the faintest click of the shutting door. This inspired an indolent sigh, for it exacerbated the anxiety that flummoxed her system. At this moment, without her superior's presence, it finally dawned on Lilah how defenseless she was without Dr. Walt fronting her. Years of training in this field all seemingly evaporated now that each step she took towards her patient's room brought her closer to a test of, not only will, but also a form of valor. A brief glance at the wall clock with a bland design informed her that she was ten minutes early to her appointment, but it didn't bother her. After all, the early bird catches the worm, as the saying goes. But…who was the worm?

The man Delilah was about to meet was a renowned author, remarkable and notorious, yet an enigma in and of himself. He had fallen from grace; of that, she was certain. From distinguished to dismal, the Noel Trent behind Room 017 in White Lane was a different person from the Noel Trent who took the literary industry by a storm and accumulated assorted awards in his wake. He had led a publicized existence after his series became bestsellers, adapting a lifestyle that embodied the core of reality TV these days. All of it faded when a supposedly brief excursion in France led to an untimely disappearance. Some presumed that he had retired, or became a recluse to complete his trilogy, and that was that. It was a recurring trend amongst writers anyway, so it wouldn't have been bizarre when it happened to Noel. Therefore, when he was found in the streets of Montemarte—cataleptic and incoherent, it was the controversy of the year. After being admitted to numerous institutions for treatment, progress was miniscule at best much to his fans' dismay, for not even a team of seasoned psychologists could restore Noel Trent to his former glory. Inevitably, even though it wasn't explicitly stated, the succor and interest of the public waned. New, hip and rising writers claimed the limelight he formerly inhabited, and he was all but abandoned to the umbrage of his own fugue. With the decline of attention on him came the regression of his treatment. One by one, the doctors who spearheaded his rehabilitation capitulated and believed nothing could be done to Noel. In the end, they consented to his admission to White Lane, a California-based group home for individuals like Noel, where he would be taken care and medicated accordingly since not a single relative dared to come forth and adopt the responsibility to do so. At least, that was what his record informed her of, anyway.

If she were to summarize his file, the précis was that Noel K. Trent was dumped in White Lane to die.

This man was alone in ways people shouldn’t be alone.

Any hope she had of emboldening herself with mental mantras and reassessing the important points in this case after the rapid succession of her knuckles on the door of Room 017 promptly vanished upon its immediate opening. Her spine straightened as she squared her shoulders, affecting a pedantic posture she was often reminded to adopt for an assertive disposition before the patients. A sheer contradiction to the trepidation that curled around her heart. Nevertheless, professionalism must reign supreme even though the only thing she desired in that godforsaken hall was to skedaddle back to the sanctuary of Dr. Walt's office and cower behind the older man who sent her to the lion's den.

What she perceived beyond the entryway was a sight she had not prepared for.

Skin, that was what she saw. There was a significantly exposed amount of tanned skin which glistened with the lightest film of moisture, confounding the young assistant to a bewildered blinking. This scenario wasn't included in her internal petitions; hence why, bafflement carved into her fascia. It took her a brief second to regain composure and an audible clearing of her throat before she could redirect her gaze elsewhere. With an amicable albeit strained smile, Delilah greeted him after adjusting the black, horn-rimmed spectacles balancing on the bridge of her nose, a nervous gesture of hers not many seemed to have caught on, luckily.

"Good morning, Noel," Lilah breezed in, the resonant click of her ebony pumps echoing into his chamber. It was a room she had become familiar with, for it was identical to most of the other residents in White Lane. Complete with a single bed, a bedside table topped with a multipurpose clock and radio, two cushy chairs flanked a round and mahogany table for psychiatric visits, the vicinity had yet to be graced with late morning light due to the taupe drapes that sealed off illumination. She amended this immediately, flinging the curtains back and permitting the sun to dapple the room in radiance. "That seems a lot better, don't you think? You'll need all the vitamin e you can get from sunlight."

The clipboard she held close to her chest—a subconscious concealment of her fluttering heart, perhaps—was bequeathed on the table as she stood by one of the chairs that surrounded it. She motioned for him to take a seat as well, her poised demeanor hardly wavering in spite of the frenzied thoughts that ransacked her mind, afflicting her palms and her underarms to perspire profusely. Who would have thought that the pageant tricks her mother instilled in her would be so handy in such an unlikely field? "I'm Delilah," her introduction arose without any speech impediment fortunately. "I'll be monitoring your health from now on, in place of Dr. Walt, and reporting our proceedings to him afterwards. I'm pleased to finally make your acquaintance. We can start our session as before; how are you feeling today?"​

 

[Alan23]

The tone of Noel's voice in reply was one that few would have expected. It did not have the bravado one might have expected from a media darling (albeit a fallen one) nor the slightly spacey, wavering intonation of those that are fighting to hold onto what remains of their sanity. Nor, for that matter, did it contain the aggression that he had so often used against Dr Walt, whom he somewhat resented, for the doctor forced him to remember things he'd rather not. Instead, it might almost have been described as...

...shy!

"Please, Delilah, come in," he said, standing back, making it obvious he was giving her plenty of personal space. "And commiserations for being stuck with me. Broke some rule or other, did you? Late for work?" He gave a cynical grin, sat down in the chair - being caught in nothing but a towel had left him totally unembarrassed - and lit a small cigar from a pack he took from the bedside table. "As to your question... well, the normal polite answer is to reply one's fine. But you weren't asking to be sociable, now, were you? It was a professional enquiry, right? Well, I'm feeling as shitty as all hell, and I don't dare even look at the windows for fear I'll fling myself out. And the dream i had last night didn't help."

He looked her up and down, discreetly and politely, yet missing nothing for all that. The fact that she was attractive he filed away almost without his conscious mind even noticing. He'd met many pretty girls. More to the point, was her state of mind. Back in the old, innocent days - before he knew what he now knew - his writing style had been based upon acute observation, the ability never to miss the smallest detail. Delilah had no need to wear a mood-ring from the sixties to show him her state of mind.

The girl was scared. Shit scared. Some of the signs were obvious, such as the excessive sweat under her arms and beading her forehead, the terrified look in her eyes, her body language, which seemed to be making her shrink away. The displacement activity of opening the window would have been less of a clue for many, but to him it resembled the way a frightened cat will wash herself in the face of a challenge to fight. There was a note in her voice that confirmed her apprehension.

And the irony was, he could not help reflecting, that she had a right to be terrified. Not that he would harm her in the way many in his position might. He had not the slightest wish or intention to cause harm to anyone. But had he wished, he could have reduced her to helplessness and paralysis and - and here was the supreme, soul-searing irony - without even breaking the law! He need not have touched her, need not have even insulted her or lied about her. All he would have had to do was tell her what he knew, what he'd learned on that fateful day.

He'd been half tempted to write it all down, and send it to Dr Walt, in revenge for being made to talk even on the periphery of it.

"Yeah, vitamin E... oh yeah," He shook his head, sadly. "Sunlight is... right now, I hate it as much as any vampire would. I know where it comes from, and -" he stopped. This was too scarily close to things he did not wish to discuss. Some decades ago, the prevailing wisdom in the field of psychiatry had asserted that patients had to talk out their problems, get it out from their psyche into the open. Janov's primal therapy had been the start, and he wondered how much harm that man had done. Lately, studies had shown that there were some things that should be bottled up! But many still clung to the Janov school, among them Dr Walt... and, presumably, his pretty and nervous assistant.

"But yeah, I can't expect you to sit in gloom, can I? Your job's hard enough, I guess." He sat down on the bed, and ashed his cigar in the small ash tray. He'd also marked the thick-framed spectacles she wore, and guessed her eyesight wasn't perfect, a situation that keeping the room in darkness wouldn't help. The fact that the spectacles were obviously a little large for her, and forced her to adjust them he found almost endearing. He reached for the small book, with the printed columns, given to patients who monitored their own medication. "Let's get the formalities over, I guess. I took every tab The Wart told me to, but I passed on the sleeping tablets. Somehow, I find I have fewer dreams when I don't use them. yeah, I know that's the opposite of what the clinical studies said, but I can't help that.

"Still, I guess I'm a hopeless case anyway, so whether or not I take anything this place prescribes is irrelevant. I expect I'll stay here until the publishers decide I'm not famous enough any more to give them any kudos for paying for my treatment, then I'll be shipped out to some conventional bug hutch to live out the rest of my life. Still, it's all one to me whatever pills you fill me with in the meantime, even if I do feel I'm starting to rattle as I walk."

He resettled his frame on the bed.

"So, what did you want me to talk about today?" he asked.

 

[Gypsy]

Most of Delilah's presumptions with regards to Noel were duly disproved once she crossed the threshold to his quarters. Had he portrayed antagonism, he would be met with indifference; tartness with civility; detachment with sympathy. Yet, with a conjunction of diffidence, self-deprecation and courteousness, a catch-22 met her at the helm. For someone who was all but reclusive whenever their session with Dr. Walt commenced, this somewhat accommodating acceptance was a pleasant turn of events. It scarcely evicted her mind from the gutter however, for it seemed like they favored the real estate there and would hardly budge for anything else when there was half-clothed man in her presence. If only the patient she was assigned to wasn't a former fame starlet who had the charisma to charm even a wall, her occupation would be far easier, sans excessive perspiration and unnecessary discomposure too.

As he sat, she too occupied the seat opposite of him, crossing her legs as subtle, sidelong glances were often sent to him after seizing the clipboard. Another thing to add in the list of perplexities she accumulated ever since Dr. Walt relinquished this case to her was the home's tolerance of Noel's vices. The cancer stick he indulged in at present should have been confiscated, yet the orderlies seemingly opted to turn a blind eye. Lung cancer on top of possible dementia was something Delilah was determined to prevent at all costs. While it didn't bother her directly, for the scent of the thick, rich cigar eclipsing the room inspired fond memories of her dad in the assistant, her concerns mostly revolved around how the effects this laxity would affect his recovery.

Ink tarnished the immaculate white of her pad as she scribbled her notes, listening to his declarations with a considerate look and an avid ear. Her gaze alternated from the patient to her notations, never lingering too long on the former in hopes of staving off the heat that would surely tint her cheeks. At first, his belittlement of himself elicited a small smile to cross her face before fashioning her features to polite interest once more. This feeling was short-lived, however, for his speech bore the inflections of a type of wisdom from having seen too much, too many. The question, in this case, would always be what. Everything that had led to Noel's admission to White Lane was a mystery that was difficult to solve. Only he had the clues they could utilize, yet even he, himself, refused to take part in the investigation. His voluntary repression was the foremost obstacle, and only he would be able to surmount it. What so many have tried and what Delilah was attempting at present, a push in treatments and a word in therapies, would all be in vain if the origin rebuffed their efforts with his obstinacy.

How could he think he was as a lost cause when he wouldn't even help himself?

"Now, why would you think that handling your case would be some sort of sentence? The Wart—as you so fondly call him—and I have been with you for awhile now and, I assure you, it is by no means a burden. We're here to help, however way we can, so it's good of you to take your prescribed medications." Blitheness laced her delivery, matching it with an affable smile against his cynicism, his nonchalant mien mollifying her ever-present anxiety. Delilah endeavored to focus at the task at hand even as he moved to the bed and tempted fate to execute a mortifying denuding with the towel that sired his privates. The potential exhibition disconcerted her, flushing her pallor with a shade of red she often adopted whenever her mother coerced her to drink wine in some absurd gathering of hers. She adjusted her glasses and sat a little straighter, finding her blouse far too stuffy with its fitting and sleeves at the moment. "Perhaps you should get dressed before we continue." I'm getting tired of ignoring your nipples stand. "Wouldn't want you to get a cold on top of vitamin e deficiency, occasional bloodlust and allergies to garlic.

"I've noticed you've been cooped up in here for awhile." She stood and smoothed down her black pencil skirt, politely turning her back on him so he could dress and diverting her attention on the shelves attached to the wall. Much of his books were here, on display; paperbacks, hardbacks, limited editions adorned the ledges which speckled his room. Her fingers grazed the spines of the hardback novels of The Harley Flitcroft series, a series she had started reading and he had abjured completing, before procuring the second book in the rank. "I hardly see you visit the rec room, or even leave your room for that matter. A breath of fresh Sacramento air beyond these four walls can do wonders, Noel. It might improve your mood. Not to mention the weather is particularly pleasant today. Let's not waste it. We can discuss these dreams you've been having among other important things. Perhaps an exercise too."​

 

[Alan23]

"Exercise?" The contempt in his voice was almost solid. "Oh yeah, I'm full of that. Working out in gymnasiums and drinking bottle water from spas in Bavaria and eating like a rabbit." Having flung on his clothes, he stubbed the cigar out in the ashtray. He had seen from her holier-than-thou look that she was one of those bluenoses who regarded smoking a creation of the devil. "As for the rec room... those people that congregate there to watch soap operas and play snakes and chutes haven't done me any harm. Why should I bring them down with my presence. OK, you can turn around now. I'm totally decent."

In fact, her seeing him in just the towel, and her subsequent reaction had done something that all the Wart's medications and therapy had so far failed to achieve. It hadn't been deliberate on his part - he'd genuinely planned to be fully dressed when she arrived - yet having her see him, and her (not quite successful) attempt to hide her reaction had caused him much amusement. It was almost a shock, discovering his ability to find a situation funny, after so long. Like a patient who has been confined to bed for years suddenly discovering that he can, against all expectations, walk, yet still feeling wobbly on his legs.

"A cold? Hmm, that'd be a novelty at least. Haven't suffered from that since I was a kid. Back when my dad used to make me take a bath fully clothed, then sleep all night that way as a punishment for... for whatever I'd done, I forget now. British winters can be kind of nasty. But right now I can walk naked though mid-winter and come out unscathed."

As he waited for Delilah to turn and face him, other thoughts were going through his head. Though she was obviously far from street-wise, and obviously very much wedded to the orthodox, she was, nonetheless, attempting to help him as best she could. She'd fail, of course... after what he'd learned in France, he could never be normal again... but that didn't alter the fact she was doing her best.

He smiled.

"On the other hand, what guy wouldn't relish a stroll with a pretty woman?"

 

[Gypsy]

Once the rustling of clothes ceased and his permission came, Delilah returned the paperback and pilfered the third book from the series. The clipboard that accompanied her wherever she went concealed the novel which she held close to her chest before pivoting on her heel. The relieved exhale she evoked was inconspicuous, though the allayed expression on her displayed the comfort she regained once he was dressed. His disarming smile and artful compliment, however, did naught to abate her heated cheeks much to her dismay, resulting to a clearing of her throat and a flippant wave of her hand in hopes of dispelling the Trent Charm his fanatics entitled.

"Not that kind of exercise," Lilah shook her head briskly, gesturing for him to follow once she crossed the entrance of his room. "I'm not your trainer. That's beyond the realm of my abilities." Nor did he need one based from her subconscious observations, for Noel Trent was a fine specimen of the male species, and this was a recognition that had no place in the professionalism she was striving for. "I meant exercises of the psychological variety. They're more like games, in truth. Nothing heavy. It's for me to get a better read on you and your progress."

The beige wallpapered halls of White Lane stridently contrasted the interesting residents within. From his chamber, in order to reach the courtyard behind the shelter, they would need to pass beyond the recreation room. A white threshold instead of a door allowed an unobstructed view of low-maintenance patients who dwelt within. Stragglers convened about the TV, watching a sports game Delilah couldn't discern, whilst others interacted over a book or a board game and the remaining enjoyed their solitude over an individual activity.

"You don't have to socialize if you don't wish to, but interaction aside from your doctors and orderlies can help pass the time while you're in here." She walked in front of Noel, occasionally glancing over her shoulder to assure herself that he was following and had no intention of assaulting her from behind in broad daylight. "No man is an island, right? Plus, your books are part of the reading materials in there. It's read by some of the patients. Wouldn't you like to hear of what they thought about them?"

Once they reached the end of the corridor, the heat of the sun greeted her after sliding the glass door open; moderated by a refreshing delta breeze that carried the scent of flora, it was as she said: it was a particularly pleasant day. It seemed that some of the orderlies had the same idea as the assistant, for their charges were partaking in leisurely activities in the great outdoors. Painting, gardening or simply strolling amid the lush greenery was some of the highlights she hoped Noel would indulge in some day. If there wasn't any progress in divulging what happened to him, then the least she could do was attempt to reintegrate him in society.

Delilah strolled down a brick paseo flanked by a diversity of flowers. An indiscernible frown lingered on her face when his anecdote perplexed her. How could a father be so ruthless to their child? Her own had been kind and protective of her that it had led her to an admittedly sheltered upbringing; to think that Noel was once in the receiving end of such an abuse inspired pity within her. This incident was automatically listed in her notes.

"That's cruel of your father," it was a sympathetic statement, a hint of resentment for an unknown figure tinting her voice, "and very wrong of him. No one should undergo through that. The events during childhood until early adolescence influences who we are as a person. Punishments like that can be traumatizing. While it made you immune to colds, it's highly unadvisable to your children.

"Anyway, before I start the exercise, I've been meaning to ask about your dream and why you haven't taken up writing again. Perhaps not a continuation of your series, but just normal writing. There are writing materials in your room but you've never used it. Even though Dr. Walt encouraged you to write a journal, you never took to it."​

 

[Alan23]

"Games?" Noel scowled. "If there's one thing I've done too often in this life of mine, it's played games." He had fallen into step behind her, and - and this was something new, he had to admit, and not entirely unwelcome - was actually finding the waggling movement of her posterior under her slightly too tight skirt somewhat intriguing. It was almost like being properly alive again. "Still, if it helps you fill in those white pages on that report of yours, I'll go along with it. If there's one thing that's scarier than anything else, it's a blank white page." A truth that, as a writer, he knew all too well. "And you're wrong. Lots of men are islands. Me, I'm surrounded by storm-tossed seas full of sharks, and I really do prefer it that way."

He looked over her shoulder at the recreation area. The basketball game on TV (he'd always liked basketball, back in the old days when he'd liked and disliked things, when things mattered) and the residents, sitting around. So secure. So at peace. Even if a person was impoverished, in pain, lonely, at least they didn't know *The secret* - he envied the religious, with their false but comforting beliefs, and the atheists who were so secure in their knowledge, even if it wasn't true. Well, not exactly... "Look, it's not that I don't like people, exactly," he continued, finding he wanted to please Delilah, who was obviously doing her best to help hum, ineffectual though it might have been "maybe it's better to think of me as someone with a nasty contagious disease, like influenza or something. You don;t have to keep me in isolation from other people because I'm willfully bad, but because I... what I know might... if I forget, and speak, and it comes out... " he abandoned the attempt to explain. "Yeah, well, I guess my father couldn't help it." He chuckled. "About the one thing that might have brought us together would be to have cornered the guy who made that ripped condom that brought me into the world. He hated being a father, I hated being a son."

He looked away. "That's not why I don;t write any more though. It's more... see, I learned things. Things that no-one should ever know. For ignorant people to tell stuff to others, that's fine. No harm done. But... well, if what I really know were to get about, no-one would ever sleep, ever rest properly again. Everything would be meaningless... so, I... " he realized he was probably saying too much already. "And I'm certainly not going to write a journal. Thoughts are... look, if I wanted the Wart to know what I was thinking, they'd be words, not thoughts. And I'm certainly not putting stuff down in writing for people to pore over and examine and deconstruct. Frankly, I think asking about someone else's dreams is like asking a girl what color panties she's got on... a private and secret matter except for someone who knows her well."

He drew level with her.

"But OK... you have a job to do, I realize. So... ask me... ask me what you want, and if I can tell you, I'll talk. OK?"

 

[Gypsy]

Delilah refrained from stating that the sharks which surrounded Noel were figments of his imagination and from mentioning that the disease which plagued his mind was curable if he would just enlighten them. An argument was one of the things she sought to avoid in sunny Sacramento.

Their stroll ended when she reached one of the picnic tables that littered the courtyard beneath an invigorating shade of an old oak tree, unremitting breezes ruffling her coiffure to release errant, raven strands. After settling unto the hard wood, inwardly thanking those who presided over foolish females who trekked cobblestone paths in high heels for the conveniently placed pit stops in her journey, Delilah gestured for him to take a seat opposite of her after relinquishing her belongings on the surface. In addition to gratitude, a silent prayer was also beseeched to no deity in particular in hopes that the leafy canopy or, after adjusting her frames, the glasses perched on her nose shadowed the seemingly permanent cherry tint on her cheeks courtesy of his comment about unmentionables. He had a penchant to broach inappropriate subjects so cavalierly that it baffled the assistant on how to respond, torn between chiding him and gaping at him. Averting her gaze, she resorted to scribbling on her notes.

In hindsight, despite being admitted to White Lane and drugged with numerous prescription medications, his trademark wit and intelligence hardly dimmed during his stay here, sullied as it was by whatever Montemarte did to him, continuing to charm the susceptible. He was able to discern Dr. Walt's intentions when he suggested that Noel should keep a journal. Another negligent patient wouldn't have distinguished the psychiatrist's will to extract some information from what they had written. A wealth of what ifs pervaded her mind: What if he didn't go to France? What if he hadn't seen what he had seen? What if he just explained what happened?

Would Noel be as brilliant and radiant as he was when he was at the prime of his career?

An intrinsic abhorrence for what had ruined Noel Trent seared through her. Whatever had corrupted the writer left him barely enough sanity to be functional. He was surviving, not living, enduring day by day in an aimless daze. The subliminal furrowing of her brows as well as the hardening of her jaw conveyed the determination which molded her mindset.

Delilah will salvage Noel from his island-prison, regardless of his preference.

Storm-tossed seas, bloodthirsty sharks and needless apprehension to disarming authors be damned.

To officially commence this endeavor, she needed a blank page.

From her clipboard, she detached a few sheets of paper and a packet of photographs from underneath. The former was slid to the opposite side of the table before weighing it down with a pen whilst the latter was arranged after a brief glance from the woman. Deep, baby blue eyes peered at him behind her spectacles circumspectly, practicing what Dr. Walt taught her about how persuasive eye contact can be.

"I don't know what secret it is you're profoundly guarding that you think it's better off if the world needn't know about it, but at the expense of your health, it isn't worth protecting. If you think you're harboring a contagious malady within you that only you can bridle, wouldn't you think that Dr. Walt and I would have been infected already? We're tougher than we look, Mr. Trent. I do hope that you decide to take a chance with us.

"There's a blank, white page before you, Noel. Us humans… we're intricately made and crafted to have a natural compulsion to fill empty spaces. Perhaps you're not at the moment, but I'm going to show you a couple of images. Some may be familiar to you and some may not. I've given you a number of mediums to convey what you'll perceive whether it by verbalizing your thoughts or using those. It is up to you how to tell me, however what you cannot do is not respond.

One by one, images of his existence that had been collected over the course of Noel's life were presented on the table before him. From childhood to adulthood, in black and white and in color, professionally and candidly, it was all laid bare for his scrutiny. Some of it had been in his file, the recent ones anyway, whilst the others were photos she gathered from the internet. The most up to date picture of Noel which she sighted was a paparazzi shot before he was admitted to White Lane, preceding it was a snapshot of a strange man attached to tubes in a hospital bed. It was the writer after he was found in the streets of Montemarte delirious with drugs, bedraggled and unrecognizable.​

 

[Alan23]

There was not much Noel was missing. Certainly not the shyness that obviously plagued the unfortunate Delilah, for even his mention of female undergarments had brought a bush to her face that, though she was desperately attempting to hide it, he found most attractive. As, for that matter, he found the way her spectacles constantly slid down on her nose, requiring constant readjustment, or the way - and he was sure she hadn't realized, and he was desperately trying not to draw her attention to it by looking too obviously - the slightly too tight skirt tended to ride up when she was sitting, and was revealing far more leg than she had probably intended.

"Well, that's why it's not a disease, in the sense you mean," he replied, answering her question as well as he could. "Or, if it is, well, it isn't like influenza, that you can give to people whether you like it or not, just by being around them. I guess I think of myself more of a... well, maybe a kind of vampire. You know in the legends, how vampires make other vampires? A human and a vampire have to drink each other's blood, right? Well, my secret's a bit like that. If I don't tell anyone, it can't hurt them. Once I do, then I can't UN-tell it. And they have the curse for life. As long as I can be sure it never slips out, what I know, then... like, I could have a normal life. I could never sleep with anyone, of course, even in the sense of literally sleeping... like, staying at another guy's place even... for fear I might talk in my sleep. Or get drunk or drugged, because it might come out when I wasn't in control of myself. Or ever write it down, for fear someone might find it or read over my shoulder. It's... it's something I know, and few don't, about the very nature of... of how things are."

He looked at the pictures she'd spread out. It was almost redolent of nostalgia to see his life laid out before him. Photographs going right back to his childhood... though even then, there had been a look of fear, though that had been due to his father. Shots of himself in soccer outfits, school uniforms, a young man in a suit. His military service and career as a mercenary (where had White Lane got hold of that, he wondered) and later publicity shots as his career began to take off. A shot of him dressed as Nash, the character he had based upon himself in his writings. Receiving the "best New Writer of the Year" award. Happier times, all. And then...

...then how it had ended up. Drugged, on life-support. He'd recovered physically... but otherwise...

"Delilah, it isn't a blank page, that's the trouble," he said, emphatically. "Sure, I know the philosophy. Every day is the first day of the rest of your life, yeah? Well, maybe that's true for some, maybe everyone. But... for me, the only thing that would save me was some magic piece of surgical equipment that might burrow down into my mind and get out the... the thing I learned."

In turning his head away from the pictures, he caught sight of Delilah's thighs again. He was sitting at one end of the seat, and thus even though the table was between them he could still see her legs. It gave him an almost painful feeling of nostalgia. Before... before what had happened in Montemarte... he might have tried his luck with her. Though she probably had a boyfriend, anyway... but he'd still have tried.

"But you're wrong," he continued, forcing himself back on track. "Totally and utterly wrong. What I know it like... like a kid learning Santa doesn't exist, or... or like learning you're adopted, or something. Life changing, you understand. If I decided to talk, it would make big changes. All the established religions would be in a flux, and you wouldn't be able to escape into atheism, either. God's not a myth, and yet God doesn't exist, and..." he realized he'd said too much already. "Look, imagine how you'd feel if you found your boyfriend - you have got a boyfriend, right - was cheating on you. You might SAY you'd want to know, but you wouldn't, not really. Now multiply that a thousand times, so that the whole world feels as bad as you would."

There was a look of genuine fear in his deep grey eyes, now. A fear that could not possibly have been faked. The beginnings of tears welled up, and he forced them back with an effort.

"If only you could help me, Delilah. If only I dared trust you. Or trust anyone."

 

[Gypsy]

Subconsciously, when he spoke of vampires, Delilah touched the side of her neck. Even though she had already felt it within the her chest, but the stroke informed her of her fluttering pulse akin to a flitting hummingbird's wings. Other patients had never incited a similar reaction save for Noel, though if it was due to the lingering anxiety from her unaccompanied session or the transitory looks he sent her way, specifically her legs, she did not know. Needless to say, it was difficult to disregard it when the knowledge made itself known, moreover when it didn't pacify her current state of disconcertment. Perhaps her succeeding actions, which might have breached her code of ethics, could be accounted to her perturbation or that crestfallen look that crossed over his face once he was done, for Delilah vacated her seat and crouched before the writer. His larger hands were ensconced in her daintier ones, squeezing them with a reassuring force to transcend the resolve she possessed to unearth him from this delusional rut he inhumed himself in.

"This isn't living a normal life." Delilah countered with a shake of her head . "Keeping everyone who's trying to help you at an arm's length for fear that they might lose it at the cost of your own welfare is not normal living at all. Think of your secret as something of an infectious parasite that can only be transmitted if it's brought to awareness. It's attached inside you, deteriorating your sanity each passing day. Now, you think that as long as it doesn't affect your day to day function you'll be fine. You can ignore it. There's no need for medical attention, no need to tell anyone about it or ruin someone's life by dragging them down when you let them now. That's not true though. The more that you keep it inside without seeking any help, the more that it'll fester until, one day, it has decomposed you from within. Have you ever thought that maybe this 'life-changing' knowledge only affects you? That perhaps others are immune to it? That we have taken precautionary measures against it?

Only when she addressed another personal fact he insouciantly incorporated in his dialogue did she severe eye contact, focusing her attention to the world-weary hand she cradled as she spoke. "I… I don't have a boyfriend, but if he was cheating on me, I would want to know. I'm that person who doesn't like being kept in the dark, good or bad, even if it changes everything." Straightening up, she filched a photo from the heap, an image wherein Noel was surrounded by his peers, his trademark smile captured perfectly, and displayed it to him. "Don't you want to return to this person again? I want to help you, in any way I can, Noel," she muttered, entreating him to let her, "that's what I'm here for. But I can't do that if you don't help me help you, if you don't trust me to help you."

The numbness that had set in on her legs impelled her to stand abaft him before her muscles cramped, leaning in to uncap the pen prior to resetting it on the spotless sheet. She blocked the sun and casted a shadow unto the picnic table, serving as bulwark against the zephyrs that tousled her hair from its coiffure. Propping herself up with a hand on the surface adjacent to him, such a position provided her the protection from his expressive grey irises which seemed to implore her with contradicting messages of both pleading for help and repelling any form of aid concurrently. His eyes were haunting, compelling, sculpted with starlight, yet ghastly frightened with the burden he bore. To have it directed at her made her feel vulnerable, resulting to a cowardice which relegated her out of his line of sight.

"It's alright to be afraid, Noel, to cry out of fear." A supportive squeeze on his shoulder. "There's nothing noble about being fearless. How much do you want to be the last man standing in a battle if he is usually the biggest fool of all? That blank page doesn't necessarily mean that it's the first day of the rest of your life because, let's be honest, past events mold who we are now, right? But it does mean control. An array of photographs which leads you to a walk down memory lane, a white canvas and a black pen are completely at your disposal. What will you do with it? Will you give me a story?"​

 

[Alan23]

"A story?" Noel asked. The expression began in cynicism, yet, as it dawned upon him she was genuinely attempting to help, he forced himself to modify his tone. She meant him no harm - indeed, meant him good - and to mock or revile her would, he knew, be unjust in the extreme. "A... story? Delilah, stories are not always good. Facts are not always illuminating. The gods of mythology torment humans in two ways. By withholding what they crave... or, even worse, by giving it to them."

He reached across and pushed her disordered hair back from her forehead. It was taking an extreme liberty, he knew... he had no right to perform such an intimate act... yet he craved touch, craved human interaction.

"There was a man... a man named Le Vasoir... who owed me money. He borrowed from me, desperate to embark upon a venture that would feed his starving family. The venture failed. He came to me, in abject fear, cast down, and told me he could not repay the debt in the time agreed, and admitted I had the right to take what revenge I wished." Noel smiled, slightly self-deprecatingly. "Not from benevolence, simply indifference, I chose not to proceed as he suggested. After all, what had I to gain from destroying a man's life, and that of his children? Instead, I gave him more time to pay off the debt - a break, incidentally, of which he took full advantage, and some months later he paid it in full, with far higher monetary interest than the original contract stipulated, but I digress. Anyway, my point is that he felt he owed me, rightly or wrongly, and he knew I was a seeker after... after certain truths.

"Therefore, as a favor to me... or so he saw it... he introduced me to a man. A... a scientist... or philosopher... or magician. Call him what you will. La Vasoir knew I was a seeker after truth, and he knew this man possessed such truths as might intrigue me. Let us call this man "Monsieur Noir" for want of anything better.

"Monsieur Noir and I hit it off immediately. We lunched and dined regularly, visited various haunts... the nature of which, I fear, would make you dislike me... and I really don't want you to do that, pretty Delilah... and talked. Talked of all things. History, literature, art... and, most of all, the underside, the hidden wing of philosophical speculation. Mr Noir had a secret, you see...

"A secret he would not vouchsafe, for the very reason that I now keep it to myself. A thing it is not good for people to know, and which he kept from me for my own good. It would stop me sleeping nights, destroy my sense of self worth. As it had destroyed his, for, intelligent and urbane as he was, he was a tortured man. His eyes were festooned with bags, for he rarely slept more than a few hours of drug-induced slumber a night, and he dared not pause from the social whirl for fear he might find himself... thinking.

"No, pretty Delilah, he refused to tell me. And then, one night, in his luxurious apartment in the Rue De Vien, he grew careless. He fell into a stupor, without troubling to lock the draw in which he kept the combination to his safe.

"I should have respected his wishes. I did not. Delilah, by that morning, I had read his notes, digested all he had discovered. About how our world came to be, about the very nature of God. And long before he woke, I fled from that apartment, screaming in fear, tears streaming from my eyes, gibbering and raving. They found me, covered in mud from the river, my eyes red from crying, shaking and trembling. And... the rest you know.

"There are people that have offended me in my life, Delilah. Offended me enough to hurt them, perhaps even kill them. But never, ever, before or since, has anyone offended or hurt me enough to tempt me to destroy them to the extent of telling them the secret I learned in Monsieur Noir's notes. For no-one, no-one at all deserves that. Not ever."

He smiled.

"And that is... my story. It's A story, anyway. And... and if you are wise, you'll stand up, pull that skirt down over your wonderful legs and walk away, for you're too good and fine a person to suffer the sheer agony of soul of knowing any more."

 

[Gypsy]

Astonished by his final statement, Delilah did stand up and pull her skirt down, yet she didn't walk away.

Instead, a sequence of disgraceful events unfolded. The assistant, in her plight to regain her modesty, staggered back from the picnic table. A horrifying débâcle ensued soon after in which one of the heels of her pumps was wedged in an inconspicuous crack on the cobblestone path, afflicting her equilibrium, which gravity took advantage of. Before long, she descended rapidly on a nearby flowerbed not far from where the picnic table was located after emitting a shrill shriek.

If that wasn't enough, her fall had unraveled Delilah completely. Her pencil skirt hiked higher to reveal a generous view of her pale thighs, her coiffure came undone and relinquished ebony strands to frame her abashed face. Her spectacles was knocked off the bridge of her nose much like how one of her shoes which remained hinged on the ground. Why she received such treatment from the universe baffled her, and for a moment, she contemplated how cathartic it would be to cry. Yet the assistant was an adult, almost twenty four, and it wouldn't be fitting for an adult to sob just because of an untimely crash. As an alternative, she shifted to a supine position and stared at the nebulous sky, attempting to regain her dignity, her pride and her bearings whilst biding her time. Blaming it on Noel's constant slew of pretty Delilah and other flatteries would be highly unprofessional. Though whenever he employed it, it threw her out of homeostasis. It was impossible to face her patient in these moments, yet what he imparted was a consuming distraction compared to her inelegant spectacle.

The story was unlike any chronicle Delilah heard. It was laced with revelations and intrigue. Most of which orbited around Monsieur Noir. Mister Black and his villainous secret. Whatever knowledge he possessed tainted and ruined Noel, cursing him with misery and delusion. Though what it might be eluded her, it couldn't have been so drastic as to render Noel stark raving mad. Let's not forget Noel used drugs liberally. One of the many contributors to the deterioration of his sanity and the distortion of reality. His psychosis never left him until now, yet it had fortunately gifted him with a functionality that astounded psychologists and psychiatrists alike. In the number of months that Noel resided in White Lane, what he informed her of was precious information. It was the progress that impelled them forward from the impasse so many had encountered in this case. Dr. Walt and his previous doctors never reached this level of confession from their fallen author, but a young psychiatric assistant did – of all people. To say that Delilah didn't feel a swell of accomplishment would be an outright lie. It was an endeavor fraught with plenty of trials and adversities, yet here she was, learning Noel Trent's story after a grueling attack of flushed cheeks. However, how she would utilize this knowledge was something she had yet to decide on.

Delilah furtively rose to a sitting position, combing through her bedraggled locks and dusting wayward flora that adhered to her form. The flowerbed she fell on was flattened, and she knew the gardeners who tended to the courtyard would be irate to see a Delilah-shaped mold. Her search for her glasses needed to be executed in a delicate fashion, lost as it was amid the surrounding laurel. "Noel, I think – I think we should speak more of this later on. I'd like to hear more stories about Monsieur Noir when I'm – I'm in an appropriate state. On our next session preferably." It was only then did she send him a transitory glance. "For now, our time has ended."
​

 

[Alan23]

Noel was used to reacting quickly, but, seated as he was, there was no way he could move quickly enough to grab Delilah and prevent her falling. He was, though he managed (just) to suppress it, slightly amused by her accident. Though this amusement was not entirely untinged by guilt, since he could not help feeling that his compliments, the way he had fixed her hair, had made her nervous, caused her to become self-conscious and thus lose her equilibrium. Nor was he entirely proud of the way that the incident had given his libido something of a pang, and that of the most pleasant kind. For the way her fall had disheveled her locks, and caused her tight skirt to ride up showing so much of her attractive legs (her slightly plump thighs were by no means a handicap in this regard, for he had always had a taste for the kind of shapely leg whose calves are thin in proportion to the thigh, and the air of vulnerability this gives a woman) - these things, and the way she had lost her spectacles, which he found somewhat cute, all these things caused a small leap in his psyche.

He did manage to bend and rescue the lost spectacles, which she had been about to tread on, and he handed them to her, though making sure not to make any kind of mocking remark. He sensed she was embarrassed enough already by her fall.

He deliberately didn't make any attempt to accompany her as she left, guessing that she wished to be alone to assimilate the humiliating situation she had just endured. But he could not help following her with his eyes as she walked, deciding not to mention that she had split the skirt at the rear in her fall, so that it was now gaping open revealing her underwear to passers by. The poor thing, he decided, already had enough to cope with!

It was not until a quarter hour or so later, as he made his way back to the main complex, that the most interesting thing struck him. That, accidentally, Delilah had managed a thing that many months of therapy and drugs had signally failed to achieve - they had restored a sense of interest in life, an ability to be amused and intrigued.

*****

He was never sure if his developing fascination with Delilah was the reason that, a few hours later, he sat in one of the common areas after lunch, rather than going straight back to his room to drug himself into semi-insensibility. He actually allowed himself to get into conversation with one of the residents, and after this even took a scratch pad from his pocket and began making a few notes for a novel he'd probably never write, though it was still a step forward from doing nothing at all. He realized he was sitting in this precise place because it was where Delilah would have to come by to hand out the prescription drugs of some of her patients, and thus he could not fail to encounter her again.

It was somewhat arousing to find himself tingling with anticipation at the thought of encountering her again.

 

[Gypsy]

Humiliation infested Delilah like a parasite, gnawing at her bones and devouring her entrails. The orderly who spotted her as she trudged back to the shelter informed her of the most mortifying occurrence that had happened to her in her entire life. To have the nude-colored, skin-tight panty exposed upon her retreat caused the assistant psychiatrist to scuttle back into the establishment and seek something, anything that might rectify her predicament. Fortunately, when she retreated to Dr. Walt's office, the older man was nowhere present, though a spare white coat he often used was. Hoping that he would understand why she filched it upon his return, Delilah garbed herself in it after inspecting the tear on her skirt. The rip reached the camber of her rump, exposing the generous view of the curves of each cheek. Noel must have witnessed her walk of shame after retrieving her spectacles, and the knowledge that he saw her ass was enough for Delilah to relocate to another continent.

Yet the show must go on, for she had assignments to complete, medications to administer and patients to examine in place of her superior. Even to him, her tragedy wouldn't be an excuse to flee from her responsibilities at White Lane. Opting to leave her locks as it was after a quick brush, she compiled her notes of Noel, figuring she would no longer encounter him for the day, and retrieved the other files she was tasked with.

Soon, she was off once more, a bit more amiable-looking in contrast to the strict no-nonsense coiffure she usually wore. Locating each patient whilst doing her rounds was no easy task, for they were social beings unlike Noel who chose to lock himself in his quarters. Her second to the last charge was in the rec room, a destination she found herself in, delivering the pills for one of her favorite patients. Bradley was a twenty year old college dropout diagnosed with a bipolar disorder, yet he was one of the most amicable people she knew. Mirth seemed to be a natural reaction whenever she corresponded with him, and now was not any different.

"I'm not sure if the guy's new. I mean, I haven't seen him around, or maybe I'm just not paying attention, but he's a pretty cool cat." Bradley babbled after downing his first tablet. "I talked to him after lunch. He seemed reserved though but outgoing at the same time. Does that make any sen—oh, there he is over there."

Delilah followed the pointed finger, sighting a seated Noel nearby. Wonder was at the forefront of the motley of her emotions with surprise and embarrassment trailing just behind. Subsequent to medicating Bradley, she bid her farewells and a number of reminders for the younger man before sauntering over to her former patient.

"I didn't expect to see you here," Delilah uttered by way of greeting, sitting adjacent to Noel with her clipboard held close to her chest. With no intention of mentioning the incident earlier, her conversational tone still possessed a tremulous note of mortification, yet she strived to make it seem didn't happen at all. "It's a pleasant surprise. I'm glad you decided to join us. Bradley – that man over there – spoke nothing but shining compliments of your conversation earlier. See? This isn't so bad, right?" In their position, the sofa stuck close to a wall, allowing ample vista of the common room and its occupants, and it was this that the ravenette motioned to. "Might you have any more stories for me? Or would you prefer if we talked about the one before?"​

 

[Alan23]

With the sensitivity to currents that had always stood Noel in good sense as a writer, he could immediately pick up that Delilah was fighting hard to keep a lid on her residual embarrassment. If nothing else, the fact that she was wearing the white coat - an item normally outside of her wardrobe - told its own story. He decided that not mentioning the incident at all would be the best course, and was glad that she had given him an easy conversational opening, enabling him to take the discussion into safer waters.

"Bradley? Yeah, he's a great guy, isn't he? We had a real laugh telling stories about the wart! Did you know he used to play Court Tennis at College? Bradley, I mean, not the wart. He seemed amazed that anyone but him had ever heard of the game."

Noel smiled grimly.

"Well, one thing I'd sooner not do is talk about that story I told you earlier. Frankly, pretty one, I've said about as much about that as I really ever want to. I had to force my poor old battered mind into other channels just to forget the conversation." In fact, the "other channels" to which he referred had consisted - before Bradley had distracted him in such a welcome manner - of thinking about Delilah's legs, which had been revealed by her unfortunate fall, though naturally he was not going to mention that. "But I did do something though - look."

He showed her the scratch pad, on which he had been making notes for the never-to-be-written new novel. Turning over some pages, he revealed a sketch he had been making. That of a lean, cadaverous looking man, with a pointed goatee beard and a lugubrious expression. "Done from memory, obviously. That's 'Mr Noir' as well as I could capture him. Note the Gitane hanging out of his mouth and the right-way-round swastika ear-ring... the symbol of light, not the evil thing the Nazis made it into. That's how I'll always remember him, puffing on those Orinoco tobacco cigarettes and with that ear-ring.

"Still, you want a story. Hmmm, well... let me give you a memory."

He went into a long narrative, arranged in such a way he might have written it as an episode in one of his novels, though it was a real and very vivid memory. Aout his mercenary service, and two soldiers who hated each other so much they regularly fought fist and boot fights in a roped off area of the camp. About the action where one of them had been wounded, and the unit had been ordered to retreat, until the other soldier (assisted by Noel, though he did not mention that) had dodged and weaved their way through enemy fire to chair the injured man back to safety. Two days later, the rescuer had visited the man he;d saved in hospital, and within a few minutes the makeshift ward had echoed to the sound of their screaming at each other as they renewed their feud!

As he came to a close, he noticed that Bradley was walking by them, returning from a trip to the pot of coffee that was kept permanently simmering in a corner of the room. He touched Noel on the shoulder as he passed. Noel knew what he was going to say before he even said it, and with a small pang he recalled that while highly intelligent, Bradley sometimes lacked both discretion and sophistication, properties both of his youth and his condition!

"Yeah, I see what you mean," he said, flicking his eyes to Delilah and back to Noel. "She IS the prettiest girl on the whole staff, isn't she? Much better looking that Cindy the cleaner."

Bradley then went on his way, back to the table where he had been sitting with Jarrod, another one of the younger inmates, and resumed the chess game he had been involved in, totally unaware of the possible bombshell he had dropped!

 

[Gypsy]

One thing was for certain when Delilah conversed with Noel. She liked the sound of his voice. It was exceptional. The assistant had never heard of it. Even Liam Neeson or Morgan Freeman, master storytellers, whose passion and pain could be heard in every holy word they uttered, only wished for a voice like Noel's. It was a voice that swept up and down the scale and was, at times, filled with deep, lush, apocalyptic emotion. At other times, it was a burning falsetto of hope and love, and seemed too big to come from his throat, lungs, or diaphragm. While it ostensibly shaded a carmine tint on her cheeks everlastingly, it was sheer delight to listen to.

"Perhaps another day. I wouldn't want to exhaust you from reopening old wounds all in one wave." Her agreement was accompanied by a click of her pen, readying to take down notes if need be. "You've to tell me about these channels as well. I understand that it's one of your coping methods, and it would be vital to employ that to its full extent whenever revelations like this occurred. I'll help in every way I can, of course."

After being presented with the scratch pad, she plucked it from his grasp and inspected it singly. Not once did Noel ever touch a pen and paper out of his own volition the moment he was admitted in White Lane, save for the papers that needed his signature. Vigilantly, she browsed through the pages of his notes, fascinated and mesmerized. "You must tell me your plans about this. It wouldn't hurt to write vignettes about your notes. It's a good exercise, Noel. One I will encourage wholeheartedly." There was so much progress in one day with her patient that Delilah had on a proud grin on her face. His sketch of Monsieur Noir arrested her attention; it’s a rough caricature that reminded her of an antihero in movies, cartoons and comic books. "He looks quite eccentric as do most Parisians. No wonder. Even in this draft, I can tell he has quite a magnetic mien about him."

Other comments about him dwindled as a new anecdote left his lips. Delilah was entranced in the world he shared with her, envisioning the characters in his story as if they were right before her eyes quarreling like immature children and braving the front like patriotic soldiers. In the end, Noel elicited a genuine laugh from her as it came to their conclusion. At the same time, she spotted Bradley and planned to invite him to their little conversation when his comment astonished her. Sky blue irises widened in disbelief as the man who casually abandoned them with an elephant for the pair to address.

The assistant shifted in her seat, avoiding Noel's gaze as the clipboard apparently held the most entertaining show known to man for a number of heartbeats. Only then did a strained chuckle arise from the female. "The – um, Cindy is a pretty woman though." It was a lame remark, she knew, one to divert the attention from her. Yet she immediately recognized and corrected the situation, and instead of fleeing from confrontation, she faced it. "I, uh, Noel… thank you." Anxiety led her to readjust her frames and push and errant strand behind her ear, an indisputable and demure smile curling her crescents. "It's truly flattering. You've met a lot of women, and to be considered as—" A familiar tone of voice interrupted Delilah. It reverberated from the receiving area of the home, loud and stern, demanding her appearance. Only one person could cause a scene like that in her work area, and she knew the reason why. "Excuse me, Noel. I think I have a visitor. I'll be right back." Hastily, she fled the recreation room and into the lobby.

Just as she thought, her mother had arrived.

Divina Haswell could hardly be associated to be Delilah's mother. In every way, she was the exact opposite of the young assistant. With bleached platinum hair and icy eyes, the leggy blonde was thinner than her daughter in every way possible. Not only that, while her child was physically challenged, the older woman was grace and elegance personified. Pageantry was rooted in her very veins, and she had a tendency to look at anyone she conversed with between her nose. Whether it was by habit or on purpose, Delilah wasn't saved from her mother's scrutinizing gaze. Her stare started from head to toe, examining her daughter like a specimen needed to be dissected. Such a look prompted Delilah to tug the white coat close to her chest self-consciously and utilizing the clipboard as a sort of barrier. In case the older female decided to claw her daughter's heart out.

"Mother, what are you doing here?" Delilah questioned sotto voce after apologizing to the receptionist for the inconvenience, leading her away from any potential listeners.

"Have you forgotten about the dinner I've set you up with Aaron tonight?" Always straight to the point. Aaron, if Delilah recalled correctly, was one of her father's friend who was twenty two years her senior. Divina's voice was sharp, imposing the fact that Delilah had no choice to attend in spite of the inquiry she raised. "I'm here to remind you, so you no longer have an excuse of forgetting it. This is a very important pairing, Delilah darling. You're at that age where you're ripe for picking. It's a time for action such that by the time you're twenty five, you'd be engaged. Aaron's a kind man, and he owns a small chain of high class restaurants. You and your children would never be hungry. Don't let that go to waste. Understand?" Her mother had a habit of cradling Delilah's face just as she spewed condescension, her palm cold with misplaced affection, and that was what occurred here.

"I'm twenty three, mother. I have a career to build and—" The integer that silenced her lips irritated Delilah to a point that she batted away the hand. "I can't go to the dinner tonight. I have a patient to take care of. I am finally making progress with him, and I don't want to lose that momentum. Please. This is important to me than this matchmaking hobby of yours."

"Noel Trent? That drug addict charge of yours? Delilah darling, he's a hopeless case. Nothing's wrong with him. He just desires the attention you silly people give him. He's just a conceited limelight leech who enjoys these people fussing about him. Trust me. I've been in this industry long enough to recognize the likes of him. Leave him be. Do not let him drag you down with him, child. In the end, all your efforts will be a waste, and you will realize that it's far too late to recover the lost time you've spent on him. I cannot comprehend why you chose this profession anyway. It's baffling." Too stunned at her mother's tirade, Delilah allowed the grip Divina had on her arm, twirling her around. "Why are you even wearing such a tacky coat? I thought only your bosses wear these things. And your hair, sweetheart, it's a mess." Her inspection led to the lifting of Delilah's coat, exposing the tear on her skirt without care of who would witness them. A disappointed tut tut tut escaped the blonde, humiliating her daughter even further. "How in heavens name did you get that? You're such a clumsy girl, Delilah. Who would like such a thing? If only you had taken those lessons when you were young, you wouldn't have two left feet."​

 

[Alan23]

At first, Noel was merely amused by Delilah's discomfort. Like most of the inmates, his attention had immediately been captivated at the break in routine, for pleasant enough though life at White Lane was, it could tend to become boring. Divina's bossing of her daughter, the latter's humiliation, all this was hilariously funny, with Bradley especially gaining much entertainment from the tableau being played out in public. They could not, of course, hear what was being said, for Delilah had deliberately shepherded her mother out of earshot, but the fact that what was happening could, to all intents and purposes, have been being played out in mime made it even funnier.

When Divina lifted the rear of the white lab coat, revealing the massive split in Delilah's skirt - which had become wider the longer it had been left unrepairable, to the extent that she was now revealing her entire rear end, the flesh-colored panties, and, since the panties had tended themselves to ride up as she walked and sat, a generous portion of her milky-white buttocks - this sight caused an immediate reaction in the patients. Every male present let fly with a cacophony pf cheers, wolf-whistles, laughter. Just as school children enjoy the discomfiture of their teacher, reversing the normal hierarchy of authority, so the fact that Delilah, the person who made them take their medicines and obey the rules, who held the power to withhold privileges or choose what TV was watched was now herself the victim of a higher, more powerful being was hilarious in the extreme.

Had Divina been, perhaps, slightly more sensitive, she might have realized the discomfiture she was causing to her daughter, and how much it was damaging her authority with her charges. But if there was one thing Divina Haswell did not do, it was sensitivity. Not realizing how embarrassing Delilah found it, or perhaps not even caring, she continued to hold the rear of the lab coat aloft, peering at Delilah's derriere.

"Good heavens, those... your underwear is positively indecent," she brayed, her voice carrying to the recreation room, drowning out the TV. "What happened to your slip, for heaven's sake? Or if you think a slip is too old-fashioned, couldn't you at least have worn decent panties. Those scraps of material hardly cover anything. The whole world can see your... your bottom!" Of course, the whole world - or even everyone from White Lane who was present - would NOT have been able to see Delilah's bottom at all, had Divina only acted sensibly and let the tail of the lab coat drop, but it is doubtful if this occurred to her. She was, by definition, the very epicenter of her own universe, a perfect illustration of the philosophy of Solipsism. "It's those cheap panties, of course, they always did ride up on your rear. A substantially built girl like you should choose a larger size. And if you must wear your skirts too tight, at least buy a better quality. No wonder it split." She sighed. "Goodness knows WHAT Aaron's going to think of this if he ever gets to hear about it. And - oh?!" She looked up to see the man standing beside her. A man who was familiar, whose face had stared out at her from the rear dust jackets of a number of novels and magazine covers... though now, it was leaner than she remembered it, with a haunted look, the eyes dead as if still recovering from shock... though this, to Divina's subconscious mind (for she had not yet consciously registered her feelings consciously) made him, if anything, more romantically desirable.

"You're quite right, of course," Noel smiled. "A hopeless case, and a drug addict besides. And I do, do love attention." He took Divina's hand and kissed it, smiling and bowing. "And wonderful alliteration. 'Limelight leech,' indeed. So pleased to meet you." he looked across at Delilah. "Your sister, I presume?"

There would have been many who regarded Divina Haswell's life as rich and fulfilling. She was on the committee of many charities, societies and organizations. A patron of the arts, a regular theatregoer, a highly regarded business woman and a stalwart of the social pages, she as the target of envy wherever she went. If there was one thing, however, that she lacked - though few noticed or remarked upon it - it was that her life, high-status and fulfilling as it may have been, did not contain, exactly, a surfeit of romance.

And now, here was a handsome man, a man highly regarded for his creativity and wealth, and, furthermore, a man festooned, emotionally at least, with scars, and kissing her hand at that, not to mention hinting she looked young enough to be the sister of her own daughter!

Divina's demeanor changed instantly. Her harsh tones gave way to a giggle that might almost have been described as girlish, and the small flush that had suffused her face at the knowledge she had been overheard by the very man she had been criticizing flowered into a full-on, deep crimson blush. Her hands suddenly seemed to have gained a life of their own, for without her consciously ordering them to, they began patting at her hair, twisting the strands in their fingers, tugging at the hem of her jacket, smoothing her skirt.

"Yes, that magazine article was somewhat insulting, wasn't it?" she gabbled out hastily, biting her lip. "Honestly, some journalist have no right to sully their honored profession. I was just telling Lilah how incensed I was to read it, which is why it stuck in m-m-my mind and I was able to quote it so fluently." She turned to Delilah. "Anyway, dear, as I was saying, I cancelled my subscription immediately. How dare they write such scurrilous lies about one of our country's greatest living authors? Positively disgusting and libelous, I call it."

She turned back to Noel, her blush still in place, giving her jacket another series of tugs. "Anyway, so nice to meet you, Mr Trent. So what are you working on now, then? I bet it'll be another blockbuster, to set the literary world on its head again. perhaps we might go and find a coffee together, and you can tell me about - "

It was suddenly as if Delilah, in fact everyone else save Noel and her, no longer existed!