Chosen One Protective Services

There were good days, and there were bad days. And right now, Cyrus was having the worst kind of day. It was the kind of day where his body remembered that about half of it had been cooked, and wouldn’t stop reminding him about it.

These episodes were pretty common during hot weather, when he had to sweat through his skin grafts more often, and the extra workload on his body didn’t leave him much of a buffer against the pain. It got bad.

And August was hellish this year, even for a Texas summer. The return of the rain had probably saved the Colfax family farm, just for a little longer, but it had added a humidity to the mix that made his clothing cling to him, and turned the old farmhouse into a sauna.

The return of the rains had also brought back something Cyrus hadn’t missed at all: mosquitoes.

Left to his own devices, he could have managed the heat. The pain would have been bearable, but the little bottle that the doctor had left him would have probably lasted him until his next refill. But the mosquitoes were pernicious bastards, worse than the commies ever had been. They whined and crawled their way into the old farmhouse all night every night, hungry and entirely without mercy or self-preservation. Mom burned a home remedy that she insisted helped keep them away, but there were so many that Cyrus couldn’t tell if it was having any effect at all beyond stuffing up his sinuses like a Thanksgiving turkey.

Mosquito netting over the bed helped a little, but it wasn’t perfect. And that only helped when he was sleeping. When he was out and active, his already-itching skin couldn’t detect the little parasites until it was too late, usually.

And after about a dozen mosquito bites, the pain was damn near unbearable. And the level of liquid in his little bottle of relief dropped, and dropped, and dropped.

When there were only a few milliliters at the bottom, Cyrus gave in to the inevitable, and went and waited outside the door to his parents’ bedroom. Mom was already out in the kitchen, clattering and getting meals and laundry lined up and organized with the girls, and giving orders to Jonas whenever he finished the farm chores. And while this went on, Cyrus sat like a lump, flyswatter ready against any possible late-shift mosquitoes, and listening to Dad snore his way through the early part of the afternoon.

Eventually, the snores faded. A half hour passed after that, while Cyrus felt his skin crawl, and fought the urge to scratch until he was bleeding, gripped the flyswatter and the arm of his wheelchair until his knuckles turned white, a half hour that lasted most of an eternity as he felt the burning again, the nerves in his ruined right side crackling with pain, and his empty eye socket throbbing in phantom sympathy. A whole half hour after that, the door finally opened, and Steven Colfax stared first out, then down at his oldest son’s drawn and pale visage.

“You look like the inside of my mouth tastes,” Cyrus’ father said, staring down at him, bleary-eyed, mustached drooping, and the stubble covering his jaws like a carpet of gray-striped black moss.

Cyrus looked back up at him, tried to say something, but it came out as a croak. Oh yeah. When’s the last time I had water? Shit. He cleared his throat, and put the flyswatter down. “I need to… go to the bar with you,” he said, grinding the words out through the dust coating his vocal chords.

“Oh shit,” Steve said. “You reckon it’s that bad?” Cyrus watched his father’s eyes fill with pity.

That almost hurt more than the fire raging under and through what was left of his skin. Cyrus looked away, fixed his remaining eye on the portrait of grandpa and grandma, and their first seven kids. “It’s that bad. Bugs are making it worse,” Cyrus replied.

“All right. I’ll… see if your Mom lets me loose a little early today.” And Cyrus felt his lips twist, at that note of eagerness, in the back of his father’s voice, the note he was trying hard to hide. The tone of a boozer being told he actually had a legitimate reason to go out drinking that night.

Cyrus had a feeling he’d be driving home.

And that, more than anything, was why pity from his father hit Cyrus right in his pride. Because Cyrus had come by his addiction to a bottle out of necessity; the pain was too much for him to bear without something to help him along for the bad days. But his father had put himself down the neck of a bottle by choice. And while Cyrus hoped that one day he might be able to get himself away from the painkillers, he knew that Dad had absolutely no hope or desire to give up his own bottles.

The only thing worse than a pitiable man was being dependent upon a pitiable man. And when that pitiable man pitied you, well… What did that say about you?

Cyrus kept his mouth shut and wheeled himself out to the truck, as he heard his mother in the kitchen, shouting at his father, and his father’s low, unsteady voice piping back. He knew how this would go, how it always went. She’d chew on him for a while, before she eventually caved, and let him do what he wanted. It was the woman’s place to submit to the man, was what she’d been taught, both at home and at church, and if that meant suffering, then it’d be worth it for a shot at getting into heaven. That was her way, a part of all she had left, and though Cyrus had serious doubts about all of it, he wouldn’t dare take it from her even if he could.

So instead he reached into his pocket, drew out the needle and syringe and much-depleted vial, and injected himself with the last of the bottle. Long minutes passed until finally he felt the worst of the pain passing, and he sighed in relief.

This was a bit of a gamble. If none of the people he relied on were in tonight, then he’d be in a bad spot come the morning.

But it was a gamble he had to take. There were certain people in this world that you could never risk being desperate around, and if he showed weakness here, then he might get a little more help in the short-term, but he’d pay for it many times over, the next time he needed something from them.

The front door of the house clacked shut, and Cyrus turned, brain slightly out of synch with his body, feeling the easy drift of the chemicals soothing his nerves, turned to see his father staring out into the distance, pulling out a pack of Camels with shaking hands. He watched Dad smoke until his nerves were calmed, watched the sorrow play across Dad’s face as he studied the clouds in the distance. Watched him look back at the kitchen window, then look away, regret causing the lines on his stubbled jaw to tighten and twist.

Cyrus felt bad then, just a bit. Not for the first time, he wondered if things would have been different if he’d stayed home and minded the farm, rather than signing on with Uncle Sam. Wondered if any part of Mom and Dad’s falling out was his fault.

The guilt died as his father turned to him, to the truck, and smiled a too-eager smile. The eagerness in his frame, the eagerness to do the old one tequila, two tequila, three tequila floor routine, that reminded Cyrus that his Dad had come to this pass without him, and stayed there willingly.

“Come on then. Let’s get you set up right,” his Dad said, as he helped move him from his wheelchair, and stowed the ungainly thing in the truck bed, tying it down nice and tight.

And Cyrus closed his eye, and let himself drift away on an opioid haze. Guilt, pity, things he could have done, none of that mattered. For a little while, there was only the now, and he’d enjoy it while he could.