Our Soul Divided

06| Mr. Stressy-Depressy

Athena

Stetson leads me, hand in hand, up and out of the basement-like room in the already-underground bunker. I am starting to feel claustrophobic. Apparently, the entire time that I had been in the coma at least, I had been underground for a long time. I begin to wonder how long everyone in the bunker had been underground.

When we reach the main area, Stetson slows to a stop as he talks to someone that flagged him down. I get my first real look at the bunker they've all been living in–that I now live in.

The main area is huge. It's what I would imagine a department store would like if it were hollowed out and underground. There is a small sort of kitchen set up to my left with countertops, a small beat-up refrigerator, and a utility sink with running water.

Off the back of that area is a door that, I know from Rain's help with the shower, leads to the only bathroom in the whole bunker. It's equipped with a small walk-in shower, a toilet, and another utility sink.

As I look to my right, the area expands for yards. Near the back of the bunker, there is a large area lined with cots and mattresses. Some are bunched together and others are on their own, but one, in the very back corner catches my eye.

It's almost too far to see, but I can make out a small mattress shoved into the concrete corner, neat, made up with some sort of dark blanket tucked around all sides and a single pillow half-propped against the wall behind it. There are small pieces of paper taped to the wall with red string stretched all over.

Stetson is still conversating about something that seems urgent, so I decide to venture off and get a closer look.

As I walk toward the back, I pass an area near the middle with old sofas and chairs circling a table. There are people that I don't recognize all around the table. They're smiling and laughing about something until one of them catches sight of me and everyone falls silent with glances my way. The big brawny man gives me a sort of sad smile and they remain quiet until I pass by.

As they continue their conversation, I glance around at the cots I am passing. Some of them are bare, but most of them have some sort of personal item on them. A blanket with stars adorns one, there's a teddy that has claimed a smaller one over to the left, neatly folded clothes, a pillow, a couple of them are shoved together edge-to-edge.

People live here. The thought is bogus at first. But I see a younger boy, likely in his teens, lounging on a cot and reading a book. He sends me a quick, unbothered glance over the pages and returns his gaze to the words on the pages.

When I finally make my way to the back corner, to the bed I'd spotted from across the room, I let out a small gasp.

There is a photo of Dorian and I hanging on the wall. It's tattered edges and cracked picture show the wear and tear. In the photo, he's smiling down at me and my tongue is jutted out. My beanie is covered in fresh snowflakes and it's clear that I was trying to catch them on my tongue. Dorian's messy dark hair is sprinkled with snow and his perfectly white teeth are bared in a grin.

My hands shoot up to cover my mouth as I choke a sob. The cot is lined with a thick, fluffy sleeping bag complete with a navy fleece blanket tucked around it.

The small notes on the wall have names and photos that I don't recognize with red string attaching some to others. It looks a lot like a spiderweb. There is a photo near the bottom that catches my attention because it's circled in red marker.

A man stands over a hospital bed with a woman sleeping. He's propped on the bed railing smiling at the camera as if he's happy. I look a bit closer and sob audibly as I realize the sleeping woman is me.

Suddenly, the man's facial expression is much more violent. Almost as if he is proud of his hunt's spoils. I start to feel nausea roil in my gut and sit on the edge of the cot and tuck my head between my knees.

"Hey, hey, hey," Stetson's voice is distant, but I feel his weight next to me and his arm wrap around me.

"I'm so sorry," he forces out, "I can have them pack up his stuff. I should have already–"

"No," I nearly shout. I realize that it's not Stetson's fault and I don't want to push him away. I can't push him away, he's all I have. I pull my head from between my knees and look up at him through blurry vision. "I'm sorry, but please don't. I don't want to erase him..." I smooth my hand over the small piece of blanket between us.

"We won't, I wouldn't," he said softly. "But these have to go!" He starts ripping at the photos and strings.

I scramble to stop him, "No, Stetson, wait!" I yell at him, but he's not listening.

He's angry now and he's ripping and tearing until there is nothing left but shreds of paper impaled by nails. He stops just as his hand touches the photo of Dorian and I, and cage my arms around his pulling him to my chest. "Please," I beg him, "Not that one."

He stares at the photo but doesn't fight my hold. Finally, he sighs, "I'm sorry."

I loosen my grip slowly, afraid he might still rip it down so he doesn't have to look at it, but he doesn't. He turns his body to fold his arms around my shoulders.

I feel his chest shudder just before he kisses the top of my head. "I miss him, too. He was always the rational one," Stetson whispers, "And he saved you."

I don't respond, because I don't feel like I was saved. Look at this place and all these people without homes or families. Look at me. I've been sulking and rolling in my own sorrow as if everyone in this bunker hasn't suffered a loss. Possibly more than one.

"I'm sorry. I know now that I have been the focus for far too long. For you, and him, and it seems like everyone in this place." I glance around and there are a few people who are staring but avert their eyes as I look up at them.

I wrap my hands around Stetson's head and pull him to my chest. He drops his arms lower and buries his face. I can feel the tension and the stress rolling off of him like steam from a screaming teapot. How long has he been carrying all of this?

When he calms and his body relaxes in my arms, I try to distract him, because it's what I have always done best. "You have something else to show me, Mr. Stressy-depressy?" I asked him, reminding him of what he said earlier.

I feel him snort as he releases me.

"Can I sleep here?" I pat the bed.

He hesitates and I see something like hurt in his eyes. "Yeah, uh... keep it." He takes a deep breath and blows it out, and then his smile is back.

A/N: Okay, I know I said he would explain, but this one was needed. It was originally written from Stetson's point of view, but I had to change it and shorten it.

Let me know what you think.

~A