Chapter 14: Kintsugi Soul

Shreve woke on his own just like he had for ages. Years of exhaustion had slowly transformed sleepless nights into deep, haunted slumber. Most nights were filled with visions and sounds of horrors he tried his hardest to escape, but they were always there following him like a bloodhound, waiting for his eyes to close. So the sleep was never restful, yet he often found himself preferring it to being awake. As soon as his consciousness returned each morning and his awareness returned to his body, agonizing pain lit across his skin and inside his organs. Doctors had tried to alleviate the symptoms, but in time he gave up and accepted the diagnosis of ‘chronic trauma pain syndrome’, resigning himself to be grateful that he was alive even if it was in agony.

The loop of restless sleep and waking pain had taken a toll on his body and mind, stealing any vestiges of youth that might have survived The Fall, turning his skin and his outlook harsh to the world. In place of vibrance, his eyes were bagged and black. Lines had already formed on the skin by his eyes, even with his moisturizing routine. When he looked in the mirror, he felt he was looking at an antagonistic force that had possessed his body, not his actual reflection. Looking at his reflection had come to feel like looking directly at a glaring December sun.

Beneath it all remained a happy person, who wanted to laugh, who wanted to sleep, who wanted to run. That person existed in permanent friction with the specter of his damaged psyche, who loathed nearly all the world on an individual level yet still wanted them to be safe. He wanted everyone to be cared for and have every basic need met in comfort. He just didn’t want to talk to them about it. This dichotomy became confusing for most who entered his life. Those who did engage with him often found his first impression to be cold, stern, unfeeling, or even unpleasant.

So isolation became easier. Instead of needing to explain himself to people, he avoided them. The automatons understood him, as they were able to analyze him and reduce him to straightforward perception, and no matter what, they did not have the full complexity of human emotion to project their biases onto him.

Yet over time, he did find himself opening to some, especially on this assignment. Lunara and he had shared a few moments of physical intimacy on the last outpost, but that was it. He enjoyed her straightforward sarcasm as an opposite to his opaqueness. That had mostly been all he remembered from the multiple years finishing that last rock. Now, on Outpost 1117, he had relations that had thawed his harsh exterior. Some had even become what he considered the first friends of his life since leaving Earth. And beyond that, there was the young woman who served tea. Without planning for it, she had crept into his life and sprinkled hints of ease onto his spirit. Her smiles, laughs, shimmies, sing-song ways of expressing joy, and uncertain eyes had captivated him.

In the times he saw her, he saw her waiting to speak while being surrounded by personalities vastly more outspoken than she was, but she was always full of thoughts. Her expressive face and bright amber eyes always showed an infinite storm of emotion dancing just under the surface at all times, even when she was quietly serving tea or leading a meditative ceremony.

He wanted so much to say something to her earlier on, but every time he saw his reflection in the polished glass or shining steel, he saw the horrid, tired, hollow shell of a man who had realistically died years ago as a Terran on Earth. That reflection was what remained.

So he accepted the sprinklings of joy when he shared dances with friends or earnest conversation with his worker comrade automatons. He had taken up poetry and painting. He read every night and taught himself nine languages. Through it all, she would dance into his thoughts and desires. On the day they shared a cup of tea, he felt every fiber of his being pulling itself to her lips and softly hanging hair. Before he did something he regretted, he stopped himself until he could gain clarity and know she consented to such a thing.

Concepts of romance had not been impressed on him during the fall of civilization, certainly not in the staunch conservative religious autocracy that had ruled the southern territories of the United Federation. So the best ways of approaching a potential lover were not information he had readily available. The automatons were only moderate help; offering up the most literal of solutions. He’d settled on helping her at the festival and bought an indigo-blue shawl that matched the bowl they had shared. From there, he slowly progressed, hoping that she felt the same, but operating in patience that perhaps a young woman being rockside for the first time in her life might not be interested in starting a romantic relationship.

That was until the poetry arrived in his inbox. Everything else followed at a gentle pace appropriate for an existence tied to a quarter-century contract. And now it was the morning of the bath festival. Hormones and isolation did Shreve no favors as he tried to not dwell on the concept of seeing Hana undressed, even though that was the point. A few moments alone with himself helped relieve any built-up pressure that might cause him to move too quickly in the heat of the moment. After that, he set about his morning routine.

Canned caffeine shots were downed while he rubbed watering serum into his skin and cleaned his mouth. Lubrication was applied to his arms as diagnostic checks were completed. Yoga and stretching provided temporary relief to his spine, shoulders and legs. Oil fragrances were dappled into mist to provide calmness to his mind.

Looking at his body in the mirror, he realized his hair had become unruly everywhere after years of not being seen by another. Ancient electric trimmers were activated and soon he was groomed everywhere to be more presentable. Lotion was greedily absorbed by parched skin across the whole of his body and he stood there naked looking at his reflection one final time. Even if Shreve did not recognize or like what he saw anymore, he hoped that Hana would. At least for one night.