[ Nearing the end of November in 1945, the dust is still settling from the largest war in recent history. Business is booming. Troops are returning home. Families are reuniting. A large part of the population finally remembers what it feels like to breathe again.
Of course, breathing easy has always been a problem for Billy Prior.
Doing nothing to nurse the wheeze playing from his chest, the young man clenches his cigarette and glares pointedly across the waiting area. Smoke curls in front of him and his sharp gaze wavers as his eyes begin to water. That certainly won't help to get the damn asthma under control.
Curiously enough, Prior hasn't had an attack in over a year. In the thick of it, with mortars and ash and gas, gas, gas, the young lieutenant had somehow completely shed the title of battalion canary despite his documented history of breathing issues. Naturally, Prior finds he's still at war with himself long after the enemy has declared defeat. He can't help but think that the timing of this respiratory attack is particularly telling, but being in America, far away from anyone who knows better, Prior has an easier time lying to himself. ]
Not to be a bother— [ Another lie. He excels at being a bother when it's convenient. Unfortunately, this scenario doesn't seem to qualify. ] —but I've been waiting hours to see someone...
[ It's not an exaggeration, which is why Billy feels justified in halting the first person he finds that looks like they might actually belong in the research facility. He'd agreed to come by and share his experiences, to talk about the mutism and his subsequent return to active combat, but the waiting is beginning to weigh in his nerves. ]
If you're any bit merciful— [ He squeezes in a breath, his skin slowly turning sallow with the continued strain. ] —you'll let the doctor know I'm here.
Prior. To see... [ The young man pats at his pockets until he finds a sheet of paper. Even strained, his accent is clearly British, as is his uniform. ] Feinald. Dr. Feinald. I was— He's expecting me. ...Probably.
[The war had affected everyone in one way or another. In many respects, it had been a suspension of conventional rules--like many other doctors, Clyde had been fast-tracked, breezed through an abbreviated version of his training and dumped into the fray. It was there that he had come to understand the strange things trauma did to people--Freud's old hysterias, now manifest in otherwise healthy young men--as well as his own relative helplessness as a professional. There is no silver bullet for these cases, not like the magic of that new drug, penicillin, in formerly fatal cases of neurosyphilis. Shock won't always do the trick, the drugs they have are apt to sedate more than treat (and kill, he knows acutely, with an ache that feels embedded in his bones), and so he's here, trying to learn, trying to understand.
He's at the nurses' station, taking neat notes on another patient's file when he's notified of Prior's presence. An irritated conversation ensues--how long has he been waiting? When did you say his appointment was? Where's the schedule?--and then he's headed out to the waiting room, breathing back his anxiety. He can't stand disorder, can't stand leaving a poor impression on one of his--]
Mr. Prior. [He extends a hand.] Dr. Feinald. Thank you for coming; I am so sorry for the delay.
[And it may be unprofessional to cast a critical glance at the receptionist as he turns to lead him back, but hey.] Follow me, please.
[ The cast of the doctor's gaze is more than enough to change Prior's approach. His attitude turns cold, his body rigid. Icy eyes drift away from the accused receptionist and follow Feinald. Billy doesn't much care for the American accent, but it's not entirely unpleasant out of this guy's mouth. ]
Your research must keep you very busy, doctor...
[ Pure pleasantry. As far as Prior's concerned, the problem with ineffectual staff can almost always be traced back to a disconnected management. But then, he's not here to offer his opinion, is he? ]
Think nothing of it.
[ A pause. ] Can you tell me what I'm to expect? Just questions, or are there tests as well?
[The attitude is clear, but at least Prior's response wasn't an angry tirade. Though, Clyde reflects, reserved patients can be a challenge unto themselves. He's not sure which he'd prefer, given the choice.]
We'll be starting with questions today. Nothing too complicated.
[The room is that minty shade of hospital green, furnished with a table and chairs in lieu of the stereotypical couch, with a window looking out across the facility's lawn. Clyde shuts the door and pulls out one of the chairs for Prior, seating himself across from him and adjusting his posture so that he can jot notes on his clipboard without having them within Prior's view.]
So. [The flip of a page, his dark eyes darting over the typewritten text.] How about we begin by talking about your symptoms? When did you first notice that you were having difficulty speaking?
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no subject
Of course, breathing easy has always been a problem for Billy Prior.
Doing nothing to nurse the wheeze playing from his chest, the young man clenches his cigarette and glares pointedly across the waiting area. Smoke curls in front of him and his sharp gaze wavers as his eyes begin to water. That certainly won't help to get the damn asthma under control.
Curiously enough, Prior hasn't had an attack in over a year. In the thick of it, with mortars and ash and gas, gas, gas, the young lieutenant had somehow completely shed the title of battalion canary despite his documented history of breathing issues. Naturally, Prior finds he's still at war with himself long after the enemy has declared defeat. He can't help but think that the timing of this respiratory attack is particularly telling, but being in America, far away from anyone who knows better, Prior has an easier time lying to himself. ]
Not to be a bother— [ Another lie. He excels at being a bother when it's convenient. Unfortunately, this scenario doesn't seem to qualify. ] —but I've been waiting hours to see someone...
[ It's not an exaggeration, which is why Billy feels justified in halting the first person he finds that looks like they might actually belong in the research facility. He'd agreed to come by and share his experiences, to talk about the mutism and his subsequent return to active combat, but the waiting is beginning to weigh in his nerves. ]
If you're any bit merciful— [ He squeezes in a breath, his skin slowly turning sallow with the continued strain. ] —you'll let the doctor know I'm here.
Prior. To see... [ The young man pats at his pockets until he finds a sheet of paper. Even strained, his accent is clearly British, as is his uniform. ] Feinald. Dr. Feinald. I was— He's expecting me. ...Probably.
no subject
He's at the nurses' station, taking neat notes on another patient's file when he's notified of Prior's presence. An irritated conversation ensues--how long has he been waiting? When did you say his appointment was? Where's the schedule?--and then he's headed out to the waiting room, breathing back his anxiety. He can't stand disorder, can't stand leaving a poor impression on one of his--]
Mr. Prior. [He extends a hand.] Dr. Feinald. Thank you for coming; I am so sorry for the delay.
[And it may be unprofessional to cast a critical glance at the receptionist as he turns to lead him back, but hey.] Follow me, please.
no subject
Your research must keep you very busy, doctor...
[ Pure pleasantry. As far as Prior's concerned, the problem with ineffectual staff can almost always be traced back to a disconnected management. But then, he's not here to offer his opinion, is he? ]
Think nothing of it.
[ A pause. ] Can you tell me what I'm to expect? Just questions, or are there tests as well?
no subject
We'll be starting with questions today. Nothing too complicated.
[The room is that minty shade of hospital green, furnished with a table and chairs in lieu of the stereotypical couch, with a window looking out across the facility's lawn. Clyde shuts the door and pulls out one of the chairs for Prior, seating himself across from him and adjusting his posture so that he can jot notes on his clipboard without having them within Prior's view.]
So. [The flip of a page, his dark eyes darting over the typewritten text.] How about we begin by talking about your symptoms? When did you first notice that you were having difficulty speaking?