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springgreenTitle: The Shapes of Silence
Notes: Minor spoilers for The Interpreter (movie), probably not noticeable if you've never seen it? Also, this is totally![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fannishly's fault, though it didn't turn out at all like it was going to.
Thanks torachelmanija and fannishly for comments!
Tobin hears her now when he sleeps. Not his wife, but Silvia Broome, with her whispery voice and dishevelled hair. He knows Dot would be shaking her head over this, with the same tired and sad look she gives him when she finds blankets folded on the couch in his office. He knows the agency shrink would probably have a great deal to say about displacement and grief and fuck it all, he doesn't care.
He avoids going to the shrink anyhow; he would rather be out there instead of talking things out. He doesn't care about the difference between "gone" and "dead," not like she does, and maybe that's why her softly accented words affect him so much.
She lays a hand on his mouth and asks him not to speak the names of the dead, and he doesn't understand, because she never speaks their names, but she can talk about them in carefully weighted words. He can only listen to answering machines and voices from beyond the grave, can't speak of anything without feeling the words clawing their way through his lungs and heart and tongue.
His voice shakes when he tells Silvia about his wife.
She asks him if he'll watch over her while she sleeps, if he'll keep her safe, and he says yes, yes he will, yes, he'll make sure she's not hurt, not broken in the crumpled wreck of a car.
He holds the phone to his ear and listens to her breathe, in and out, in and out. He breathes with her, as if he can keep her anchored to this world, his world, by breath alone.
He used to watch over her when she couldn't fall asleep. He used to wonder who would watch over her in the times she left him. But she's not there in the bed anymore, and she won't be coming back this time.
He tries to remember this when he catches up with her after the bus explodes. He tries to remember the quiet breathing that is her sleeping, tries not to think about the loud silence of death. He has already lost someone; he doesn't know if he means Doug or his wife when he tells Dot this. He only knows that he needs to keep her breathing, to keep her alive. But she is so stubborn, so many words come out of her mouth, but she still doesn't tell him anything.
It drives him crazy, and so he yells at her, tries to break past her calm, only to find that she's more afraid of the noise and the heat and the rage. It only makes him want to rage more, makes him want to throw her against the wall so that she will listen to him, to smother her mouth with his own to stop meaningless words from coming out.
Instead, he goes to clean the blood off her face.
He doesn't know what to say, never has. Maybe if he did, she would have stayed instead of running off to Santa Fe. Maybe if he did, she would have told him about Xola and her brother sooner.
Instead, he holds her when she seeks comfort like a child.
He still doesn't know what to say when he reads her the letter saying that her friend has committed suicide and her brother lies dead in Africa. But this time, the silence is familiar and welcome. Seeing her there with tears in her eyes and no words in her mouth, he finds that she no longer reminds him of his wife, but of himself, cracked shells, broken with grief too overwhelming to voice.
He finally knows her now, feels how the gun shakes in her hand when she aims it at Zuwanie.
When she recites part of Zuwanie's book from memory, Tobin wants to say that even whispered words, especially whispered words, are louder than gunshots because they damage more than flesh and bone. They tear through memory and emotion, leaving wounds that only silence can heal.
And yet.
Perhaps the Khoo were right about justice and mourning. He will give them that. But he thinks that they were wrong about never speaking the names of the dead, because he can hear the peace and grief and pain and acceptance in Silvia's voice as she reads out, "Simon Broome, shot to death in a soccer stadium."
He thinks perhaps she would agree with him.
"Lori. Lori Keller," he says in reply to her question, and Tobin finds the name bittersweet and lasting on his tongue.
Notes: Minor spoilers for The Interpreter (movie), probably not noticeable if you've never seen it? Also, this is totally
fannishly's fault, though it didn't turn out at all like it was going to.Thanks to
rachelmanija and fannishly for comments!Tobin hears her now when he sleeps. Not his wife, but Silvia Broome, with her whispery voice and dishevelled hair. He knows Dot would be shaking her head over this, with the same tired and sad look she gives him when she finds blankets folded on the couch in his office. He knows the agency shrink would probably have a great deal to say about displacement and grief and fuck it all, he doesn't care.
He avoids going to the shrink anyhow; he would rather be out there instead of talking things out. He doesn't care about the difference between "gone" and "dead," not like she does, and maybe that's why her softly accented words affect him so much.
She lays a hand on his mouth and asks him not to speak the names of the dead, and he doesn't understand, because she never speaks their names, but she can talk about them in carefully weighted words. He can only listen to answering machines and voices from beyond the grave, can't speak of anything without feeling the words clawing their way through his lungs and heart and tongue.
His voice shakes when he tells Silvia about his wife.
She asks him if he'll watch over her while she sleeps, if he'll keep her safe, and he says yes, yes he will, yes, he'll make sure she's not hurt, not broken in the crumpled wreck of a car.
He holds the phone to his ear and listens to her breathe, in and out, in and out. He breathes with her, as if he can keep her anchored to this world, his world, by breath alone.
He used to watch over her when she couldn't fall asleep. He used to wonder who would watch over her in the times she left him. But she's not there in the bed anymore, and she won't be coming back this time.
He tries to remember this when he catches up with her after the bus explodes. He tries to remember the quiet breathing that is her sleeping, tries not to think about the loud silence of death. He has already lost someone; he doesn't know if he means Doug or his wife when he tells Dot this. He only knows that he needs to keep her breathing, to keep her alive. But she is so stubborn, so many words come out of her mouth, but she still doesn't tell him anything.
It drives him crazy, and so he yells at her, tries to break past her calm, only to find that she's more afraid of the noise and the heat and the rage. It only makes him want to rage more, makes him want to throw her against the wall so that she will listen to him, to smother her mouth with his own to stop meaningless words from coming out.
Instead, he goes to clean the blood off her face.
He doesn't know what to say, never has. Maybe if he did, she would have stayed instead of running off to Santa Fe. Maybe if he did, she would have told him about Xola and her brother sooner.
Instead, he holds her when she seeks comfort like a child.
He still doesn't know what to say when he reads her the letter saying that her friend has committed suicide and her brother lies dead in Africa. But this time, the silence is familiar and welcome. Seeing her there with tears in her eyes and no words in her mouth, he finds that she no longer reminds him of his wife, but of himself, cracked shells, broken with grief too overwhelming to voice.
He finally knows her now, feels how the gun shakes in her hand when she aims it at Zuwanie.
When she recites part of Zuwanie's book from memory, Tobin wants to say that even whispered words, especially whispered words, are louder than gunshots because they damage more than flesh and bone. They tear through memory and emotion, leaving wounds that only silence can heal.
And yet.
Perhaps the Khoo were right about justice and mourning. He will give them that. But he thinks that they were wrong about never speaking the names of the dead, because he can hear the peace and grief and pain and acceptance in Silvia's voice as she reads out, "Simon Broome, shot to death in a soccer stadium."
He thinks perhaps she would agree with him.
"Lori. Lori Keller," he says in reply to her question, and Tobin finds the name bittersweet and lasting on his tongue.