37
Far Apart

The car slowly pulled into the Ferrule Mansion holding one enervated Miles Hector. The cross-stitched dinner jacket took some getting used to, though even at his own behest.

One orange-band rushed out of the glass doors to pull open the car door for Miles at it turned at the fountain and stopped. The well-fitted guest remained at the car.

“Sir?” The orange-band continued to have a hand at the car door as he looked inside to see a motionless Miles staring back at him. “You need some help?”

“You know, I can crawl on my own terms, James.” He pushed as he slowly dragged himself out of the vehicle. The butler had one hand on his shoulder instinctively as he attempted to corral Miles fully out of the car. “Appreciate it, still.”

The door was shoved shut and the car moved away. Miles stood and looked as it made the loop and rolled into the gate next to the entrance.

“I will be happy to assist—“ James snapped him out of his delirium.

“How long have you worked here for?” Miles turned to him as he spent a fraction of his mental energy picking through small talk openers. 

“Nearly three years sir. Will be the full three come September.”

“Alright.” He dipped his head down low. “Is Kayla usually like this?”

“I can only say that it is ‘mostly’.”

Miles had his eyes concentrated on the meticulously-placed tiles and the pair of leather shoes that was just shined for him five in the morning today. His reflection didn’t exactly paint the most flattering portrait of himself.

“I see. I need some rest.”

“Absolutely.”

Miles stared at the three-quarter-eaten plate of cajun chicken. The fizz of the soda that would usually quell him didn’t work as it also sat half-drank. His eyes went up to the curtains, the birds that parsed through the open air and the pattern-planted trees. Then they turned to the ironed carpet, the small chair at the floor-to-ceiling window, the nicely-assembled setup of the cups and plates above the mini-fridge stocked with items that the Circle employee cafeteria instructed them to, and the stack of clothes folded neatly within the closet that had its door left open for his inspection.

“Come in.” His threw his voice at the door. “Collect it. I’m done.”

James swooped in and took all of his food items out of sight.

“Even the soda.”

“Gone flat?”

“No, I’m just done.”

The nod, and the slight tucking of the glass onto his arm as he exited again.

Then the air freshener-conditioner combo kicked in as the room ticked above seventy-six degrees. The latent scent of the room kicked in. He attempted to discern the smell from somewhere in his memories. The olfactory sensor does not forget.

It was the scent from when she slid the diary across the table. The scent from the time she escaped the pool hall. The scent when he caught a glance of her riding downtown in some odd coincidence. The scent of his workplace.

He tried laying his head on the pillow he had gotten used to over the past few weeks. He tried inducing himself into a nap by reading off his Twitter feed to make his brain tired and thusly shut itself down. He tried putting on the television and throwing it on some 80s movie channel that had sent him into a siesta many an occasion. 

All to no avail. His body is shot through with all the spent energy, the clouded thoughts that collected in his cranium, and the scarred hands that had taken so many blows for him by T’s henchmen. He couldn’t even do much as to even turn his body from one sleeping position to another. His eyes are forced open even as he had planned to add a few extra hours to his sleep and had all of tomorrow to himself as work was suddenly canceled for him for the remainder of the week.

He couldn’t even muster up the strength to throw out one single quip to keep himself entertained.

He had to do something. Just like how he always had, after his dad scrapped together what he could to let him clinch some sort of degree and disappeared across the country after one night where he took to a bar and things happened.

The spirit is willing, but the flesh is not cooperating. He was indulged in the scent himself, perhaps as a saving grace after the existence of everything and anything left a mark on him. 

Miles took to the phone and checked his past messages. Earliest message was a week old with a friend from New Jersey. Four others two week old from associates and friends he only had the luxury to see twice a year, and as the messages grew more and more ancient as the interface scrolled down, the scent smelled stronger and stronger to him.

Then something peeked out at him.

Luna Syracuse - March 14
Thank you!

He opened it, and within was a release that the red-band had kindly retrieved for him, and requested for his personal credentials before handing all the details to the lawyer overseeing his case.

Miles hit the back button, and scrolled further down. March turned to February, and February flipped over to January, at the border where the app listed only the month to only the year.

Kayla Ferrule - January 18
You sent “Hello.”

That was a single message. Offline since four weeks ago. Was it three? Was it actually read? The details escaped him as the screen blurred in front of him before being quickly replaced by a curtain of black that was drawn over his eyeballs and succumbed to his own drowsiness as he lost consciousness.

The sun setting over Reiner Drive and his brain playing itself recaps as he entered REM sleep will do the rest.