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Sometimes The Mountain Buries You is a queer novella about the monster that threatens your attempt at a much-needed quiet life. Check out the about page here.
Murre stays in town a little longer than they had planned to, taking care of the clinic while you take care of Sheppard. Any other time, before this Spring, you would have been confident in Sheppard surviving this extent of injury. You'd read about shredded carotid arteries. You'd sewn his gaping abdomen closed twice. But he's not healing like he used to and he's unhealing again.
You don't sleep much. You set alarms for every ten minutes. When Murre finishes at the clinic, they head straight to the cabin, put food in your hands and persuade you into a resting position. They turn off your alarms until they're the one pushing themself to be awake.
You've put him in the not a second bedroom. It's devoid of your personal belongings and so easier to fill with all the gauze you shouldn't need, alcohol for sterilizing hair to stitch reopening wounds, and a wider variety of medical supplies than you've ever had to use on him before. Its mattress you'll be disposing of. You might have to replace the sheepskin, placed under his head and sinking him into a reverie that puts you at some degree of peace.
After a devastating third sewing of gaping abdomen, he starts healing proper. It's slow progress but it's progress until he's healing better than he has all Spring and you find yourself in his arms again.
Insisting that he's not going to make you replace your couch, that he needs the change of scenery, you gingerly navigated him down the not-stairs. Murre, after an entire conversation that takes place in the looks you give each other, vacates the cabin entirely—seeing and hearing nothing. You can't help but notice Sheppard sits as far away as he can from the warmth of where Murre had been.
He reaches out and touches your wrist, gently navigates you to sit in front of him, his arms draped over you and pulled into your own.
He hurts the whole time. He hates it.
You can feel him trying not to cry; the shake of his chest, the hitch of his breath caught in his throat, the sting of his eyes with the familiar smell of salt. He's holding it all back.
You hold him in place, savouring his weight against your back. "It's okay." He doesn't say 'it's not', because his voice will break and with that the rest of him.
He knows what you're thinking and breaks anyways—but slowly. His ability to hold back eroding like the river rocks you sit on, the painful rattle of his chest sharp like the river rocks he cuts himself on.
With you caressing his arms soothing all the while, he's at least a controlled fall. When you wonder— when you guess that maybe he thinks he doesn't deserve you, he very nearly crushes you as the last of his composure breaks and he physically collapses— physically struggles to catch himself.
You wish you could say 'I got you', but you can't, and the nearest hospital is hour away and crush injuries aren't your favourite on yourself either. "It's okay."
He collects himself enough to heave upright. So he can't fall on you again, he leans back against the couch, removing the weight you'd savoured then struggled under.
Grateful to breathe and sit up again, you miss the press of him against your back.
He hasn't stopped crying. He's crying harder.
Not permitting a spare second of sobbing Sheppard without consolation, you turn to face him when you lean against him, drape your arms across him. "It's okay," you say, lips pressed against him, face buried in him so he can't see your expression. "It's okay."
Sheppard hurts different. He knows you've parsed this. It hurts him that you have. He didn't want you to know.
He didn't want you to know that he feels fulfilled every time you hurt, because you hurting hurts him. He hates it.
"It's okay."
It's not.
But he's alive. And right now he's in your arms. And it takes hours but he's eventually coaxed to embrace you again.
When Murre returns they make dinner and the largest pot of tea that they bring to you, you don't have to get up. They take their time cleaning the not a second bedroom. Since Sheppard has fully collapsed on the couch, they try to figure out sleeping arrangements by way of another conversation in the looks you give each other. They sleep in the hammock after giving up.
Sheppard cries enough you contemplate having to replace your couch despite his promise. His smile, a sad sort of grimace, sounds like a laugh.
"Do you think you can handle the summer?" As though not handling summer is an option. As though there's a substitute for Sheppard. There isn't. You hold him a little tighter and he tries not to press into the touch where he hurts.
He doesn't want to go. He wants to stay here, with you, until it doesn't hurt anymore. He wants everything he's ever felt about you and with you that isn't hurt, all the time, until it's the only thing he can feel.
He wishes you weren't hurting all the time. He wishes everything you've ever felt that isn't hurt, is all you ever feel. But you do hurt all the time.
You live in this town because it's the closest thing to comfort, but your only real sense of comfort was taken from you with fire. And so hard-won stand-in comfort always hurts. How quiet it is, the breeze, the rain, the dry heat, the snow, the mountain horizon. That none of it is the place you'd rather be, a place that doesn't exist, a place you so desperately need that you hurt and comfort yourself every day living in a substitute.
It all hurts. It always has.
And he feels it. He always has.
"It's going to be a long summer."
The frustrated laugh that erupts from you is a tired equivalent of a smack. You don't want him to go.
Murre stays in town a little longer than they had planned to, taking care of the clinic while you take care of Sheppard. Any other time, before this Spring, you would have been confident in Sheppard surviving this extent of injury. You'd read about shredded carotid arteries. You'd sewn his gaping abdomen closed twice. But he's not healing like he used to and he's unhealing again.
You don't sleep much. You set alarms for every ten minutes. When Murre finishes at the clinic, they head straight to the cabin, put food in your hands and persuade you into a resting position. They turn off your alarms until they're the one pushing themself to be awake.
You've put him in the not a second bedroom. It's devoid of your personal belongings and so easier to fill with all the gauze you shouldn't need, alcohol for sterilizing hair to stitch reopening wounds, and a wider variety of medical supplies than you've ever had to use on him before. Its mattress you'll be disposing of. You might have to replace the sheepskin, placed under his head and sinking him into a reverie that puts you at some degree of peace.
After a devastating third sewing of gaping abdomen, he starts healing proper. It's slow progress but it's progress until he's healing better than he has all Spring and you find yourself in his arms again.
Insisting that he's not going to make you replace your couch, that he needs the change of scenery, you gingerly navigated him down the not-stairs. Murre, after an entire conversation that takes place in the looks you give each other, vacates the cabin entirely—seeing and hearing nothing. You can't help but notice Sheppard sits as far away as he can from the warmth of where Murre had been.
He reaches out and touches your wrist, gently navigates you to sit in front of him, his arms draped over you and pulled into your own.
He hurts the whole time. He hates it.
You can feel him trying not to cry; the shake of his chest, the hitch of his breath caught in his throat, the sting of his eyes with the familiar smell of salt. He's holding it all back.
You hold him in place, savouring his weight against your back. "It's okay." He doesn't say 'it's not', because his voice will break and with that the rest of him.
He knows what you're thinking and breaks anyways—but slowly. His ability to hold back eroding like the river rocks you sit on, the painful rattle of his chest sharp like the river rocks he cuts himself on.
With you caressing his arms soothing all the while, he's at least a controlled fall. When you wonder— when you guess that maybe he thinks he doesn't deserve you, he very nearly crushes you as the last of his composure breaks and he physically collapses— physically struggles to catch himself.
You wish you could say 'I got you', but you can't, and the nearest hospital is hour away and crush injuries aren't your favourite on yourself either. "It's okay."
He collects himself enough to heave upright. So he can't fall on you again, he leans back against the couch, removing the weight you'd savoured then struggled under.
Grateful to breathe and sit up again, you miss the press of him against your back.
He hasn't stopped crying. He's crying harder.
Not permitting a spare second of sobbing Sheppard without consolation, you turn to face him when you lean against him, drape your arms across him. "It's okay," you say, lips pressed against him, face buried in him so he can't see your expression. "It's okay."
Sheppard hurts different. He knows you've parsed this. It hurts him that you have. He didn't want you to know.
He didn't want you to know that he feels fulfilled every time you hurt, because you hurting hurts him. He hates it.
"It's okay."
It's not.
But he's alive. And right now he's in your arms. And it takes hours but he's eventually coaxed to embrace you again.
When Murre returns they make dinner and the largest pot of tea that they bring to you, you don't have to get up. They take their time cleaning the not a second bedroom. Since Sheppard has fully collapsed on the couch, they try to figure out sleeping arrangements by way of another conversation in the looks you give each other. They sleep in the hammock after giving up.
Sheppard cries enough you contemplate having to replace your couch despite his promise. His smile, a sad sort of grimace, sounds like a laugh.
"Do you think you can handle the summer?" As though not handling summer is an option. As though there's a substitute for Sheppard. There isn't. You hold him a little tighter and he tries not to press into the touch where he hurts.
He doesn't want to go. He wants to stay here, with you, until it doesn't hurt anymore. He wants everything he's ever felt about you and with you that isn't hurt, all the time, until it's the only thing he can feel.
He wishes you weren't hurting all the time. He wishes everything you've ever felt that isn't hurt, is all you ever feel. But you do hurt all the time.
You live in this town because it's the closest thing to comfort, but your only real sense of comfort was taken from you with fire. And so hard-won stand-in comfort always hurts. How quiet it is, the breeze, the rain, the dry heat, the snow, the mountain horizon. That none of it is the place you'd rather be, a place that doesn't exist, a place you so desperately need that you hurt and comfort yourself every day living in a substitute.
It all hurts. It always has.
And he feels it. He always has.
"It's going to be a long summer."
The frustrated laugh that erupts from you is a tired equivalent of a smack. You don't want him to go.
