III. Silence

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When the doors open, I first see Joseph Bishop's legs moving up and down in the air, his back glazing with sweat and his feet pointed at the ceiling. I gasp and nearly drop my things. He continues pushing against the floor even as I'm standing inside his room, and when the door shuts behind me, Joseph drops to the floor and walks away from us without uttering a single word or looking us in the eye.

"I don't know whether Maines informed you, but the student from Greens is here." The officer looks at me wearily. I wonder who Maines is. Joseph grabs a towel and uses it to wipe the sweat off his face. His back is still facing us.

I take another deep breath as I begin to notice something odd about his skin. It looks like someone has randomly drawn long vertical lines across his back. I slowly realize those must be scars. I suppress a shiver.

"Hi-i", I squeak out. "I'm Olive Peters, a graduating student from Greens Institute of Public Health. I've been assigned to you for the rest of my semester."

Finally, Joseph turns around. He looks at me with dark, dispassionate eyes. His face is hard and emotionless. 

I take a moment to catch my breath. Joseph Bishop is absolutely breathtaking. He does not look at all like how I imagined him to be. He looks older than twenty-eight, with his sharp features, his pale, white skin and his messy, brown bed of hair. Despite the ragged exterior, he is ... beautiful.

It's not only that which stuns me. A large, bird tattoo rests on the expanse of his chest, with wings that spread to the underside of his arms. Briefly, I wonder what they might look like if he raised his arms. 

Joseph Bishop is utterly indifferent about my presence, and I'm standing here like a lost child. He doesn't reply. So much for first impressions, Olive.

"You better start talking, Bishop," the officer says begrudgingly.  "We wouldn't want to inconvenience the miss now, would we?"

Joseph briefly breaks away eye contact to glance at the officer, then shifts his gaze back to me. "I wasn't told about any visitor." His voice sounds almost like a low drawl, with every word filling the air with intent. 

"I'm sorry then to barge in unannounced," I say quickly.  Joseph looks at me curiously as silence fills the room. 

The officer speaks up. "Following safety protocol, I'll be with you throughout the duration of your session. I can't leave you alone, but I'm sure our chap won't be behaving impolitely, ya?" He scoffs and gestures for me to sit on the chair he brought. "I won't disturb, I promise. Just carry on your business."

Joseph grins, then flashes a sly grin I cam't quite understand. "I'll behave," he says. He sits on the wooden stool beside his bed, his chest still shirtless. I mutter quietly to myself to look anywhere but there.

Awkward silence fills the room again, then I remember that I'm supposed to be asking questions. The officer sits at the corner of the room behind me, while Joseph continues his curious gaze. 

Right! Questions. 

Let's start with something simple. "How are you doing today, Mr. Bishop?"

As soon as I finish asking, his gaze tightens and his jaw clenches. It happens so subtly it's barely perceptible, but I notice.  

Joseph keeps his silence, then takes his gaze away and rests his arms on the ledge behind him. I notice the tattoo feathers on his arms, and for a moment I imagine tracing them with my fingers, seeing where they end... Olive! Focus. Don't let yourself come undone by your research study.  

I remain seated, but I'm quickly becoming uncomfortable as it's clear he is ignoring my questions. I swallow, then raise my head. "I understand you're busy, but I would really appreciate it if you could answer some of my questions. This won't take long, I promise." 

Suddenly, Joseph stands and proceeds to his bedside table where he takes out a book. He heads back to his stool and opens the 'Gulag' by Alexander Solzhenitsyn – a book I read last summer. He flips through a couple of pages and begins to read. 

I'd be fascinated by knowing that my patient has the same interest in literature as me, but I'm quickly becoming frustrated at his refusing to talk to me. 

Sigh. I should have expected this. 

Joseph flips a page, his hand pressed on the stool as the other holds the book. From this side, I can make out a small scar that runs down from the side of his forehead to an inch below his left eyebrow. 

I take a deep breath. "Mr. Bishop, maybe I can start by – " 

"Don't call me that." I'm caught off-guard. The words sound like an order for me to keep quiet; he didn't look at me as he said it, but he grits his teeth as he continues reading.

This was a stupid idea, I should have stuck to my first patient. "I'm s-sorry, Mr. Joseph –"

"Just Joseph." He flips another page.

Slowly, I regain my composure. At least I'm making progress, I think. "Why don't I start by asking you how long you've been here, in Claymore." I smile, and at that moment he shifts his attention to me. He dons his curious eyes, then sets down his book and walks away. I'm flabbergasted as he proceeds to enter the washroom and close the door.

I take a deep breath and sigh. I turn around and look at the officer who's head is resting on his palm, as if he's fallen asleep. Great.  I tell him I'm done for the day, then we leave.



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