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It was August 28th, 2277.
It was a morning that, like all others before it for the past month since my first courier job, had gone slowly, without much of note.
Most days had gone the same way in the same sort of routine: wake up to a quick wave of nausea that often hunched me over on the ground of my bedroom before I could even make it to the bathroom, clean up the mess I'd made, head outside and scrub my skin raw at the water pump to feel some semblance of 'clean' that never quite satisfied me enough to be comfortable, get dressed, get something to eat that I could only sometimes keep down, then throw myself into the monotony of whatever chores needed doing around the ranch until the sky turned dark.
Feeding the Bighorners or the few Brahmin that my old man had traded some useful scraps of junk metal for. Rounding them up when needed. Shooting coyotes that wandered onto our land. Feeding said coyotes to Fuzzball when I'd called him in from roaming using his whistle I left on the mantlepiece in the living room. Things like that.
I went all-in on the ranching, machine-like and methodical and altogether silent. It served me better, giving myself something to do whilst I recovered.
I had to keep busy. I always got antsy staying in one place for too long and that feeling only became more of a prominent itch when I had no choice but to allow myself some sort of rest.
My folks and Georgia would sometimes try to coax words out of me. I couldn't bring myself to do it. That whole month, I didn't say a word. Not even when I was alone at night in my bedroom or, for a few hours after my nightmares shoved me out of my restless slumber, when I sat on the porch with my gun, watching out for any signs of crimson, or the three faces that had carved their way into the darkest corners of my mind.
They reemerged in the fleeting glimpse of a cactus on the ridge just a touch too human-like until viewed for longer. In the passing of my own shadowy silhouetted reflection in my bedroom window. In the weight of my blanket draped over my body in the middle of the night.
They weren't there. Not physically. I knew that. That thought alone wasn't enough to make them go away from all the places I thought they were, though.
Besides Georgia's pestering and prying on several occasions, neither my folks nor Virginia asked questions about what had happened to me. Not that I'd be able to answer with anything besides a nod or a shake of my head, but I wasn't about to spill my guts -- verbally or non-verbally, the latter of which I couldn't shake myself out of.
My folks kept monitoring my more visible wounds, keeping an eye to make sure they wouldn't get infected, and tried for conversation on some occasions, though I just couldn't oblige. I wasn't blind to how it made them feel, seeing me unable to get words out. I just couldn't help the way I felt. It wasn't either of our faults.
Virginia never treated me differently, besides simply acknowledging I'd been hurt. All the ways I'd been hurt, I wouldn't -- couldn't -- tell her. Knowing I couldn't get myself to talk, she'd give me bits of conversation I could participate in with a nod or a shake of my head. Even without words, I enjoyed our conversations. Sometimes, she'd watch me going through all the motions of the ranch chores and sit nearby, painting smiley faces on rocks with ash and charcoal from the burned-out campfires.
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Nevada: High Roller (Fallout New Vegas)
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