Halting my frenetic escape, I paused, allowing a moment for a deep, steadying breath. My heart pounded against my ribcage, a visceral reminder of the tumultuous events unfolding. Confusion momentarily clouded my thoughts—I was moving with such urgency, but for what? I'd left the suitcases for Karen and Chris in the dust alongside the Portal. Clutching Kain's smaller bags, I confronted the vibrant, swirling colours that adorned the study wall.
"Just slow down, Luke," I murmured to myself, seeking solace in the rhythm of my own voice. Another deep inhalation filled my lungs, grounding me momentarily. There's no need to go stupid.
With a tentative step, I immersed myself into the kaleidoscope of colours, the transition as surreal as it was instantaneous. My eyes, upon reopening, were met with an expanse of bright blue sky—a bright departure from the dimly lit confines of the study. A wave of relief washed over me as I spotted Paul, his frame bending to retrieve one of the Owens’ suitcases, with Lois, ever inquisitive, inspecting the luggage array.
Paul's frustration was palpable, a deviation from his usual demeanour, and it caught me off guard. "Who's all this for?" he inquired, his tone laced with irritation that seemed to resonate with the tension I'd just escaped.
"Oh," I stammered, slightly thrown by the intensity of his question. "The suitcases are for Karen and Chris," I explained, pointing toward the luggage I had somewhat abandoned in my rush. "And these bags," I gestured to the ones I was carrying, "are for Kain. Oh, and I've already left Joel’s bags at the Drop Zone," I added, trying to preempt any further questions with a comprehensive account of my actions.
Before Paul could interject, I hurried on, feeling the need to justify my frequent transitions between worlds. "And I may as well bring a few things through with me whenever I come and go from different locations, so expect the unexpected," I said, attempting a light-hearted tone that fell flat under his scrutinising gaze.
Paul's frustration didn't wane; instead, it manifested in the deepening furrows across his forehead. "You can't just bring random crap through!" he exclaimed, his voice escalating.
"It's not crap! These are people's belongings!" I retorted, more forcefully than I intended, as I lowered the bags to the ground. Confusion mingled with my rising defensiveness. I couldn't fathom why Paul was reacting so vehemently. His agitation was uncharacteristic, and it unsettled me, adding an unexpected layer of discord to an already complicated situation.
Paul's anger was like a tangible force, his words filled with frustration and exasperation at his situation. "What the hell are they supposed to do with it all?" he demanded, his voice laden with a bitterness that seemed to echo off the barren surroundings. "It's not like we have anywhere to put anything! Hell, we don't have houses. We may as well be living in dog kennels."
"Far out, Paul!" My response was instinctive, a mix of surprise and irritation. I flung my hands into the air, my gestures mirroring my rising frustration. "Give me a break. I'm only trying to make things more comfortable and homely for you all," I defended, my voice laced with a plea for understanding.
But Paul was unappeased. "Homely!" he echoed scornfully, his voice climbing in pitch. His next action—a dramatic scoop of dust, flinging it into the air—was a vivid demonstration of his exasperation. "You can hardly call this homely! This fucking dust is everywhere and it is driving me fucking nuts!"
I found a brief moment of levity in Paul's rare use of profanity, a typically out-of-character display that, under normal circumstances, might have sparked a shared moment of humour between us. But my laughter quickly dissipated, replaced by a sobering realisation as Paul's frustration remained unshaken, his mood unchanged by my attempt at levity.
"Just fuck off, Luke," he retorted sharply, his words cutting through any remaining pretence of camaraderie. With a swift motion, he slung the backpack over his shoulder, grasping another bag with a resigned determination. "Come on, Lois," he beckoned to the dog, his tone softening ever so slightly, a biting contrast to the harshness directed at me. "Let's get you some water."
As I watched him walk away, a frown etched itself onto my face, mirroring the confusion and concern churning inside me. What had ignited this sudden flare of bitterness in Paul? My gaze dropped to the bags still grounded, their silent presence a reminder of the unresolved tension. With a resigned sigh, I addressed them, "Paul will be back for you," though the words felt more like an uncertain promise to myself than to the inanimate objects before me.
