The first sight was the thousand-point shine of sun-soaked glass, the majority of it strewn across warped flooring. True, some of it still clung to the wall (like teeth, it looked like the window was a fierce square mouth), but a breeze was batting at her hair. It was too hot, she also noted clinically. Sweat stuck the sleeves of her ragged rain jacket to her arms, and the oven-like swell of dry air pinched her throat. Her sores were uncomfortably stiff and she heard the soft crack of scabs when she unclenched her fist. How long had she been sleeping?
It was sunset now—thick orange stained everything it spilled against. Dust motes swirled like sparks from a giant flame, and by the corner was her father. As always.
As she uncurled from behind the couch (still keeping it between her father and her) she watched his slow, bemused work. Her eyes were nearly gummed shut with the residue of tears and the thin sheen of rot, her mouth a jagged little line.
Minutes passed. Bern Waters placed a shriveled finger to one of the shining pieces. It was a magic made only by sunlight; its light winked out in the long shadow of his hand. With delicate motions he arranged them, as if they were a giant puzzle. Piece to piece, his concentration unwavering.
Without his constant sobbing, Frances could hear her heart in her ears.
She reminded herself that there was no point in crying as she rubbed her eyes clearer. It was a quick motion, wary, and this was why: when she didn’t see him, she imagined him unfolding with violent motion. Every time. She knew without knowing that the moment she opened her eyes, or looked around the corner, or glanced over her shoulder, that his ripping and contorted face would suddenly take up her entire vision. Like a sudden wave, he would appear as a soulless force of nature to her side. If he even touched her she felt she something inside her might break. She wanted to scream even imagining it.
So right now her breathing was a controlled, shuddering affair. This was because even though she knew that she had to sleep eventually, all of her dreams consisted of him crawling across the floor like something boneless, dragging himself after her wherever she went like a skin on a string. There was another, more pressing reason though.
Burned bits of rope hung from the chair at the corner, the chair her father was always (always…always…always…alwaysalways…) bound to. Now he was by the window, solving the puzzle of glass. She couldn’t breathe. The room was too hot. The room… He glanced up at her, though she could not see his eyes. She stared at him in silence. Blinked. Everything different.
The sunlight had shrunk into a quivering line on the wall, and half of the window was ‘reassembled’ on the floor. Confusion bit her, and her eyes burned. He looked up again. Blinked. Change. It was dark. The glass was like a square of dark water. The air was freezing. Her father hadn’t moved, but the sun had… somehow. She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes hurt.
“Frannie.” A withered finger touched one of the last shards of glass and moved it into the roughly square gathering on the floor. The edges were ragged, but otherwise he had recreated the window perfectly. A window he should not have been able to break, since he was in a chair. In the corner embers glowed in the tattered edges of rope. This was wrong. All the rules were broken. He was out of his chair. He wasn’t crying or begging. This room wasn’t making sense, and every time she blinked she knew SHE KNEW he would cover the distance between her and she would lose her mind. She was six years old.
This was not the whimpering, twice-kicked dog she knew. He was not her father.
“My name is Frances.” The anger of her voice was thin. She sounded scared and she hated showing it. Med-Cab never...
“Frannie is a pet name of Frances,” he noted clinically. “I use it because I love you.” He said it so soothingly, viper-calm with a small smile on his face. She disliked him because he was a fucking liar. And he didn’t deserve a response. With his steps bringing him closer she couldn’t give one anyway. Instead, she glared with the coldness of the grave. It made him frown but also laugh, and another shiver crawled down her back in slow parade.
“Well? Nothing to say, my pet?”
No, not to you.
It was sunset now—thick orange stained everything it spilled against. Dust motes swirled like sparks from a giant flame, and by the corner was her father. As always.
As she uncurled from behind the couch (still keeping it between her father and her) she watched his slow, bemused work. Her eyes were nearly gummed shut with the residue of tears and the thin sheen of rot, her mouth a jagged little line.
Minutes passed. Bern Waters placed a shriveled finger to one of the shining pieces. It was a magic made only by sunlight; its light winked out in the long shadow of his hand. With delicate motions he arranged them, as if they were a giant puzzle. Piece to piece, his concentration unwavering.
Without his constant sobbing, Frances could hear her heart in her ears.
She reminded herself that there was no point in crying as she rubbed her eyes clearer. It was a quick motion, wary, and this was why: when she didn’t see him, she imagined him unfolding with violent motion. Every time. She knew without knowing that the moment she opened her eyes, or looked around the corner, or glanced over her shoulder, that his ripping and contorted face would suddenly take up her entire vision. Like a sudden wave, he would appear as a soulless force of nature to her side. If he even touched her she felt she something inside her might break. She wanted to scream even imagining it.
So right now her breathing was a controlled, shuddering affair. This was because even though she knew that she had to sleep eventually, all of her dreams consisted of him crawling across the floor like something boneless, dragging himself after her wherever she went like a skin on a string. There was another, more pressing reason though.
Burned bits of rope hung from the chair at the corner, the chair her father was always (always…always…always…alwaysalways…) bound to. Now he was by the window, solving the puzzle of glass. She couldn’t breathe. The room was too hot. The room… He glanced up at her, though she could not see his eyes. She stared at him in silence. Blinked. Everything different.
The sunlight had shrunk into a quivering line on the wall, and half of the window was ‘reassembled’ on the floor. Confusion bit her, and her eyes burned. He looked up again. Blinked. Change. It was dark. The glass was like a square of dark water. The air was freezing. Her father hadn’t moved, but the sun had… somehow. She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes hurt.
“Frannie.” A withered finger touched one of the last shards of glass and moved it into the roughly square gathering on the floor. The edges were ragged, but otherwise he had recreated the window perfectly. A window he should not have been able to break, since he was in a chair. In the corner embers glowed in the tattered edges of rope. This was wrong. All the rules were broken. He was out of his chair. He wasn’t crying or begging. This room wasn’t making sense, and every time she blinked she knew SHE KNEW he would cover the distance between her and she would lose her mind. She was six years old.
This was not the whimpering, twice-kicked dog she knew. He was not her father.
“My name is Frances.” The anger of her voice was thin. She sounded scared and she hated showing it. Med-Cab never...
“Frannie is a pet name of Frances,” he noted clinically. “I use it because I love you.” He said it so soothingly, viper-calm with a small smile on his face. She disliked him because he was a fucking liar. And he didn’t deserve a response. With his steps bringing him closer she couldn’t give one anyway. Instead, she glared with the coldness of the grave. It made him frown but also laugh, and another shiver crawled down her back in slow parade.
“Well? Nothing to say, my pet?”
No, not to you.
“Where does the world go when you close your eyes?” she asked Med-Cab. The woman chuckled good-naturedly, pausing her brisk pace.
“What’s that, Smiles?” That name. Why should she smile for this woman? Why was it something she cared about?
“What happens to everyone else when I’m sleeping? Where do they go?”
“It ain’t like that, Frances. They still there, honey, but you ain’t seeing them.”
“But…”
“You think what you see is the only thing what’s real?”
“N…no… “ Well, not now… She wished Med-Cab would stop laughing. It had made sense before now…
She woke up behind her haven, the couch, with her body knotted together and tears gumming her eyes. Like the faint sound of rain, or the thrumming of conversation far away, she heard the sound of Bernard Waters sobbing into himself. After that she could not force herself to close her eyes again, but she felt some small relief. At least when he spent his hours sobbing, she knew exactly where he was. It was only in his silence that the paranoia started burrowing into her spine. Last night… she… she couldn’t remember a damned thing.
Frances sighed without sound. Only three more days of this, and she would be back home at the orphanage. Her situation could be worse, much worse, she told herself. There is food here and water here. No zeds. Even so, she didn’t have the courage to look and see what had changed in the night, or if Los had retied the ropes. Eventually fear faded to nothing, she retrieved a moldering page that crinkled as she unfolded it, a diagram of the human body, and pretended she could read the words.
**** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** ****
“What’s that, Smiles?” That name. Why should she smile for this woman? Why was it something she cared about?
“What happens to everyone else when I’m sleeping? Where do they go?”
“It ain’t like that, Frances. They still there, honey, but you ain’t seeing them.”
“But…”
“You think what you see is the only thing what’s real?”
“N…no… “ Well, not now… She wished Med-Cab would stop laughing. It had made sense before now…
She woke up behind her haven, the couch, with her body knotted together and tears gumming her eyes. Like the faint sound of rain, or the thrumming of conversation far away, she heard the sound of Bernard Waters sobbing into himself. After that she could not force herself to close her eyes again, but she felt some small relief. At least when he spent his hours sobbing, she knew exactly where he was. It was only in his silence that the paranoia started burrowing into her spine. Last night… she… she couldn’t remember a damned thing.
Frances sighed without sound. Only three more days of this, and she would be back home at the orphanage. Her situation could be worse, much worse, she told herself. There is food here and water here. No zeds. Even so, she didn’t have the courage to look and see what had changed in the night, or if Los had retied the ropes. Eventually fear faded to nothing, she retrieved a moldering page that crinkled as she unfolded it, a diagram of the human body, and pretended she could read the words.
**** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** ****
**** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** ****
The issue, she guessed, was that she did not hum. If Smiles had hummed, the grown woman on the ground who leaned against her arm at this very moment would not be crying.
She did not want to hum. It was wrong to make more sound than necessary. The adult’s muffled sobs—though Love did at least try to stifle them against her own knees— were already jarring against her senses. She patted her head, full of dark and fluffy curls like a sheep. Smiles had seen a few sheeps once, on a trading boat near the port.
The woman’s sob spiked sharply as Smiles pressed the fishing hook through each lip of the wound, and the creature buried her face away. The ten-year-old paused, wondering if this woman could possibly be in this much agony. Smiles had broken bones before--the memory of the pain was a red burn across her vision. But she hadn’t cried like this, and this woman must have broken dozens if not hundreds in her life, right?
After a second of mental wrestling, the Retrograde girl risked a quiet shushing sound. The mane of curly hair pushed in like a pillow as she attempted to convey comfort (the way he had seen Love do to others). She was still mildly surprised when it worked.
Categorized: this is strange. Why?
The woman’s eyes were dark and round, tired with experience but quick to crinkle with a smile. And there were crinkles, seen through the holes in the mask. She was old. You learned to look at the eyes when a person didn’t speak. Love’s were jammed closed now and the woman was keening like cat in a trap.
I think I am frustrated, she acknowledged as she sewed through another loop of skin, now patting the woman again and shushing. It was becoming a pattern. Sew, pat, shush. Sew, pat, shush. It kept her mostly quiet. Smiles could not fix the bone, but she could stop the bleeding that threatened to leech Love’s life into the dirt. Enough to get her back to a doctor. Strange to think Med-Cab was so far away, or even just the Old Church House where she had spent so much of her life. And now, with this group…
I think I am frustrated. I am frustrated because she breaks all the rules, but she is still alive. I don’t think that’s fair at all. Not to say she wanted Love to die. Really, the reason the woman was still alive was the fact that she had some inhuman talent of making the people around her want to keep her safe. She lived up to her namesake, but…
She acts like she’s never lived in this world. Like she’s never got more than a cut. She looks so surprised every time her idiot actions get her hurt. And Smiles knew that this woman got hurt, and often! She had seen Love’s small gun and her way of running into fights. But it was her negligence what ended her up in situations like this. Smiles had only known her four days and had stitched her up three times for easily avoidable accidents (ones what could have killed her without a medic). It felt surreal. Who could possibly be this stupid and this old?
Love had sewn her a small square pillow with a curvy shape on it, like how a red circle of paint would look if someone dragged their finger straight through the middle and out through the other side. Smiles, in turn, was sewing her knee. Surreal. All of these people kept Love around. She wondered idly if the woman worked as a whore, but she hadn’t seen evidence of it yet.
She tied the knot and left the hook hanging there. Without scissors it would just have to stay until they got back, and similarly she taped the roll of twine to Love’s leg. They would just have to limp home, and though chances of attack here were slim, Smiles was frustrated by the unnecessary danger this put them in.
Take better care of yourself, she wanted to say. She wanted to shout it. How are you alive? You are a danger to yourself and a burden to everyone else. There won’t always be someone here, idiot, to clean you up when you fall down. She said nothing because it made no difference. If the actual results of Love’s foolishness didn’t teach her, what would a few words do?
The fact that this woman was nearly four times her age and her birthmother didn’t really come into the equation. People were people. She had grown up with them falling and crying, living and dying around her, of every age. Love followed Smiles like a wounded deer until she forced the woman (gently—if the creature knew Smiles thought badly of her now, they would never get home—Love treated a harsh word like a punch in the face and was not above weeping for it) ahead of her so she could watch their back. That was usually her job when she scouted out with the Civil Corps.
It was easy to want to protect her, though this person had no right to still be alive. She didn’t quite understand it.
That night she lay in a pile of blankets in a corner, where Love insisted on seeing her off to sleep. The woman patted her head and hummed tunelessly, more the sound of air over her throat than an actual thrum. Every night she would touch a hand to her lips and then to Smiles’ chest, above the heart. Then she would leave.
She didn’t quite understand it, but… it wasn't something bad. At ten years old, she didn't know any better.
**** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** ****
The issue, she guessed, was that she did not hum. If Smiles had hummed, the grown woman on the ground who leaned against her arm at this very moment would not be crying.
She did not want to hum. It was wrong to make more sound than necessary. The adult’s muffled sobs—though Love did at least try to stifle them against her own knees— were already jarring against her senses. She patted her head, full of dark and fluffy curls like a sheep. Smiles had seen a few sheeps once, on a trading boat near the port.
The woman’s sob spiked sharply as Smiles pressed the fishing hook through each lip of the wound, and the creature buried her face away. The ten-year-old paused, wondering if this woman could possibly be in this much agony. Smiles had broken bones before--the memory of the pain was a red burn across her vision. But she hadn’t cried like this, and this woman must have broken dozens if not hundreds in her life, right?
After a second of mental wrestling, the Retrograde girl risked a quiet shushing sound. The mane of curly hair pushed in like a pillow as she attempted to convey comfort (the way he had seen Love do to others). She was still mildly surprised when it worked.
Categorized: this is strange. Why?
The woman’s eyes were dark and round, tired with experience but quick to crinkle with a smile. And there were crinkles, seen through the holes in the mask. She was old. You learned to look at the eyes when a person didn’t speak. Love’s were jammed closed now and the woman was keening like cat in a trap.
I think I am frustrated, she acknowledged as she sewed through another loop of skin, now patting the woman again and shushing. It was becoming a pattern. Sew, pat, shush. Sew, pat, shush. It kept her mostly quiet. Smiles could not fix the bone, but she could stop the bleeding that threatened to leech Love’s life into the dirt. Enough to get her back to a doctor. Strange to think Med-Cab was so far away, or even just the Old Church House where she had spent so much of her life. And now, with this group…
I think I am frustrated. I am frustrated because she breaks all the rules, but she is still alive. I don’t think that’s fair at all. Not to say she wanted Love to die. Really, the reason the woman was still alive was the fact that she had some inhuman talent of making the people around her want to keep her safe. She lived up to her namesake, but…
She acts like she’s never lived in this world. Like she’s never got more than a cut. She looks so surprised every time her idiot actions get her hurt. And Smiles knew that this woman got hurt, and often! She had seen Love’s small gun and her way of running into fights. But it was her negligence what ended her up in situations like this. Smiles had only known her four days and had stitched her up three times for easily avoidable accidents (ones what could have killed her without a medic). It felt surreal. Who could possibly be this stupid and this old?
Love had sewn her a small square pillow with a curvy shape on it, like how a red circle of paint would look if someone dragged their finger straight through the middle and out through the other side. Smiles, in turn, was sewing her knee. Surreal. All of these people kept Love around. She wondered idly if the woman worked as a whore, but she hadn’t seen evidence of it yet.
She tied the knot and left the hook hanging there. Without scissors it would just have to stay until they got back, and similarly she taped the roll of twine to Love’s leg. They would just have to limp home, and though chances of attack here were slim, Smiles was frustrated by the unnecessary danger this put them in.
Take better care of yourself, she wanted to say. She wanted to shout it. How are you alive? You are a danger to yourself and a burden to everyone else. There won’t always be someone here, idiot, to clean you up when you fall down. She said nothing because it made no difference. If the actual results of Love’s foolishness didn’t teach her, what would a few words do?
The fact that this woman was nearly four times her age and her birthmother didn’t really come into the equation. People were people. She had grown up with them falling and crying, living and dying around her, of every age. Love followed Smiles like a wounded deer until she forced the woman (gently—if the creature knew Smiles thought badly of her now, they would never get home—Love treated a harsh word like a punch in the face and was not above weeping for it) ahead of her so she could watch their back. That was usually her job when she scouted out with the Civil Corps.
It was easy to want to protect her, though this person had no right to still be alive. She didn’t quite understand it.
That night she lay in a pile of blankets in a corner, where Love insisted on seeing her off to sleep. The woman patted her head and hummed tunelessly, more the sound of air over her throat than an actual thrum. Every night she would touch a hand to her lips and then to Smiles’ chest, above the heart. Then she would leave.
She didn’t quite understand it, but… it wasn't something bad. At ten years old, she didn't know any better.
**** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** ****
**** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** **** ****
At sixteen she stares at the edge of the May Cape, teetering at the fallen plastic log that marks the furthest she has ever moved from her home. The world roars around her—ports are always loud—but inside there is only silence. In a shroud of peace, every step she takes is toward a more dangerous land, despite the blue of its skies and the seagulls crying above. A more dangerous land, but a safer one for her.
Alone, she carefully picks her path.
At sixteen she stares at the edge of the May Cape, teetering at the fallen plastic log that marks the furthest she has ever moved from her home. The world roars around her—ports are always loud—but inside there is only silence. In a shroud of peace, every step she takes is toward a more dangerous land, despite the blue of its skies and the seagulls crying above. A more dangerous land, but a safer one for her.
Alone, she carefully picks her path.