The Girl: Chapter Six
The decision had not been made as a whole, all at once. He'd had no intention of inviting the girl into his apartment again, certainly never on a regular basis. But his intentions had never been worth much, had never changed an outcome or the misery-flavored air that Logan inhaled at the end of the day. It was worse than foolish for him to believe that intentions would matter now.
After their dinner of Chinese, and throughout the next day, Logan told himself that eating with her had been a one-time thing. A disturbing aberration he refused let happen again. Why should he share any of his limited space and patience with someone when he received nothing in return? Bad enough that he had to waste money on someone else's brat, but why should Logan's overworked senses be forced to suffer the body heat, undulations, and infinite noises--not forgetting smells--of another person? Forget the drug addicts in the hall. Letting her inside once had set a horrible precedent. Next thing he knew, the kid would be begging to move in.
Yet, that evening Logan found himself, once again, with an especially large amount of food. Too much to just leave out there with the girl, where anybody could come and take it. Hell, she was the kind of--the kind of idiot who might give it freely, to any child who seemed hungrier than her.
But it was his food. He had gone through the trouble of buying all of it, of making sure that there were plenty of vegetables because he knew kids needed that shit, and plenty of whip cream on the pie because he knew that kids liked that shit. It was his to choose who got their unwashed hands on it.
So when Logan told the girl, "You're eatin' inside here again.", his voice was firm, and would have been baffled at the idea of a refusal. He had no reason to worry--not that he had been--because the girl stood quickly enough at the order. She even flashed him a grateful, if a little tired, smile.
Logan closed the door behind her, thinking of how the food and everything that came with it was his to protect. If he felt like it.
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The next night he bought less, after throwing out half the leftovers from yesterday because they would not fit in his fridge. But Logan invited her in, because it was stew. She had already proved herself untrustworthy by dumping noodles all over his couch; he didn't want the same happening in the hall. The tenement was home to enough roaches without, her clumsy fingers providing a banquet.
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The third night was pizza, and he was hungry. Logan owned no plates and the thought of leaving her the box, and carrying his half in his hands made him growl (strangely, the thought of doing the reverse did not occur to him), so he sighed and said, "Come on in."
And she said things like, "Oh, that looks good," and "I like pepperoni the best," and "Thank you so much, Logan," and "Mmmmn." She did not seem to notice that his only replies were grunts.
Her voice still reminded him of wind chimes.
And Logan thought that it was the best, and only, payment he could expect from the girl. He was no longer satisfied with a single "Thank You" in the hall. After all, he wasn't a fucking delivery service. He'd be damned if he let the kid get away with so cheap a fee. If she wanted to eat, she was going to sit her ass inside and talk to him. Like he was normal. Like he was capable of doing a good thing. Like he was someone anybody would thank, for a service other than sex or violence.
He hardly even bothered to say, "Come in", or any version of the phrase. He'd give her a nod when he met her, hold the door open for his payment of innocence.
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One routine became another without any care for his intentions, like a new coat of paint--a different color, but the same overwhelming aroma.
She always sat in the hall until he arrived with the bag or the box or the wax paper, or whatever their dinner happened to come in. Although his door remained unlocked and though it would have been just as easy, she never entered without him. Neither felt comfortable with the thought of her being alone in his apartment and neither thought of questioning this unspoken rule.
She always stayed for an hour or so. Long enough to eat her fill (she took her time now, assured that the food would not be taken away) and watch a little TV.
She always offered to help clean up; he always said no.
She always smelled nice--underneath the sweat and dust that Logan could excuse, in this place.
She always said Thank You.
And she always left, as soon as she reached the last bite that her stomach would accept. Perhaps she did not want to push her luck, stay when his mind and hands were not occupied with his own food. She left, in any case. Left him alone in his apartment. And Logan always told himself that this was a good thing.
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She told him her name, Marie.
As if he gave a shit.
As if he'd asked, or been the least bit curious.
As if she were anyone important enough for him to think of by name.
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"What does that guy do?"
"Those are not 'guys', they're players. Which guy are you talkin' about?"
The girl pointed. Trying, he supposed, as she sometimes did, to start a conversation. It wouldn't work. He grudgingly followed her finger's direction to the man it indicated on the screen.
"That's a linebacker, Kid."
"Oh," she said, and nodded. But it was apparent that the title meant nothing to her.
Logan huffed. He preferred the honestly stupid to those who feigned knowledge. But because it was, or should be, required for everyone to know all aspects of football, he was forced to explain the sport to her, in detail.
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"You ever go to school, Kid?"
She shrugged. "Sometimes."
"Social services ever come around?"
"Sometimes."
He didn't ask if she wanted to go, if the school in this city was a safe place. Logan looked at the girl, thought of her books, and guessed correctly between Won't and Can't.
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The girl sneezed. Once, twice, three times, four times. An apologetic and embarrassed look shot to his side of the couch. A hand, cupped over her nose.
"There's some toilet paper in the bathroom, Kid."
Her knees twitched; her legs shifted as the muscles prepared to stand. But they stilled, and a bizarre expression passed over what little of the girl's face that Logan could see. She shook her head.
Fine, he thought, and turned away. There was only eight minutes left to the game, and he had no intention of missing it to fetch her a snot rag.
She took the courser, brown napkin that had been wrapped around their hot dogs, twisted her head discreetly as she wiped her upper lip.
Logan's teeth were held tightly together, as if to keep anything behind them from escaping. Yesterday, in a moment devoid of the reason he normally prided himself on, Logan had told the girl that she could read one of her books here. If she wanted. Sometime. But she had said no, too afraid of him still, too afraid now to even chance being caught in the back rooms. As if being in sight of the door mattered. As if she were any more at risk near his bedroom than here, right beside him.
She sniffled and coughed, left even before the eight minutes were up.
Much later, after he had made that night's kill, Logan bought and placed a box of tissues on the floor next to the couch; he set a bottle of cold medicine on the kitchen counter. Just in case anybody needed them.
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"What did you eat today, Kid?"
The girl looked up at him with surprise, blinking as if this question was a trick, or some game you play with toddlers. She glanced down at the food in her lap and up again at him.
"Chicken," she answered, pointedly. Was he blind?
"What else?"
Another downward glance. "Onion rings." As if it were normal to eat only one meal a day, normal to rely on the upstairs for that meal. A mercenary who might be leaving in a week or two.
Logan gritted his teeth, so--so annoyed by her reply that he found himself swallowing compulsively for the rest of the evening, keeping his jaw locked tight as he thought about what the kid would eat when he was gone.
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His first thought, when Logan saw her, was Oh shit.
The second was Who?
The third: No. No. No.
He returned early, his tasks outside of the tenement finished more quickly than usual. Logan was not particularly surprised that he reached his apartment before the girl--though he had assumed (wrongly, he supposed) that she sat in his hall for a couple of hours. Logan left the door open half-way, turned the television on and placed both the food and himself on the couch to wait for her.
But twenty minutes passed, then thirty, and when he finally heard her distinctive footsteps (perhaps a little slower? Heavier? Uneven?) leaving the stairwell, Logan jumped to his feet.
He wanted to be angry, wanted to say something rude and punish the girl for being late. He wanted to let her inside so that they could eat. Like always. Like they were supposed to. But odd scents, bad scents, pushed against his nose, and a feeling settled like a stone in his chest. And he knew, he knew without thinking what had happened, knew what was going to happen now. He knew that what he wanted would make no difference.
Logan wondered how she managed to make it up the stairs, how she managed to stand or walk at all. She couldn't have been thinking clearly, shouldn't have had the strength or will to move. Later, he thought that something in the girl remembered that she was supposed to be somewhere at this time and she had held on to that fact. Some instinct had driven her to seek comfort in the closest approximation to good and safe that the girl knew.
He noted five of the most visible bruises before his senses began to relay more troubling facts to his brain.
The girl's eyes were glassy and unfocused, her legs shaking from ankle to hip with the effort their job required. She swayed unmistakably from side to side like an infant's tower of blocks. Tangled hair, a partially open mouth that revealed skin a much darker red than any gums should be. A purple crescent moon around her left eye.
The strong scent of copper.
Dirty t-shirt hanging off of her slim frame. Backwards, and inside out. Logan could see the tag sticking out at him like an impudent tongue, it's brand too faded to read. Shoeless feet, only one sock--turning red from something she must have stepped on. Jeans worn properly, but as wrinkled as her shirt, with an alarming crimson bloom staining the fabric beneath the zipper.
The girl stopped walking (or staggering) when Logan appeared. But though she looked straight at him, he doubted that she knew who he was.
"Jesus Fucking Christ," he swore.
Her lips quavered and she wobbled; he caught the tower of blocks before they hit the filthy non-carpet, just as her knees buckled. She gave a sharp whimper at the press of his body against hers. But the girl did not, or could not, struggle as he lifted her into his arms. Beaten flesh and the curve of a breast against his chest. Her knees laying over his forearm, easily fitting in the space between Logan's wrist and elbow. Small body flinching spastically, her head twisting away from his neck.
He carried the girl inside.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Hello!
So who else watched the second Xmen yesterday (or the day before, or both times) when it was on TV? Doesn't the prospect of Jean drowning put you in a good mood, no matter how many times you see it? I haven't had any coffee this morning (I try to only drink it every other day, to prevent addiction), but lack of sleep and Hugh Jackman always makes me a little loopy--my apologies in advance.
Thank you, as usual, to the amazing people kind enough to click that review button over and over. It's never unappreciated; I'm grateful on an almost inappropriate level. (Need a kidney transplant, anyone?) I wish I could say more, but it's (finally) payday again, and I have alot of errands to run.
I had this typed up yesterday, but something wasn't quite right with the ending. It took me a whole night's worth of obsessing, and three hours this morning trying to redo the scene. I hope you all enjoy it.
Happy reading!
So who else watched the second Xmen yesterday (or the day before, or both times) when it was on TV? Doesn't the prospect of Jean drowning put you in a good mood, no matter how many times you see it? I haven't had any coffee this morning (I try to only drink it every other day, to prevent addiction), but lack of sleep and Hugh Jackman always makes me a little loopy--my apologies in advance.
Thank you, as usual, to the amazing people kind enough to click that review button over and over. It's never unappreciated; I'm grateful on an almost inappropriate level. (Need a kidney transplant, anyone?) I wish I could say more, but it's (finally) payday again, and I have alot of errands to run.
I had this typed up yesterday, but something wasn't quite right with the ending. It took me a whole night's worth of obsessing, and three hours this morning trying to redo the scene. I hope you all enjoy it.
Happy reading!
Chapter End Notes:
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