The Girl: Chapter Eight
Her foot was dangling over the edge of the couch. So limp it didn't appear to possess any bones at all, pale and slender and inexplicably sad. Logan could not get the thought of glass slippers out of his mind, though he did not quite know why. He pushed the limb gently back onto the cushion, continued to scrub the vomit off the carpet. Every few seconds Logan would glance up, check how she was breathing, how fast her eyes moved beneath their lids.
When the chore was completed somewhere in the faint vicinity of his satisfaction, Logan stood (heavily, bracing an arm against his knee). He threw the rags in the garbage bin, told himself that he would take the nearly-overflowing bag to the chute later. He washed his hands (thoroughly) in the rusty sink and returned to the girl.
Her body did not tense as Logan shifted her back into his lap, made a few adjustments--but her brow crinkled and her lips twisted in discomfort and she gave little unhappy mewls.
"Hey, honey," Logan said quietly, stroking the hair out of her face. "C'mon, Darlin', wake up for me."
The girl fussed but opened her eyes. They were full of shadows. It couldn't have been less than three in the morning; Logan had been afraid to let her doze for more than an hour at a time. He was sure she would be happy to sleep without ever waking--and a concussion made that a very real possibility.
She blinked up at him and, like the other times tonight, there was no instant of forgetfulness, of sudden recognition of where she was--just hurt, unbroken by that brief and blessed unconsciousness.
"How ya feel, Kid?"
"Mm," she whimpered.
"Head hurt?"
"Mm."
"I'll getcha an icepack later. Go on back to sleep."
Her eyes showed no irritation--if she was capable of such an emotion--at being awoken, nor at what amounted to a dismissal. Just fear. Logan watched her contemplate the danger she was in, until exhaustion overpowered her discomfort. The girl tumbled back into sleep as if it were a muddy sinkhole. And an hour passed--then two, then three. And Logan sat holding her, moving slightly in a way that was not rocking, because rocking was for sissies. He stared down at the lily-white petals of her eyelids and thinking: Let her sleep. She's okay. Let her sleep. He didn't want to see her looking at him as if he was a continuation of her nightmare. Even more, Logan didn't want to see her almost-easy acceptance of this.
But he stayed there, as if the constancy of his arms might somehow transfer his ability to heal--and perhaps a little of his amnesia--to her.
The girl's next-to-nothing weight and the downy skin of her neck in the curve of his elbow. Soft breathing--inhale, exhale. The ever-so-small rise and fall of her chest and hair not damp now, but crusty with blood. Glistening lower lip, scarlet from the pressure of teeth. Twin knees peeping shyly from the hem of his shirt--Logan had the strangest urge to see how they would fit in his hands. A glimpse of pale thigh and bunched blue cloth around her midsection. The just barely audible (though this might have been his imagination) spasms of flesh made too sensitive by rough treatment.
Thin arms encircling her stomach--a package who's string had already been untied. Thick eyelashes. Mouthe parted for air. Exhale, inhale. The button's of his shirt tickling the side of her ribcage. Exhale, inhale. A cricket, somewhere. Rat feet pattering inside the wall. Shouting downstairs, a too-young somebody crying. Regular flinches from the girl in his arms, little snuffling sounds. Fluttering eyelids that stilled a moment later.
Her right cheek had a blotch of red in it--probably from laying against his shirt, though his mind raced with other ideas. A slap's bruise, just beginning to show up. Harsh lips. The hair of a jaw. Carpet burn--
"It's okay. You're okay," Logan mumbled, his lips moving so little that he might have been talking to himself, for his ears were the only ones capable of hearing the words. "You're safe."
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Logan's internal clock told him that it was a little past dawn in other cities, where the sun's rising was actually visible. Her face showed both distress and nausea--he said, "It's okay," and tactfully slid her off of his lap, to the other cushion.
He busied himself in the kitchen (not that there was much to do), trying clumsily to give her privacy, breathing space, a sense of normality--whatever those pussy therapists or the Xmen would call it.They were unfamiliar concepts to Logan when they did not apply to him. He tied the ends of the trash bag together and pulled it out of the oily plastic container. He could hear the girl's minute, timid shifting, felt her wide-eyed stare and knew she was scraping together any remaining dregs of courage into something useful.
"Where are my clothes?," she asked, in a tiny voice. No stutter for a change, but a trembling whisper that was somehow worse. As if she didn't want to be heard as much as she wanted the answer.
"With the rest of the garbage," he said, more blunt than he had intended. Force of habit. He pretended to only glance over his shoulder at her, but analyzed the fold of the girl's body, the flinches--as if she were accepting an invisible punch. He turned away.The trash required his complete attention. "I'll get you somethin' else to wear later." He hefted the bag in his right hand, started for the door.
Her lips were quivering. She seemed to be holding her breath and when the girl finally let it out, it shook too. She opened her mouth in apparent preparation of speech, but a sob rushed ahead of the words, and then a moan. Logan forced to wait with something close to what a patient expression might be.
"Can I leave?" She addressed her lap.
"No."
The girl flinched.
"I don't think you should," Logan amended, with effort. "You're better off here."
He opened the front door. "It's alright. You don't need to be scared of me," he reiterated. "I'm going to take care of you."
The girl did not raise her head.
Out in the hall, Logan stood as if frozen, trying to remember why he'd thought giving her a few moments alone was a good idea. It wasn't. It was stupid of him. Screw the garbage and it's traces of last night--he should drop it now, here. Go back inside and cover her body with his own. Make absolutely sure that nothing could get at her, that she understood she was safe. Let her know that he did not toss around guarantees of protection casually and that she owed it to him to get better, be happy and strong right away.
Logan gripped the plastic tighter and carried it downstairs.
::::::::::::
He asked her, "You...ah...you wanna talk...about it, Kid? Tell me what happened?"
She stared fearfully at the top button of his shirt while Logan thought--please say no please say no please say no.
And when ten minutes passed by with no noise save sniffles from her, he said, "Okay, honey. I'm gonna get that icepack, alright?"
He got up with a sense of spoiled relief.
:::::::::::
The girl remained on the couch until the thick of the evening--a flinching, huddled mass. She kept her wild gaze on Logan without ever actually meeting his, rarely focusing anywhere above his collar bone. Within a certain distance--arm's reach--she would study the ground, only lift her panicked eyes if he actually did touch her.
She refused both food and drink, and he did not push her. Logan filled an empty beer bottle with water and set it close by, in case she changed her mind. He felt odd, orbiting around this unexpected guest who would certainly be here longer than a hasty dinner. He was constantly aware of himself, and especially her--so small but taking up so much space. There seemed to be nothing to look at but her, nothing to do but ask her You sure you're not hungry? You cold, Kid? How do you feel? Still hurt? You feel sick? That gauze too tight? Need some tissue? Think you can make it to the bathroom? Do you need to go? Want me to do anything for ya? over and over again.
He checked her bandages, replaced a few, kept her warm with any clean material he had (a pair of Logan's jeans were rolled and placed under her head), kept up his own fumbling, one-sided conversation. Tear's fell, too, any time he came within arm's reach. Hot, thick tears that coated her cheeks like liquid glass. They never seemed to completely dry away.
Logan did not stray far from the building that day, never more than thirty minutes or so, and only then to pick up items for her. More bandages, a few t-shirts, some cotton child shorts. He bought a quilt from a grandmother in the next tenement. It was the softest and smelled the least of marijuana that the woman had to sell.
::::::::::::::
He offered the girl his bed, but she shook so badly that Logan quickly rescinded the suggestion.
"Alright, then. Call out it you need anything. I'll hear you."
Sleep was a sweet temptation, one his body definitely could have used. When was the last time he rested? Two, three nights ago? He'd gone longer. What was wrong with him? And Logan touched upon it, briefly--his thoughts and breath slowing into what some might foolishly call peaceful.
But the girl's heartbeats slid between his conscious mind and that darkness with it's promise of comforting nothingness. Logan stared up at the water-spots in the ceiling, listened to that uneven pulse in the other room and told himself that sleep had never kept it's promises to him anyway.
He heard the slow squeak of couch springs, the heavy rustle of cloth. A hiss of agony. Shuffling. Little gasps.
Logan swung his legs over the side of the mattress. His skin snagged on a piece of metal poking through the out-worn weave--perhaps it was good that she had taken the couch instead.
She was upright, yes, but barely so. Hunched over like a crone, legs so shaky and awkward it was as if she was discovering them for the very first time. The air that traveled down Logan's airways were static with her pain.
A soft white hand pressed to the wall, grime clinging to her palm when she pulled it briefly away. Her other hand touching her hip, her stomach, as if that would push the burning back in, so it would not get out and become unbearable. Her hair--still clumped with blood--was far beyond the point of disarray.
Logan watched the girl make her slow, limping way towards the door, taking the long route because she needed the what meager support the wall had to offer. She was, he thought with more generosity than he usually allowed, being as quiet as she possibly could. Still, not everything could be held behind her teeth and the lip they were biting. A footstep, a shudder, another footstep. Her soles dragging along the carpet. Lower body clenched against cramps and, he supposed, to hold in the gauze between her legs. He should have taped it there. Logan stood in the bedroom doorway, silently considering, wondering if the next step would be followed with a fall.
She paused in her unnecessary escape attempt, refastening her grip on whatever energy she had. He hadn't left the light on when he retired to his bed. It wasn't pitch black, but dark enough to make him worry about her hitting something. He was never sure of the exact point where his vision surpassed everyone else's--he'd have to measure it someday.
Logan wondered if she knew where she was going. If she were used to dim light and sneaking away.
When he stepped forward his movements--unlike her's--were completely soundless. And yet she stiffened before he even reached for her, perhaps sensing a different texture in the air behind her. He took hold of the girl's shoulders, gently, and she jerked, shouted. Began crying hard when he pulled her back--more reflexive despair than fright.
"Kid," he said tiredly and not unkindly. "I'm not gonna do this shit with you. Come on."
For neither the first nor last time he brought her back to the couch--leading, and then carrying. He picked the quilt off the floor, tucked her back in and listened to her beg him to stop something he hadn't begun.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Howdy neighborinos! Yeah, you're right. I really just said that.
Thank you, last-chapter-reviewers. You are the mac to my cheese, the five-o'clock shadow to my hot guy, and the extra juice and winking cashier to my snow cone. I would not be driving myself crazy over fan fiction without you.
This chapter is dedicated to....the resident at the nursing home where I work, who told me her ubberly hot grandson has been asking about me; unhealthy foods; memory cards that weren't lost after all but only playing peek-a-boo in the couch cushions; funny computer screens and, as always, rubber duckies.
(Please feel free to proceed to the story at any time. It only gets more gratuitous from here.)
I'm not particularly happy with this chapter, but if I spent any more time retyping it on this borrowed computer, my friend is going to turn green and burst through her clothing. I think ( with fingers crossed--it's very hard to type this way) it's just my usual pre-posting paranoia, but I can't be certain. Have I mentioned that each time I see a new review, I'm always 100% positive it's going to be a horrible one, until I click on it? Every single time.
.....God, isen't that great to hear right before you read something. Way to keep things unbiased, Rose.
Anyhooters, there was something I meant to mention in the last chapter (isen't there always?) but forgot: I actually think Logan would be great in a medical situation--I'd be tempted to break my leg just to have him fix it--but unfortunately all my experience comes from Google. So let's make-believe, m'kay?
Thank you so much for clicking on this story, especially if you made it all the way through the authors notes! Happy reading, and pretty-please review!
Thank you, last-chapter-reviewers. You are the mac to my cheese, the five-o'clock shadow to my hot guy, and the extra juice and winking cashier to my snow cone. I would not be driving myself crazy over fan fiction without you.
This chapter is dedicated to....the resident at the nursing home where I work, who told me her ubberly hot grandson has been asking about me; unhealthy foods; memory cards that weren't lost after all but only playing peek-a-boo in the couch cushions; funny computer screens and, as always, rubber duckies.
(Please feel free to proceed to the story at any time. It only gets more gratuitous from here.)
I'm not particularly happy with this chapter, but if I spent any more time retyping it on this borrowed computer, my friend is going to turn green and burst through her clothing. I think ( with fingers crossed--it's very hard to type this way) it's just my usual pre-posting paranoia, but I can't be certain. Have I mentioned that each time I see a new review, I'm always 100% positive it's going to be a horrible one, until I click on it? Every single time.
.....God, isen't that great to hear right before you read something. Way to keep things unbiased, Rose.
Anyhooters, there was something I meant to mention in the last chapter (isen't there always?) but forgot: I actually think Logan would be great in a medical situation--I'd be tempted to break my leg just to have him fix it--but unfortunately all my experience comes from Google. So let's make-believe, m'kay?
Thank you so much for clicking on this story, especially if you made it all the way through the authors notes! Happy reading, and pretty-please review!
Chapter End Notes:
This chapter was meant to be so much longer. It's only a tiny portion of the scenes I had planned to put, but each one mutated (not particularly funny pun intended), took up twice the time I had meant to spend on them---not that that is saying much, as my free time is very little these days. Stupid necessary income. Why, why, why can't we be paid for writing fan fiction?
Anyway, by the end of this I had meant for---well, can't tell you that! But in the interest of....well, nobody being mad at me...I had to stop here, or else I would be apologizing next week for the late update.
Wow. Guess who's digging deep into her insecure rambling skills today?
It's a law in every country in the whole world (go ahead and check--it's true, I swear) that anyone who says "pwetty-please" has to get whatever they are requesting so shamelessly. So pwetty-pwetty-please hit that review button.
Anyway, by the end of this I had meant for---well, can't tell you that! But in the interest of....well, nobody being mad at me...I had to stop here, or else I would be apologizing next week for the late update.
Wow. Guess who's digging deep into her insecure rambling skills today?
It's a law in every country in the whole world (go ahead and check--it's true, I swear) that anyone who says "pwetty-please" has to get whatever they are requesting so shamelessly. So pwetty-pwetty-please hit that review button.