The Girl: Chapter Nine
Her life had become a surrealist painting--like the ones in that book she'd flipped through at the library. An abstract world, with distorted figures and agitated light and nothing how or where it was supposed to be. Horrible and petrifying and completely insane. The girl was sure that if she tried to scream paint chips would fill her mouth and she'd die choking on the chemicals.Trapped by canvas and wood and a hopeless inanimacy.
But perhaps her world had always been that way. Maybe she was only understanding now the full scope of the term 'meaningless'.
She wondered if death was any different. Dark and blank and inescapable.
Maybe she was already dead, if she couldn't tell the two apart.
Nothing was real. It couldn't be. It was too awful, too pointless. A tunnel, a cave who's exits had been bricked off. There was nothing the girl could do, so why should she do anything at all? Better just to stop thinking about it--stop thinking, period. Just stay still and let everything brush over her until the artist changed his mind and scratched her out of the picture. Replaced her with something more appealing. A bush, maybe.
Girls here had been doing just that for years. Why couldn't she?
A piece of the girl--the most important piece,she told herself, the piece that actually believed indifference was possible--remained detached even as her flesh betrayed her. When Logan came near, when he touched her, when he looked at her or the air around her for too long, when she had no reason at all to be upset--her stupid, stupid body reacted. Her muscles would contract; tears would sprout from her eyes and fear chemicals would spark alive in her blood. The girl really didn't care. But she couldn't seem to send that message to the rest of her body.
It didn't matter anyway, the girl told herself, it didn't.
It didn't matter how strangely Logan was behaving. It didn't matter that he had barely suffered her presence before and now refused to let her leave. It didn't matter what he intended to do with her because, after all, what more could be done?
Sometimes she wished he would hurry up and hurt her, do whatever he wanted. She needed to get used to it.
She was numb.
Or, rather, she spent so much time convincing herself that this was true that it became the same thing.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The days that passed were strange ones, frantic but uneventful--a combination that nearly drove Logan insane. In the apartment (which he was spending more time in than ever before), he felt each minute as a physical presence, dragging away from him with an agonizing slowness. Time had never held so still, as Logan waited for the girl to need something. To speak; to eat a little at his pleading (and slight forcing); to look at him with something other than fear (hadn't happened yet); to use the bathroom; to have her bandages changed (six times a day, perhaps a little more than necessary--it was an excuse to be close to her, to teach her that all contact was not lecherous).
He spent most of his time struggling to keep from falling through the flimsy netting of the lawn chairs (his place on the couch was, apparently, in a state of permanent off limits after the Football Game and Hysteria incident of a few evenings prior). Logan would turn the TV on but watch the girl, wonder what she was thinking about when she stared not-quite-blankly into space. By the end of the program he could say how many times her eyes had watered, but not which team had won.
And all the while he was desperate, caught in an internal frenzy to leave. Tie the last knots in this mission and take her far away. Xavier's would surely know how the fuck to deal with her. All sorts of kids flooded that mansion, many twice as messed up as she was. Yeah. Yeah, they'd know what to do. What she needed. He'd make sure they took care of her.
::::::::::::
On the second day--the morning after her abysmal attempt to sneak out--Logan softened her hair with water and baby oil, pulled out what hardened clumps of blood he could get without hurting her. That night Logan made/helped the girl take a shower. He held her under the tepid, unreliable spray, directed her head this way or that to avoid hitting the gauze. Half-in, half-out of the tub himself because there wasn't enough room for the both of them, he was soaked. And afterward, when he changed out of his sopping jeans, the cloth pulled away moist, suctioning noises that turned his stomach. He couldn't say why, but the sound stuck in his head; he heard it every time he thought about the tenement.
Blood, with differing tints of other filth: from muddy amber to a frothy, milky pink--sluiced off the girl's body. It pooled around her feet and the much-abused drain. She trembled as his free hand made it's way over various places--over her clothes, which Logan had permitted her to retain in order to avoid a fit--loosening whatever had crusted itself to her skin. The smell--their smell--did not come away so easily.
He would always remember the way she turned her head. Pressed her face into his side. The bump of her little nose. Eyelids scrunched tightly closed. Hiding when protests hadn't helped her. Logan pretended she was nuzzling him.
:::::::
On the third day, she went almost an entire hour without crying.
:::::::
On the fifth day, she said, "Thank you", when Logan placed a steadying hand under her elbow. He kept her from tripping on her ungraceful walk to the bathroom. When they reached the toilet, the girl snatched her arm away, recoiled, looked at him sideways. But then those words came out, all the same. And they made him feel...they made him feel.
::::::
On the sixth day, the girl rested her cheek fleetingly on Logan's chest, let, for a moment his arms encircle her soft form. But she pulled away a moment later because he was obviously finished taping down her bandages.
:::::::::::::::
Soup, when he couldn't calm her enough to coax anything else past her teeth.
Slightly stale cheerios, consumed one at a time when his gentle plea, "You hafta eat somethin', Darlin'," was met with only shakes of her head. His next words were a bit sharper.
Chicken strips when she could keep them down.
Sliced apple when she spat out his attempt at scrambled eggs (offensive, until Logan had tasted them for himself: slippery rubber).
A rather expensive cinnamon bun when he'd brushed his lips across her knuckles and she hadn't pulled away.
A few mouthfuls of brisket when she seemed interested enough in food to use a fork.
::::::::::::::::
He thought she was recovering. Not in the normal sense of the word, but as those in this city recovered. Drawing into themselves, maintaining their bodies and letting everything else fall away, in preparation of the next assault. Like the farmers who set fire to their crops to defy a looting army.
The girl could stand, walk around with more ease--but continued to wobble and grimace from the effort.
She could get up for more water, a tissue, Tylenol, but could not tolerate his eyes touching her's.
She would allow him to apply neosporin, clean cotton to the now slightly-less alarming gash that marred her scalp. But she'd take the supplies and go into the bathroom to dress the other injuries herself.
The girl would say 'yes' or 'no' to questions he asked her, 'please' and 'I'm not hungry', 'don't' and 'I'm cold' and, occasionally, 'Logan'. But never without the ring of anxiety in the words.
And she never, never fell asleep without adding fresh tears to the ones already shed.
:::::::::::
Many more escape attempts followed her first, when she thought him asleep or on some outing. They were clumsy, almost half-hearted tries rarely brought her further than the hall when she was most successful.
His soft admonishments had no long-lasting effect on the girl. She'd fight him until he deposited her back within the four walls they'd both become so familiar with. And as soon as her tears dried she seemed to forget the incident--until the next time.
Logan was always struck by the expression on her face when he caught her, a little girl's baffled hurt. He worried about others finding her before him on those rare occasions when she made it out the door. What they might do when she was at her softest, most confused. Different from the girl who sat on his couch, alert enough to pretend to ignore him.The child that wandered half-asleep out of his apartment, though she had nowhere to go, was practically begging someone to take her. Her face so vulnerable and sweet and asking why without hope for an answer that anyone would want to, need to grab her. Pull her close and then closer and then--
Logan told himself that he wouldn't allow that to happen.
::::::::::::::::::
He made no noise when he left. She was in a thick sleep, the kind when the dreamer has sobbed herself past exhaustion, hugging the quilt tightly.Logan had watched her for a long time to assure himself that she wasn't going to stir for awhile. Even the door's latch seemed to muffle it's click accommodatingly for him, as he slipped quietly out.
A quick sweep of the areas he had occupied during the mission. Double checking the homes, the offices, the brothels of his victims. He searched for evidence, for incidental witnesses that Logan knew he hadn't left--but he was not the sort to grow sloppy from overconfidence. It was The Wolverine's version of paperwork, time consuming and (for him) dull. He'd do half now, the rest tomorrow. And then they would be out of here.
Logan organized his thoughts as he traced and retraced his paths over the last few months. He considered the connections between his targets, weighed the value of information he'd be handing over to Xavier. Chuck would be impressed, and Logan would be suitably compensated--and perhaps a portion of his pay could go to the girl's keep in the mansion.
::::
She was having a nightmare. Logan could hear her whimpering as soon as he left the stairwell, and his step quickened. The doorknobs turn was considerably louder this time, but the girl did not awake. His boots pressed down the already thin weave of the carpet as they stepped around the side of the couch, coming to a halt when he reached her.
The girl's hair was still wet; lately she'd taken to showering several times a day, a luxury he didn't begrudge her. Her skin was always pink now from scrubbing at what she couldn't wash away; she'd already worn down the bars of soap Logan had purchased the other day.
The quilt was twisted appallingly. A corner of it was still draped over her ankle, clinging without hope; the rest was piled on the floor. Thrashing had pushed her further up the cushions; there was room for him to sit. Her head tossed wildly back and forth; her arms pushed at nothing. Beneath her lids the girl's eyes moved with violent force.
He caught her kicking legs, and then her wrists, pushed moist brown strands out of the way of her mouth, her rapidly blinking eyes. He said, "Shh", her name, little soothing things that did not help because she still woke screaming.
The soft and not-so-soft jabs of a panicky fight as Logan labored to quiet her enough offer comfort. A knee striking--perhaps by accident--his testicles bluntly. He grunted and bit down hard enough to fill his mouth with blood, and forced back the urge to retaliate.
Eyes welling as pain flared brightly and settled into a dull, nauseating, unfortunately familiar throbbing. Logan nuzzled her shoulder. His jaw was tight. He rubbed her back, her arms, perhaps not as gently as he could.
"Baby, you're only dreaming," he told her quietly (though this wasn't so true anymore, he thought, with the irritation that always accompanied an kick to his nuts). "You're safe, wake up now. It's okay. Everything's okay."
"Get off! Stop! Stop! Get off of me. God, no, get off of me. Getoffgetoffgetoffgetoff--"
She bucked, kicked away when he loosened his arms. Maintained her sobbing, high-pitched litany even when he let her go completely. Logan sat back. The girl wound herself into a protective ball and every gesture made towards her produced a violent cringe. From the curve of her thin elbow she peered out at him, shivering and crying tears which, judging from the instant redness of her cheeks, were boiling.
"Get away," she gasped. "Just leave me alone." And this last was spoken so angrily that he acquiesced. Logan was tired, not prepared to shift so suddenly from a killer covering his tracks to a protector--at least, not the kind capable of doing whatever the kid needed. He didn't know any fucking lullabies, how to make her personal Boogieman run back to his closet. All of his pre-programed comforting techniques were those of an animals, and required the skills of his flesh.
Logan tried to shrug it off. He stood, replaced her quilt for the twentieth time. Touched her hair lightly, just once, and turned away.
He didn't see the shocked look that came over the girl's face and would have misinterpreted it even if he had.
He closed his eyes when she came in. Inhaled her nervousness, the minute shifts in her scent until she made up her mind on whatever she was deciding. Held perfectly still as her precious weight--little as it was--made the mattress dip and squeak. She stretched herself hesitantly along the edge (scooting over for her would have defeated the purpose of faking sleep and probably would have sent her running), on her side. The girl's slight breath, her shaky body. Warm. Her breasts, her knees pressed against his side mockingly. Peaches and vanilla and salt all filling his nostrils and whatwasshedoingwhatwasshedoingwhatwasshedoing? The dark quiet of the room and the sweaty perfume of the sleepless. Her wet hair and young body and what did she think she was doing here? Logan willing himself not to move. Don't move. Don't move a single fucking muscle--particularly not that muscle.
It was a test. An apology. A thank you. A whatever-you-wanted-to-call-it, from the incomprehensible mind of sad teenage girls. She remained there for the rest of the night, and Logan didn't touch her. She dozed off, eventually, and he told himself that meant trust.
He stayed awake.
.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
Hello, my favorite people in the world!
I can't apologize enough for being late on this, *again*. I'm very grateful to the readers who waited, patiently or impatiently (but particularly the impatient ones--I love the idea that someone enjoys my writing enough to get irritated with me) for an update.
A girl I go to school with died in a car accident, and I was occupied for many of the hours I usually set aside for writing. I hope you'll excuse me this time.
This chapter came out to about thirty pages, so I believe I kept my promise about a long one. :-) I had about twenty of those pages typed up (on Google; this computer does not have Microsoft Word) when the universe decided it would be fun to see me cry. Everything I had after "The Girl: Chapter Nine"--erased and discarded. And Gmail saved the draft before I could undo it. Grrr....>clamps down on urge go whine to infinity<
I retyped most of it, but decided to separate the chapter into two (don't worry: I think I chose a nice place to leave off) in case I didn't finish the rest before I'm too tired to read the words on the monitor (very possible, with my slow pace). Anyhooters, this means you will see Chapter Ten late tonight or early tomorrow. :-) Thank you all for sticking with this ('this' meaning both the story and these loopy A/N's).
The following is dedicated to: the awesome women where I work, people who love dogs, mint chocolate chip ice cream, and the theme song from 'Remember The Titans'.
And to Alyssa, who is missed every minute of every day by her friends.
Please enjoy.
I can't apologize enough for being late on this, *again*. I'm very grateful to the readers who waited, patiently or impatiently (but particularly the impatient ones--I love the idea that someone enjoys my writing enough to get irritated with me) for an update.
A girl I go to school with died in a car accident, and I was occupied for many of the hours I usually set aside for writing. I hope you'll excuse me this time.
This chapter came out to about thirty pages, so I believe I kept my promise about a long one. :-) I had about twenty of those pages typed up (on Google; this computer does not have Microsoft Word) when the universe decided it would be fun to see me cry. Everything I had after "The Girl: Chapter Nine"--erased and discarded. And Gmail saved the draft before I could undo it. Grrr....>clamps down on urge go whine to infinity<
I retyped most of it, but decided to separate the chapter into two (don't worry: I think I chose a nice place to leave off) in case I didn't finish the rest before I'm too tired to read the words on the monitor (very possible, with my slow pace). Anyhooters, this means you will see Chapter Ten late tonight or early tomorrow. :-) Thank you all for sticking with this ('this' meaning both the story and these loopy A/N's).
The following is dedicated to: the awesome women where I work, people who love dogs, mint chocolate chip ice cream, and the theme song from 'Remember The Titans'.
And to Alyssa, who is missed every minute of every day by her friends.
Please enjoy.
Chapter End Notes:
I did not forget about the fantastic reviewers who have been so kind to me here--the top notes were just gettin' a tad long. It's amazing how wonderful you guys are. Thank you a million bazillion times.
Oh, and I'm offering a thousand monopoly dollars to everyone who clicks that review button now.
Oh, and I'm offering a thousand monopoly dollars to everyone who clicks that review button now.