November 2nd, 20:10.
Dec. 1st, 2006 01:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
secret_historyJames had hesitated for several agonising moments before venturing in the room. It had felt like years, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. He’d struck out completely with Marlene before, and while he harboured no illusions about what he might expect from her, he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk being rejected again. Besides, he felt as though he was intruding on a very private kind of pain, intervening where he might not be wanted, and for good reason.
Yet, aware of the scrutiny of Marco and Michaela, he found that he didn’t want to explain exactly why he was reluctant to go to Marlene, and so he picked what seemed the lesser of two evils, and stole softly into the room to stand just behind Marlene’s left shoulder.
Paul stirred a bit, as though aware of his approach even though he was very obviously unconscious, and gave a soft moan of distress, and James found himself absurdly grateful that the sound was nothing like the moaning of the zombies outside.
Marlene glanced up at him, and impulsively he put a hand on her shoulder. To his considerable relief she reached up and placed her own work-roughened fingers over his, an oddly intimate gesture under the circumstances.
“How are you holding up, Marlene?” he asked quietly, dropping to a crouch beside her. His knees protested loudly —he wasn’t at the age where he could get away with the kind of shenanigans he’d indulged in when he was twenty.
She didn’t answer him directly, but sat staring at the dying boy in front of her. “It’s finished,” she said instead.
James was surprised. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I mean, where there’s life, there’s hope, right?” he added lamely, wondering at this unexpected pessimistic streak in her.
She smiled at him —a bit pityingly, he thought with a twinge of annoyance. “No, I meant this.” She held up the scarf, which she had just finished knitting. “I was knitting it for Pat. That’s my son.”
“Oh.” What could he say?
“I’m not sure why I was so determined to finish it. My Pat is long gone,” she said, sounding bewildered. “He must be, if that girl bit him.” She reached out and patted the hand of the unconscious boy beside her. “No one survives that, as far as I’ve seen. I just wanted to finish his scarf, even if he’ll never wear it, never see it... I was wondering what to do with it, once it was finished, but it seemed important to keep going. Now I think I know what it was meant for, now that everything is said and done.”
James wondered if he was losing his mind. She wasn’t making any sense, as far as he could tell. She was calmly winding her remaining yarn into a loose ball, which she tucked into her knitting bag alongside her metallic knitting needles —the same needles Marco claimed she’d used to kill a zombie, though James found that hard to credit.
Marlene put the bag aside, then rose to her knees beside Paul, and took his hand. “Paul, sweetie, can you hear me?”
Paul stirred and moaned quietly. His whole face looked cadaverous already, his eyes rimmed with blue circles like bruises, his skin pasty and pale, his lips chapped and bloody from the fever. He opened his eyes which were bright with fever but which at least made him look more alive and less like a corpse. His mouth worked to say something, but he was long past being able to speak. Marlene laid her other hand on his and smiled reassuringly.
“You don’t have to say anything, sweetheart. Just rest. I just wanted to give you something: an early Christmas present. Would you like that?”
Almost imperceptibly, he nodded, and for a moment James fancied he saw the cracked lips stretch into a small smile.
“Good, I’m very glad.”
Then Marlene bent over the sick boy and tenderly tucked the long scarf around his neck.
Yet, aware of the scrutiny of Marco and Michaela, he found that he didn’t want to explain exactly why he was reluctant to go to Marlene, and so he picked what seemed the lesser of two evils, and stole softly into the room to stand just behind Marlene’s left shoulder.
Paul stirred a bit, as though aware of his approach even though he was very obviously unconscious, and gave a soft moan of distress, and James found himself absurdly grateful that the sound was nothing like the moaning of the zombies outside.
Marlene glanced up at him, and impulsively he put a hand on her shoulder. To his considerable relief she reached up and placed her own work-roughened fingers over his, an oddly intimate gesture under the circumstances.
“How are you holding up, Marlene?” he asked quietly, dropping to a crouch beside her. His knees protested loudly —he wasn’t at the age where he could get away with the kind of shenanigans he’d indulged in when he was twenty.
She didn’t answer him directly, but sat staring at the dying boy in front of her. “It’s finished,” she said instead.
James was surprised. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I mean, where there’s life, there’s hope, right?” he added lamely, wondering at this unexpected pessimistic streak in her.
She smiled at him —a bit pityingly, he thought with a twinge of annoyance. “No, I meant this.” She held up the scarf, which she had just finished knitting. “I was knitting it for Pat. That’s my son.”
“Oh.” What could he say?
“I’m not sure why I was so determined to finish it. My Pat is long gone,” she said, sounding bewildered. “He must be, if that girl bit him.” She reached out and patted the hand of the unconscious boy beside her. “No one survives that, as far as I’ve seen. I just wanted to finish his scarf, even if he’ll never wear it, never see it... I was wondering what to do with it, once it was finished, but it seemed important to keep going. Now I think I know what it was meant for, now that everything is said and done.”
James wondered if he was losing his mind. She wasn’t making any sense, as far as he could tell. She was calmly winding her remaining yarn into a loose ball, which she tucked into her knitting bag alongside her metallic knitting needles —the same needles Marco claimed she’d used to kill a zombie, though James found that hard to credit.
Marlene put the bag aside, then rose to her knees beside Paul, and took his hand. “Paul, sweetie, can you hear me?”
Paul stirred and moaned quietly. His whole face looked cadaverous already, his eyes rimmed with blue circles like bruises, his skin pasty and pale, his lips chapped and bloody from the fever. He opened his eyes which were bright with fever but which at least made him look more alive and less like a corpse. His mouth worked to say something, but he was long past being able to speak. Marlene laid her other hand on his and smiled reassuringly.
“You don’t have to say anything, sweetheart. Just rest. I just wanted to give you something: an early Christmas present. Would you like that?”
Almost imperceptibly, he nodded, and for a moment James fancied he saw the cracked lips stretch into a small smile.
“Good, I’m very glad.”
Then Marlene bent over the sick boy and tenderly tucked the long scarf around his neck.
