The White Angel's Prayer

19. Lover's Embrace

Stupid, stupid, stupid — the words echoed like reverberations in a cavernous theatre in Lucy's head. She'd chastised herself much like her mother would for making such a stupid, rash decision. Lucy knew her state of mind was too compromised to make rational choices at this point, but the idea of solidifying themselves a viable mode of transport had been all too alluring in the face of such a challenging journey.

Lucy thought of her mother again. Florence, her name had been. Sometimes she forgot that, other times it came back to the forefront of her memory like a message in a bottle floating adrift with the waves. She didn't really like to think about her mother, especially not now when she knew exactly how Florence had felt in her last moments.

Like mother, like daughter, Lucy mused cynically. Only difference was that she had someone to prolong her torture; Florence had not. Her mother had been killed shortly after her infection, and Lucy had lived without family since she was thirteen. In a sense, she resented her mother for it. Florence had been too empathetic for her own good.

But Lucy was selfish. And, sometimes, she secretly wondered if that was why; because she had seen her mother be pushed over the edge while the string of kindness that tethered her to the land of the living snapped like a brittle toothpick. Lucy dared to think that her selfishness, and her abandonment issues, were born from her mother.

She had been foolish to think that her world without kindness was her world without death.

"Lucy?" Bhu'ja rumbled from the other side of the auto shop.

The bowl of rotten fruit on the table became clearer in Lucy's vision; she didn't realise that she'd been staring. She slowly looked up, her eyes heavy, and she turned to glance at Bhu'ja, who watched her unsurely.

"Key?" The male asked.

"No," Lucy said. The man who took over the auto shop (she couldn't remember his name — Dennis? Denny?) hadn't kept any of the keys. Perhaps he'd disposed of them, or maybe he'd hidden them somewhere. Either way, it spoke of the fact that none of the cars were usable. It had been a waste of time.

It was difficult to ponder what could have happened had Bhu'ja not been there. That guy would have chained Lucy up, either here or his other place, and left her to turn. She would be nothing except a rotting guard dog for the rest of her conscious existence and then the fungus would continue to act in place of her like a puppeteer manipulating his puppets.

"Let's go," Lucy said quietly. She blinked heavily. Her insides were starting to burn again. And she hated the way Bhu'ja stared at her now like he was just waiting for her to crack like tempered glass. "Can you stop?"

Bhu'ja grunted and turned his head to look out the doors. He knew that Lucy hated it when he stared. She saw something in his eyes, and he didn't really know what it was. Perhaps she could spy the swarms of deep-rooted guilt that traipsed up and down the tight fibres of all the nerve plexuses in his yearning body, stretching and branching to the tips of his fingers and toes. It burned with every step and was exacerbated when he saw the product of his own selfishness. Bhu'ja tried to hide his commiseration for the sprouting seeds of woe that he'd unwittingly helped plant every time he looked at her. Maybe that's what she saw.

Because he had only intended to bring her home.

He had only wanted to feel her warmth against him again.

And he had only walked her to Death's doorstep.

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