Linked

Thirty : Scandalous

Boredom. A word I would have attributed to: sitting through press conferences, sitting through science lectures, sitting for family portraits... and now, sitting around at the refuge. The days drag by so slowly. I am conditioned to a life rigidly structured. Knowing exactly where I am going, and when. Now, I am a kite with a snapped string, aimlessly floating. At least when Corin and I were making our way here, we had a destination, something to grasp for. We made it, and now what? What do you do when you've achieved the goal? Where do you go next?

And no one will tell me anything. I feel people's gaze sliding quickly away from me as I pass by. They are not so cold as to outrightly move tables to avoid me, but they certainly won't initiate or uphold conversation, either. It's like Corin and I are diseased. Faulty Linkers. My mother has been kind enough not to say I told you so, but I can feel it emanating from her nevertheless.

I know she thinks I have no one to blame but myself. She said to keep our physical Link a secret, and instead I openly admitted it to the Commonspace. But really, what else could I have done? She encouraged me to separate from Corin. She pulled me down the hallway as I sobbed in pain. I could pin the whole fiasco on her, if I wanted to.

It's not so bad for Corin. He regularly flouted the schedules, back in Lovethorn. Who would have thought that would turn out to be a benefit? Plus, he had jobs to do around the house, to help out. Like a normal teenager. So he thinks to offer help with chores here at the refuge.

"Let me do that," he says, taking an overflowing basket of washing from Petra. She pauses for a moment, then softens, too polite to turn down the assistance.

"Well, okay," she replies, "but only because I ought to be up above tending to the garden. Those plants don't grow half as well without me. I've said it once and I'll say it again..." As talkative as ever. But not a word sent in my direction. I wish I could say I didn't care. Corin hauls the basket to the Commonspace and begins to fold and sort. Guilt rushes through me, shrinking me down. Practically tied to Corin's side, I can't sit and do nothing or I'll look like a lazy jerk. So I try and help, but my skills are lacklustre. I've always had Mrs. Plum running around after me. Doing chores just doesn't cross my mind. I throw down a poorly-folded pair of pants, and Corin seems to sense my frustration.

"Let me tell you a secret," he says, nudging me with his elbow as he expertly balls two woollen socks together. "I'm not pitching in to be nice, or because I'm a helpful person."

"Of course you are." I grumble. "You're both those things."

"No, I'm pitching in to keep busy. Else I'd go crazy constantly wondering about my mother."

"Oh, Corin." I want to hug him. It feels so unjust that my mother is here and his isn't. Especially after what he went through with her. Suddenly my own guilt feels dwarfed, stupid in comparison. "She'll be okay. Safe somewhere."

"I hope so."

He balls another pair of socks in silence.

I follow Corin's lead for the rest of the day, keeping busy, flitting from task to mundane task on his heels. When I (badly) wash a collection of teacups that had been growing in the sink, I even receive a faint smile from a woman nearby. "A for effort," Corin whispers into my ear. I swat at him with a bubbly hand.

However, as evening approaches and more people gather in the Commonspace, the atmosphere dives to become negatively charged, somehow. I can feel it in the air, though I am trying to concentrate on chopping carrots. A stew is being prepared for tonight's dinner. Corin stands at my side with what seem like hundreds of celery stalks to slice. He's doing a much better job of it than I am, of course. Fast, rhythmic, uniform. It's almost strange to watch his large, strong hands complete a task so precise. Eyes still on his hands, I try and copy his movements.