scintilla

ii. what's in a name

When she leads you, it's by the hand -- grip so tight that you can't help but think the ridiculous thought that it's because she's afraid of losing you. Rain has started to fall in heavy sweeps, but you don't feel any of it because she had wrapped her coat around your tiny frame while you stared at her, dazed.

"To keep you hidden," She had explained with a wobbly smile.

You don't get it, even more so because she's soaking wet by the time she stops pulling you, pausing behind an apartment complex in a parking lot. Your eyes fall to her baby bump, her red shirt clinging to it.

"Wait here, okay?" She says, out of breath, looking around to make sure that nobody has seen you both, or followed. You haven't said a word since you ate the other ghoul, and that doesn't change now -- instead you stare listlessly at your free hand and the coat that hangs off of you, several sizes too big.

You're not sure how long you wait -- the rain doesn't stop, and you don't bother counting. The thought occurs, however, that she's calling the CCG as you wait, that you're a sitting duck in the parking lot just waiting to get killed. A whisper rings in your ears, a demand to feast on all those who live in the apartment complex in retribution. Instead you slouch forward and close your eyes, ignoring the voice.

You don't open them when you hear a door open and the chime of an elevator, or even at the sound of footsteps, unsteady and splashing with puddles. You only open them when you feel her hand close around yours. When you look up at her, you see that she's still not wearing a coat.

"Come on, nobody will see us." And, just like before, she leads you by the hand as though you're some lost child. You walk obediently, too tired to care, and yet when she goes towards the elevator, you stop. She tugs lightly, and you refuse to move another inch towards that small space. The woman lets out a sigh, looking at the stairs with some dread in her eyes. "Let's go slow, then."

Up the stairs you both go, slowly. It's difficult for her to walk up these stairs, and she nearly falls at one point until you grab her elbow and support her. You don't know why you offered assistance, but it's a mistake, because she takes it as care and kindness; she laughs once you're both finally on the eighth floor, her grin wide but too soft to stare at for long.

"I'm almost due -- two months away."

Your first thought is that it makes sense from the size of her stomach, from the sound of the heart. Your second thought is to stop thinking about it entirely, for it's much safer to not think than to deteriorate all over again.

So you say, "...I don't care." Your voice is scratchy and it cracks from lack of use. Her expression falls slightly, and her grip on your hand loosens, but she doesn't comment further, instead unlocking her apartment door.

The apartment is small but nice -- carpeted, the furniture common but poorly made, and the kitchen filled with shiny machines that you never learned the names of. There's the sound of running water from the bathroom, and steam furls in the air. She hurries over to the bathroom to grab a towel for herself, murmuring all the while about how she needs to start carrying an umbrella with her. You stare listlessly at it all, and you think faintly that it may be okay.

When she comes back to gently uncurl your fisted hands, bloody from your nails digging into your skin without you realizing it, you think it's probably not.

"Come on." She says softly. "I'll wash you."

She leads you again, this time into the bathroom. The water is hot against your skin, skin that's caked in dried mud and blood. She soaps up your body and scrubs your equally dirty hair with shampoo, and you let her all because you're tired. You don't entirely relax, however, tensed in preparation for pain. Her touch remains gentle despite this, or perhaps because of it, and her face, which had been stiff and pale at the beginning because of the blood she found, is bright as she asks so many questions, all of which go unanswered.