Tom returned from the other room with two bowls of steaming hot soup, spoons in tow. Sam was pretty sure she was on the verge of drunk, and had the hunger only alcohol on an empty stomach will induce. She took her bowl happily, without even a hint of worry over possible poisoning.
“Thank you.”
“It’s your soup.”
“Well…thanks anyway.”
They sat in an uncomfortable silence, both waiting for the other to start eating. Sam was starving, but knew her manners; she didn’t want to seem too desperate to wait for a half-can of soup, anyway. Tom simply sat with the soup in his lap, seemingly uninterested in the entire idea of food. Before she could reasonably react, Panic leapt forward at the chance, taunting her and calling her a coward, an idiot, a fool, for even daring to think she’d made a friend. Her brain caught on, chanting FOOL FOOL FOOL…
Tom leaned forward, putting his soup on the table beside the whisky glasses , taking her soup and placing it next to his, and taking her left hand in one smooth motion.
“where is you head at?”
Sam couldn’t speak; she shook her head, eyes wide and dewy.
“take a deep breath through your nose and out your mouth. Take ten deep breaths.” He squeezed her hand, “go on.”
When she continued to sit mute and tense, he reached his other hand out and turned her head forcefully by the chin. “DO it.”
They locked eyes, his hand resting on her neck. His eyes were dark, hers hazy green and hazel.
“Do it.” He repeated, gently.
One-one-thousand…her pulse was racing, Paranoia was cackling and her brain kept screaming FOOL FOOL FOOL…
Two-one-thousand Tom was going to know she was crazy, hell, he knew already, you could see it in his eyes…
Three-one-thousand and if HE knew she was crazy, so did They, so did the poor used-to-be-humans wandering the streets below, so did her mom and brother and Lucy and even the Green-Eyed-Girl….
Four-one-thousand everything was coated in a milky grey haze, like the monster from her childhood, and she felt tightness in her throat, her lungs, her ribcage hammering down and inward…
Five-one-thousand she was going to die right there, she knew it with absolute certainty, die in a stranger’s house with a strangers hand at her neck….
Six-one-thousand but death didn’t come, and lacking the easy escape, Sam gulped and swallowed this breath….
Seven-one-thousand her eyes were clearing now, the haze dissipating into nothingness, her brain howling but distant and fading….
Eight-one-thousand she focused on the only tangible things, Tom’s voice (telling her to keep going) Tom’s hands on her hand and neck, his eyes…
Nine-one-thousand his hands on her hand and neck were soothing, strong and yet without force, like a hunter deftly releasing a panicked bird from a snare…
Ten-one-thousand Sam dared close her eyes, taking this breath longer and deeper than the rest, reveling in her brain’s silence and submission, and leaned back in the chair, regretting only for a moment the release of Tom’s hand from her neck.
“Better?”
Then, and only then, Sam began to cry.
Kindling: Xibal, Sam and Tom 