Tom was a man wise beyond his years, raised (however briefly) in a house of women; he knew when to let a lady cry. The girl from the side apartment had been sobbing now for a good five minutes, and showed very little signs of stopping. He began to consider if he should do something. He was holding her hand, at least until she yanked it away in a fit of tearful defiance, and buried her head in her hands. He figured it would be best to sit back and let the storm die out on it’s own. At least for a while.
She was about 20, he figured, though she could pass for a decade older if she wore her hair differently. She had shoulder-length auburn hair, a slim figure and clothing that suggested she had been taught to dress modestly. She wore slim dark indigo denim leggings and a collared chambray shirt. Her head was buried in her hands, which were in her lap, and indenting her shirt, he could see the feminine ridge of her spine.
For the briefest of moments, he thought to himself how beautiful she had been, looking into his eyes without fear, with unabashed trust, in fact. Her eyes were hazel, and like true hazel eyes, they changed color based on her mood. Before she had curled up like a weevil, they were a deep, deep grey, with golden rims, overflowing with tears. He took note of that, filing the information away for later use. Tom was an excellent filer.
He was an excellent filer and a master organizer, and before this whole madness had started, worked as a file clerk at the Circuit Court of Cook County. It was a fine job, he certainly didn’t have to kill anybody, and he was good at it. He had a reputation of being thorough, curt, and accurate. It wasn’t exactly the sort of notoriety he had expected after…well, after. Still, he had a companion or two for lunch most days, coworkers who may, under duress, have called him a friend; who greeted him every lunch hour with a smile, but certainly didn’t ask him over for holidays.
That was fine with Tom. His cooking was better than most housewives anyway, and he preferred to spend his alone time alone. Mostly. Occasionally the old urges would resurface, and he would head out to a bar in the bad part of town, and start a fight, or take home a girl, or both. The following morning would bring the two ravens of Shame and Regret, and they would tear his eyes to red. He would pay his bail, if he had been stupid enough to get caught (literally) red-handed, or he would pay the taxi fare for the nameless, faceless girl he’d brought home. Either way, he paid.
When the looting began, when public transit became notoriously unsafe, when the police were sectioning off the city and instituting marshal law, Tom stopped going to work. He applied for a leave of absence, although he seriously doubted there was anyone left to approve his request. In truth, he quit, simply by not showing up anymore. He had applied for the leave on the off chance that the insurance companies were still working, after all, he told him self, if anyone could survive this, it was the cockroaches and the Companies. It was easy to survive if you had no scruples, no morals, nothing of true value to lose.
Tom had been camping out in his apartment for longer than Sam. He had watched the cops beat the homeless man to death with wordless rage; the light Sam had seen briefly in his window was a laser sight, he had nearly taken them all down. But the cops still had power, they had resources he couldn’t dream of and however mad the world had become, killing a cop was still a guaranteed death sentence. Tom didn’t want to die. Not even for a defenseless lunatic in the street.
The girl was quieting now, her racking sobs ebbing into simple, mournful tears….still louder than Tom was really comfortable with, but better than before. He supposed this would be a good time to talk, and be listened to, by the curious hazel-eyed girl.
“listen….Sam.” He cleared his throat, more to get her attention than any bodily need. “You should do a few things, and just so you’re not confused, no offense, I will put them in chronological order. One, you should finish crying. I don’t mind how long that takes….but get it all out. Two, you should eat your soup while it’s still hot, which of course all depends on the afore mentioned number One. Three…are you listening?”
Sam nodded slightly.
“good. Three, you should take what I give you, I’m going to give you some water and a few other things, and you should ALLOW me to walk you home.”
Sam nodded again, her face still covered with tear-drenched hands.
“Now I have some conditions. Are you still listening?”
A third nod, after a moment of hesitation.
“One. I’m not going to ask you what’s going on in that head, but you WILL tell me, tomorrow if possible. Two, you will take the water and other things I give you without expectation of payment of any kind. Three, you will not visit another apartment here.”
“Why…” Sam lifted her head. Her sorrow receded like a tide, replaced with sudden curiosity.
“I’m not telling you why. Not yet. Good, you’ve accomplished one of three. Eat your soup.”
Kindling: Xibal, Sam and Tom 