OOM: Molly watches.
Molly’s been watching Cain.
It’s been a while since his memory was wiped clean, like chalk dust from a blackboard. She’d had to decide if it would best help him to rewrite everything that was erased, or if she should let him start from the beginning and write a new story.
It had ended being a little of both.
She’d been out of her depth when she’d first found him lying bloodied and broken in the gardens that Sunday morning. Having returned to the bar after a seriously traumatic experience herself, just the night before, there were probably other who would have been better qualified to help him. But no one who loved him like she did, she was sure.
When she’d found out that he had lost his memory, it had been like a fist to the gut: sharp, and fast and breathtaking. It had been hard to believe, but impossible to deny.
Every day, she thanked whatever graces there were that he had accepted her offer of help and hospitality while he recovered. She had been dismayed but determined, and was still determined, to help him recover what he had lost.
She had looked after him in those first days, when everything had been new and frightening and confusing for him. The things that had happened after had just seemed to be a natural progression from there. They shared the same space, slept in the same bed, enjoyed each other’s bodies in ways he couldn’t remember having done before.
Molly had given him his journal… the first years of his life in his own words. They had meant little to him, other than an interesting and history-rich story that could have been written by anyone. He hadn’t felt anything about it.
He was curious and interested in everything around him. In some ways almost like a child, but in others every bit the man… it was an odd combination.
Their life was falling into a pattern, and Molly wasn’t sure what to make of it. She loved every minute that she spent with him, and he seemed to need her still, in spite of his growing desire to learn things that she simply couldn’t teach him. She wondered if she was doing him a disservice by keeping him so close to her, and allowing him to cling when he was uncertain about something. Still. That was happening less and less each day. He was gaining confidence and relearning things forgotten at a phenomenal speed.
His enthusiasm was almost a palpable thing, and his curiosity and trusting demeanor were endearing. Molly was a little afraid, because she was falling deeper and deeper in love with him, and she knew that he didn’t remember loving her.
So now, she simply had to wait. And encourage. And instruct. And trust. And love.
It’s been a while since his memory was wiped clean, like chalk dust from a blackboard. She’d had to decide if it would best help him to rewrite everything that was erased, or if she should let him start from the beginning and write a new story.
It had ended being a little of both.
She’d been out of her depth when she’d first found him lying bloodied and broken in the gardens that Sunday morning. Having returned to the bar after a seriously traumatic experience herself, just the night before, there were probably other who would have been better qualified to help him. But no one who loved him like she did, she was sure.
When she’d found out that he had lost his memory, it had been like a fist to the gut: sharp, and fast and breathtaking. It had been hard to believe, but impossible to deny.
Every day, she thanked whatever graces there were that he had accepted her offer of help and hospitality while he recovered. She had been dismayed but determined, and was still determined, to help him recover what he had lost.
She had looked after him in those first days, when everything had been new and frightening and confusing for him. The things that had happened after had just seemed to be a natural progression from there. They shared the same space, slept in the same bed, enjoyed each other’s bodies in ways he couldn’t remember having done before.
Molly had given him his journal… the first years of his life in his own words. They had meant little to him, other than an interesting and history-rich story that could have been written by anyone. He hadn’t felt anything about it.
He was curious and interested in everything around him. In some ways almost like a child, but in others every bit the man… it was an odd combination.
Their life was falling into a pattern, and Molly wasn’t sure what to make of it. She loved every minute that she spent with him, and he seemed to need her still, in spite of his growing desire to learn things that she simply couldn’t teach him. She wondered if she was doing him a disservice by keeping him so close to her, and allowing him to cling when he was uncertain about something. Still. That was happening less and less each day. He was gaining confidence and relearning things forgotten at a phenomenal speed.
His enthusiasm was almost a palpable thing, and his curiosity and trusting demeanor were endearing. Molly was a little afraid, because she was falling deeper and deeper in love with him, and she knew that he didn’t remember loving her.
So now, she simply had to wait. And encourage. And instruct. And trust. And love.