(no subject)
Author: Pearl
Title: Retrograde
Challenge: Pistachio #22 - Caught off guard; Butter Pecan #14 - Quiet; Trail Mix #20 - On the doorstep
Story: Frostbite
Rating: G
Word Count: 778
Notes: Marshall is finally given a permanent residence. Now the remembering begins... (I suggest you read the other parts before this one.)
When night falls, the three of us are sitting on the front porch. Collin is huddled up against Corey on the swing and I’m sitting in a chair along the wall of the house, wearing one of her father’s old coats. During lunch, we came up with my “story.” I will be a friend of Corey’s from Macanaw University. We sit together in Anthropology. Originally, I’m from New York (I’m not entirely clear on where this is, but Corey assured me far away), which is where I’m supposed to be for the holidays, but something went wrong with my plane ticket. When Corey learned of my predicament, she offered to let me stay at her place so I wouldn’t be alone.
As for my clothes, we are praying her father doesn’t notice until we can go into town and buy some new stuff.
“Are you sure they won’t say anything?” I ask, nervous as hell. Thankfully, most of the injuries I had are now either healed to minor scars or covered up. Corey was especially intrigued by this, but she stopped asking questions when she realized I had no idea what caused it.
“Don’t worry about it,” Corey says, winking. Collin is dozing in her lap, barely registering the conversation.
Out of the darkness, two lights pierce through the trees and rumble up the driveway. They are the headlights of a large black pick-up truck. It parks beside the house and I hear footsteps, hushed voices approaching the porch. A man in his mid-forties with graying hair and brown eyes has his arm around a blond woman whose face looks as frozen as the scenery around her.
When they see me, they stop.
“Hey Corey,” says the man. “Who is this?” He’s studying every inch of me, apprehensive and untrusting.
“Dad, Marshall. Marshall, Dad,” Corey quickly introduces. She then proceeds to relate to them the tale we fabricated only a few hours ago. Throughout the whole thing, the woman is eyeing me apprehensively, but there’s something else in it. The way she smiles at me when she notices that I’ve caught her staring gives me a chill, and I look away.
“I don’t know, Corey,” her father says, scratching his chin.
“It’s just for the holidays, and he has nowhere else to go,” she pleads, emphasizing the last bit.
He gives me a long hard look (the exact same one as Corey), then closes the distance between us and extends his hand to me. “You’re welcome here for as long as you need, Marshall.” I stand and shake his hand, all of my uneasiness quelled. I thank him endlessly, and Corey has to put her hand on my arm to politely suggest that I stop.
Later:
Everyone is asleep except Corey and me. We are up in the attic, sitting on my bed. She has on her lap a newspaper, and I am looking over her shoulder to see the pages. She’s trying to see if I recognize anything. We’re half way through the paper with no luck. Her patience is a blessing, but I’m becoming discouraged. Earlier in the evening, she did some modest research to discover that I have retrograde amnesia (meaning I can’t recall anything before the development of the amnesia).
After a while, I get sick of looking at smiling children and city officials. I decide to change the subject. “So what are we doing tomorrow?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. Probably just go into town and get you some clothes. Hey, what about this one?” She lifts up the paper to show me a picture of three teenage girls in enormous and ridiculous dresses. I raise an eyebrow. She shrugs. “I thought the one in the middle kind of looked like you, a possible sibling maybe.”
This close to her, I can smell the sweet scent of the soap she uses. Her hair is damp and made even darker, causing her already pale peach skin to seemingly glow. She’s still flipping through the newspaper, and I am trying to pay attention. We’re both very tired, as the clock is beginning to move into the wee hours of the morning. I yawn loudly, and without thinking rest my head on her shoulder.
For a while we sit like this, but then, as if spooked, she abruptly jumps up. She’s gripping the paper to her chest protectively. I set in to apologizing, but she holds up a hand.
“No, it’s okay. I’m just exhausted.” She’s closing the door to the attic when she says, “G’night.”
“Goodnight,” I call after her, and then the door is shut and I am locked in for the night.
Title: Retrograde
Challenge: Pistachio #22 - Caught off guard; Butter Pecan #14 - Quiet; Trail Mix #20 - On the doorstep
Story: Frostbite
Rating: G
Word Count: 778
Notes: Marshall is finally given a permanent residence. Now the remembering begins... (I suggest you read the other parts before this one.)
When night falls, the three of us are sitting on the front porch. Collin is huddled up against Corey on the swing and I’m sitting in a chair along the wall of the house, wearing one of her father’s old coats. During lunch, we came up with my “story.” I will be a friend of Corey’s from Macanaw University. We sit together in Anthropology. Originally, I’m from New York (I’m not entirely clear on where this is, but Corey assured me far away), which is where I’m supposed to be for the holidays, but something went wrong with my plane ticket. When Corey learned of my predicament, she offered to let me stay at her place so I wouldn’t be alone.
As for my clothes, we are praying her father doesn’t notice until we can go into town and buy some new stuff.
“Are you sure they won’t say anything?” I ask, nervous as hell. Thankfully, most of the injuries I had are now either healed to minor scars or covered up. Corey was especially intrigued by this, but she stopped asking questions when she realized I had no idea what caused it.
“Don’t worry about it,” Corey says, winking. Collin is dozing in her lap, barely registering the conversation.
Out of the darkness, two lights pierce through the trees and rumble up the driveway. They are the headlights of a large black pick-up truck. It parks beside the house and I hear footsteps, hushed voices approaching the porch. A man in his mid-forties with graying hair and brown eyes has his arm around a blond woman whose face looks as frozen as the scenery around her.
When they see me, they stop.
“Hey Corey,” says the man. “Who is this?” He’s studying every inch of me, apprehensive and untrusting.
“Dad, Marshall. Marshall, Dad,” Corey quickly introduces. She then proceeds to relate to them the tale we fabricated only a few hours ago. Throughout the whole thing, the woman is eyeing me apprehensively, but there’s something else in it. The way she smiles at me when she notices that I’ve caught her staring gives me a chill, and I look away.
“I don’t know, Corey,” her father says, scratching his chin.
“It’s just for the holidays, and he has nowhere else to go,” she pleads, emphasizing the last bit.
He gives me a long hard look (the exact same one as Corey), then closes the distance between us and extends his hand to me. “You’re welcome here for as long as you need, Marshall.” I stand and shake his hand, all of my uneasiness quelled. I thank him endlessly, and Corey has to put her hand on my arm to politely suggest that I stop.
Later:
Everyone is asleep except Corey and me. We are up in the attic, sitting on my bed. She has on her lap a newspaper, and I am looking over her shoulder to see the pages. She’s trying to see if I recognize anything. We’re half way through the paper with no luck. Her patience is a blessing, but I’m becoming discouraged. Earlier in the evening, she did some modest research to discover that I have retrograde amnesia (meaning I can’t recall anything before the development of the amnesia).
After a while, I get sick of looking at smiling children and city officials. I decide to change the subject. “So what are we doing tomorrow?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. Probably just go into town and get you some clothes. Hey, what about this one?” She lifts up the paper to show me a picture of three teenage girls in enormous and ridiculous dresses. I raise an eyebrow. She shrugs. “I thought the one in the middle kind of looked like you, a possible sibling maybe.”
This close to her, I can smell the sweet scent of the soap she uses. Her hair is damp and made even darker, causing her already pale peach skin to seemingly glow. She’s still flipping through the newspaper, and I am trying to pay attention. We’re both very tired, as the clock is beginning to move into the wee hours of the morning. I yawn loudly, and without thinking rest my head on her shoulder.
For a while we sit like this, but then, as if spooked, she abruptly jumps up. She’s gripping the paper to her chest protectively. I set in to apologizing, but she holds up a hand.
“No, it’s okay. I’m just exhausted.” She’s closing the door to the attic when she says, “G’night.”
“Goodnight,” I call after her, and then the door is shut and I am locked in for the night.