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half Iago, half Fu Manchu, all bastard
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
Winsome Clark just didn't know anymore.

Before, at the river, she hadn't known why that girl with the mangled throat had done what she had done. She didn't understand the molten metal that sent a smell like burning hair but worse, worse, into the sky. She barely understood the notes, left that to the others who seemed to know how to work with this strange new world. When they went to leave, when Dave gently offered her his hand and led her with them, she went only because she didn't know what else to do.

And now here.

There had been a body. She had stared it for a long time, trying to understand how the pieces were supposed to form a face, how each sliver of bone and skin and tooth had once been a perfect image. In the end she had given up. There had seemed to be too much blood. Did a face have the much blood in it? She didn't understand how it would all fit. And then there had been a note, passed to her, and she read it because she knew she was supposed to.

But she didn't understand. Bicycles, computers, the collars, Danya, escape, she didn't see how the words fit together. She couldn't process them into her head, and in the end she passed the note on because what else was there to do? The others seemed to know, and that was enough for her. She followed them because she could understand that much. They had helped her. They understood.

She didn't have to.

Her seat was in the corner, away from the silent noise, away from the papers and the words and people who didn't seem quite right anymore. Faces were sliding away from her, names escaping. She was cold. Time passed, people took their turns on the bike. She watched. At some point she thought she slept because James was there, running his hand down her chest the way heroes did in books. Except it didn't feel good, it hurt, and she woke with the dull pain from the wound alive again, burrowing into her.

She was cold, now. She wished she hadn't given away the sweatshirt. She hadn't understood then. Now she did. Old blood and new blood both mingled on her shirt, a smell like old metal and something sweet-rotten. The long cut was the only place that was warm. It burned. She didn't understand why. She didn't know.

She watched instead. Eyes only half focusing, she watched the events unfold in front of her. More people came. More paper. No noise, here. No talking. She didn't understand that either.

But they did.

And that was okay. Winsome Clark didn't know anymore, just didn't know, couldn't know, but someone did and no one was fighting and she curled around herself, just a little, just enough to let the warmth of the infection try and chase the fever-cold from her bones.
Edited by ifnotwinter, Jan 10 2011, 12:10 AM.

marc st. yves
light it up or burn it down we'll all die in fire
{food for thought}

phineas rosario
fall down seven times stand up eight

sebastian conway
can't see the forest for the trees
{book of sparrows}

(so you've got to keep in mind, when you try to change the world for the better not everybody's gonna be on your side)
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