“Adrian, are you coming out anytime soon?” George protruded in a joking, chiding manner. Several moments passed, and then after no response...
“ADRIAN? ADRIAN, OPEN THIS DOOR.” George hollered, sounding mostly grounded but not able to completely hide being a bit on the edge. The bathroom door shuttered thrice as a fist hammered it anxiously. Then three more times after a short, dramatic pause.
Adrian, slack jawed and dewy eyed, blinked slowly. The warmth of the car’s heater left suddenly; not instantly, but rapidly. He felt the chill of the tiles under his feet return. A thick fog between his ears dissipated and he blinked again. Loneliness, and the memories of Alyssa painfully clung inside him. The robe he was wearing five minutes ago was just in front of him, disheveled on the floor. Adrian was so lost in the moment that he reached for the doorknob to let George in, before realizing that he was standing stark naked, except for a towel draped around his head.
“A-a mo…” Adrian paused to clear his throat and tried again.
“A moment, George,” he said more clearly, “to check my bandage.”
There was a silence that stretched uncomfortably long, then, “Ok. I will be out here. Ready when you are.”
Then there was the sound of retreating footsteps, muffled yet foreboding. They stopped near the back of George’s hotel room. He bent to pick up the robe when a flare of pain pulsed from his hip; a spectacular explosive feeling that raced outward and roared with intense heat. It nearly sent him to the floor but he was able to catch himself in a kneeling position. Grimacing, he waited out the worst of the pain and when he felt comfortable enough again to do so he checked out his injury. The bandage was damp but still in place, with a blotch of ruby-red for a centerpiece. One strand of blood trickled down below the bottom.
“Dammit.” he muttered. The aching was subsiding substantially now, enough that Adrian felt that he could stand. The motion caused the droplet of blood to race further down his thigh. Looking about, Adrian noticed a roll of toilet paper placed on the holder. He grabbed a couple of squares, haphazardly flipping them in half until he had a small, thick square to mop up the mess with. Content (or enough to face a medical check up, at least), Adrian disposed of the toilet paper in the small trash bin beside the toilet and donned his robe once again. It was incredibly hard to turn away and impossible not to give the shower a look of yearning, both reflecting and wondering over the experience. The moment passed; an anxiety crept back in, reminding Adrian of an impatient and waiting George. Slowly, he opened and left the bathroom, leaving the warmth of the shower mist behind.
---
“There you are, I was wondering what was holding you up.” George prompted as Adrian closed the door and made his way across over. He noticed that all of the sheets on the bed had been tossed aside to the floor, crumpled against the wall. The lamp that was on the desk now stood beside it, on the floor as well. Instead, a metallic-silver tray with various tools lay on its surface. On the bed, only the dingy white fitted sheet remained. George was looking at Adrian with an expectant stare.
“My leg is still numb. It bled during the shower, too. Sometimes when I move it I'll feel a surge of pain.” Adrian said. The shower had done a lot to ease his nerves despite… whatever had just transpired over Alyssa. George glanced down to Adrian’s hip, saw nothing but robe, and returned his stare to meet Adrian’s.
“Well, there is no use beating around the bush. Lie down, get comfortable. It is a clean sheet, but try not to bloody it… resources are limited.”
George turned his back to Adrian and diverted his attention to the tool tray, examining a tiny pair of scissors that made Adrian grimace again. These were set down, and a small magnifying glass was picked up. George looked through it with his left eye, fixated on seemingly nothing.
“You can set the robe on the floor. There is a lack of coat-racks and hat-hooks in here. Lie down on the bed, if you would.”
The realization hit Adrian like a slap to the face. He was going to have to strip naked in front of this man. This complete stranger, who he only met hours ago. It's normal, it's how these things are done. Blood was draining from his face, quickly, and he began to feel light-headed. George still wasn’t looking his way, perhaps offering… privacy? But he felt too uncomfortable, not being able to remember the proper social graces or if, in this day and age, any were necessary.
“I, uh, I-” he tried.
“Do you want me to give you the room for a minute?” George asked without looking, without implying any tone or interest in what he was saying. The instant relief was felt as warmth returning to Adrian’s cheeks. He let loose a tense breath.
“Yes, please. Thank you.”
George set down the mirror utensil, swiveled with his hips and walked out. When Adrian heard the door shut, he determined that George had only closed himself in the bathroom and didn't completely leave him alone. The uncomfortable feeling in Adrian’s gut didn't leave, but the internal debate he had about it was pretty one-sided. It was either do this, or face the wound infecting. He feared that it might be starting to, already. With that in mind he had resigned himself to take the robe off gingerly and rest it on the floor. When it folded in on itself, Adrian could see a fresh blood stain.
Lying down on a bed was much more difficult for Adrian than it initially sounded. The mattress was waist high and for him to get properly positioned he would have to drag his body. So, awkwardly, slowly and naked, Adrian leaned and rested the weight of his body on the mattress. A lack of tension on his feet and legs was peaceful, but the way his skin moved and folded was grating against his bandage. He wondered how opened his cauterized wound was, and how bad of a state it was in. As he finally shifted into the correct spot, he collapsed with a sigh.
“OK, George, I'm ready.” Adrian spoke loudly to make sure he was heard. The bathroom door clicked open and closed. George walked back out into the bedroom section of his hotel room. A flush rapidly spread across Adrian’s face, heat permeating from his cheeks. He was lying undressed on a hotel bed, in front of a strange man. Too uncomfortable, too intimate of a scenario…
Imagine you’re in a hospital. Just imagine that you’re in a hospital, and this is Doctor Barnes. Thinking about that did bring slight relief. The realization sunk in that, obviously, they weren’t here as two lovers and that he might have been stressing out over something small. Nonetheless, Adrian felt embarrassed at being exposed in this way. George cleared his throat, and Adrian’s breath caught in his.
“Ok, Adrian. The last patient I had, had four legs and they were all covered in fur. That, and I was there to snip his testicles,” George said, and then chortled, “and the last human I serviced was… by God, thirty years ago, now. You believe that?” He had made his way to the tray of medical tools and Adrian could see him shaking his head slowly in disbelief at how quickly time flies.
“But do not stress yourself. Back at the clinic I worked at, besides my expertise in medical practises, I was most noted for my excellent memory. Do you want to know what that clinic was called, by the way?” Adrian understood that he was trying to make small talk as he began to finger through the several instruments in front of him, finally picking up a scalpel and the mirror from before. As George walked behind him, he felt his tongue go dry and numb, his muscles tensed.
“...PAWZ FOR EFFECT. With a ‘Z’. Get it?” George waited a moment, “Ah. It does get a laugh about half of the time.” Adrian heard him walk around to the other side of the bed, the side that Adrian was hurt on.
“OK, let us get to business, now. I’m going to take the bandage off.” George said as he audibly strapped on two rubber gloves. He set one hand mid-way up Adrian’s spine and the other hand slowly peeled the bandage back.
“Adrian, I can tell you now from looking that you were quite lucky. Whoever cauterized your wound did not do a sloppy job. You said it was the same person who shot you?”
“Yes.” Adrian's answer was muted through the bed sheets, so he repeated himself after turning his head up to make sure he was heard. He saw George in his peripheral vision, uncomfortably close to his lower half.
“And this… drunk. Could you paint this picture a little more clearly for me? Describe what happened, how the same man who decided to shoot a bullet in to you also decided to pick it out and cover you back up? While drunk, nonetheless!” George gave a dry cackle after exclaiming. A bewildered amusement.
“Well, I was-" Adrian began.
“One second, OK?” George interrupted, “Before you begin, I need to warn you that this might hurt a bit. Some skin here is rotting and needs to be cut. Talk to take your mind off of what I'm doing. Go on.”
“Uhh…” Adrian tried to interject but found himself overwhelmed as the cold blade of a scalpel came to press against his own skin. With no time to think, he decided to go with George's suggestion.
“Well, you see. I had been planning to go and stock up on supplies for a few days when I found Kevin. Finding him sort of… solidified the need for things that I didn't have. Medicine, namely, but food as well. What I found in storage was nearly gone, so it was getting… necessary…” Adrian lost his train of thought as a thin blade made a cut one-inch in length along an already tender part of skin. What was numb one minute ago was now alive with electric fire. Next came a pressure as George pressed a cloth against the area.
“I know, friend. I know. It hurts. You are doing well. You said you had found a storage of supplies?” George kept his hand firmly pressed against Adrian’s flank. He couldn't decide if it made the pain worse or lessened it.
“I… uh, yes. They had abandoned their house for some reason. When I found it empty, I moved in. I waited a week before I looked through their things-"
“Who are ‘they’?” George interjected.
“Oh. Uh. ‘They’ are the Croteau's. I never met them, but they were an elderly couple who lived together. I don't know where they went, when they left. But they left behind two huge pantry cabinets and quite a few shelves filled with food. I took that... and occasionally I would find extra food outside while searching for gasoline. It lasted me for about the entire eight months-” George pulled the cloth off of Adrian, poured a cool liquid over his injury, and then covered it up again.
“What was that?” Adrian asked.
“A saline solution. I can tell that you have not cleaned this yet, and that might be what is causing the numbing. It might not be. Seeing as there are no real doctors here with us we have to go by my own diagnosis, which is built on speculation and not experience. Do you mean to tell me that you have spent most of the duration of this apocalypse inside of one house?”
“Yes.”
“That is absurd.” George replied.
This made Adrian mentally halt. Absurd? What was absurd about that? It seemed like the absolute sanest thing that he could do given the circumstances.
“It's a wonder that you were not ransacked and looted.” George pondered.
“That's why I left. The spray paint that I mentioned earlier. When I saw that the Croteau’s had been marked, I packed everything and drove.” Adrian explained.
“Of course.” George lifted the cloth again, letting the wound breathe now.
“So, go on. You are out of food, need medicine for Kevin, and then…”
“Then I walk to Santa Monica-”
“Walk?” George interrupted again as he audibly picked up another medical tool.
“Huh?,” he said, then a second later, “Oh. Yes, I walked.”
“Why not drive? You drove here, did you not?” George asked.
“Well… I- I,” Adrian stopped, swallowed and then cleared his throat and tried again, “I thought that I would have an easier time spotting and avoiding people on foot. I thought that being in a car would lead me to being chased by someone else who might have been driving.”
George didn’t respond. Instead, he silently cut another inch or more of dying skin off. Unaware and unprepared, Adrian bit his bottom lip in reaction to the hot pain. He struggled to keep his bottom half still.
“You make a good point. We are almost done here, I’m just going to clean and cover it again…” and as he spoke he did just that, staunching the small flow of blood that Adrian felt.
“Please, continue. You walked to Santa Monica, where at in the city did you go?” George asked nonchalantly.
“To… Reggie’s. A place called Reggie’s.” Adrian was still grimacing at the torment coursing in his thigh.
“And this is where you met the drunk.” George stated.
“Yes. I saw him inside as I was approaching the store. This was before I saw he had a gun. So I flipped a coin-”
“You flipped a coin?” George barked a sharp laugh.
“Yes. I mean. Well, I had no way of knowing how he was going to respond. This was my first interaction I’ve had with a human since before the bombs-”
“You are shitting me!” George bursted.
“What?” Adrian asked. This situation was getting more and more strange. All of a sudden he wished it to be over.
“So that makes me the second person you have spoken to since this shit began?” he sounded exasperated, in disbelief.
“Yes…” Adrian, himself, sounded a little in disbelief. But not for the same reason as George.
“That is astounding, and I thought that I had hardly seen anyone. That would drive me mad, the isolation, I think. But you seem perfectly fine, do you enjoy being on your own?”
“Yes, I do. Not quite that much, as much as I have been spending, but after a certain amount of time I started to… not care.” Adrian paused to reflect on the total length of time he had spent in solitude. How did it pass by so… uneventfully, fast and unnoticed?
“To each their own, then.” George lifted the cloth once more, dabbed gently, and then picked up, presumably, the scalpel again.
“So you have flipped a coin, its decision points you in toward the store, where the drunk becomes disgruntled. Correct?”
"More or less, yeah. I tried to reason with him. To explain myself, but shortly into that conversation I was whacked on the head. I woke up, tied. He was more drunk than I’ve ever seen…” Adrian lost his train of thought, as he was momentarily brought back to the flashback he had experienced in the bathroom. Alyssa’s face and perfectly straight blonde hair flashed in front of his eyes in another world…
“Ever seen, what?” George interrupted the daydream.
“Huh?”
“He was drunker than you’ve ever seen... what?”
“Oh… just, he was really drunk. Nearly as drunk as I’ve ever seen anyone be.” Adrian said. There was a short moment that passed before George replied.
“Hmm. So. Then what? This is the climax. You are tied up, now what? How do you survive against those odds?” George wasn’t able to contain the excitement in his voice any longer.
“Uh…” Adrian started, “well. I told him why I was there. That I meant no harm, needed food, had flipped a fucking coin to decide to enter. That’s when he pulled out his revolver, said it was half loaded and he pointed out the coincidence of both of our 50/50 odds, and then he spun the chamber. He shot, I struggled. The next thing I remember is waking up with a roaring pain in my leg.”
As Adrian concluded his story, George made a third and final slice through a decaying portion of skin. Larger than the prior two. As the blade parted his flesh, tears were drawn to Adrian’s eyes. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, and had to mentally stop himself from writhing and crying out.
“That's it. That is the last one. I am going to staunch it one more time, but otherwise we are done here, Adrian.” George held the cloth against Adrian’s skin.
It was over. Even as pressure was continuously applied Adrian felt the tension he had been feeling inside dissipate. He no longer felt quite so worried about the uncertainty of his leg, or about the question of George’s character. Out of all of the possibilities of where I could have ended up when I left the Croteau’s… never would I have predicted what I’ve fallen into. And the solemn understanding that he had already lost home as a definition for the Croteau’s hit him like a punch in the gut. As short lived as it was, the feeling that Adrian had a place where he belonged was tough to lose.
George lifted the cloth for a final time after a passage of thirty seconds. Adrian looked back, but all he could see was reddened skin from the release of applied pressure and smeared bloodstains from George’s rag. The veteran and former veterinarian began to meticulously dry and clean the area around the wound using the cloth in one hand. In his other was the bandage, bloodstained but otherwise in usable shape. Once again, he wished that this degrading situation was simply over.
---
While donning the robe after having his wound re-covered, George once again had entered the bathroom to offer Adrian privacy. Having had things calm down allowed Adrian to gather a level head. He noticed that the notebook George was writing in before his shower was gone. Curiosity was beginning to whittle at his restraint. He is a secretive man… that is for sure. But he just saved my life, I think. The bathroom door cracked open.
“All good?” George prodded, forcing Adrian to snap out of this thoughts.
“Yes. Just dressed now.” He replied. The door opened fully and George walked back to his bedroom again.
“So? How are you? Feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you. A lot. I don’t know how I can repay you…” Adrian began.
“Don’t worry about it, it’s settled.” George said with a warm smile. A silence began to brew, but Adrian interrupted it.
“Oh. Could I see Kevin? It’s been a while and I’d like to make sure he’s doing good.”
“Not right now, friend. Heather would have a fit, trust me. She barely tolerated what we're doing now without hooting and hollering. As much as I like to think that I got out of the old ball and chain when this mess started, I never really did.” George grinned.
“But… he's my dog.”
“Yes, and he is being cared for. He is in good hands now, I promise you. My daughter will be babysitting him, she's been asking about the pup since I told her you had him in the car. I will personally patch him up. But for now he needs rest, and for now we need you to be back in your room. Before Heather decides that providing medical attention is too much of a kindness.” George gave a sympathetic look.
“...For how long? How long will I be locked up for?” Adrian wasn’t sure what he would do, but he didn’t exactly plan to be kept here as a prisoner.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
“I wouldn’t say you are ‘locked up’, Adrian. You are a guest, in our home. Our place of business. But times have changed and we need to be thorough with who we bring in. But to answer your question directly, not much longer. Give me the rest of today.”
“For what?” Adrian asked.
“I was going to come by in an hour or so and ask you when I had officially gotten Heather’s consent, but I am fairly certain that I have it in the bag. So, why not?” George said, and after he cleared his throat. Then he asked something of Adrian that he never would have expected.
“Adrian, the Barnes’ family would invite you to be our guest at dinner tonight. Will you please join my wife, daughter and I in the banquet halls for a home cooked meal?”
---
Back in his designated room after a tiring and hobbled walk upstairs, Adrian shed his bathrobe to put on underwear and socks, jeans, a belt and a dark navy t-shirt. Thoughts of George’s dinner invitation that he had accepted were sprouting like springtime weeds. Indeed, he couldn't think of the last time that he himself had had a meal worthy of being called dinner. And there was much less of a memory of having had an invitation to any social outing. All of it brought up a plethora of tangled emotions.
Despite having had medical work performed by the dinner host, Adrian still felt firm distrust between them. If I was visiting a doctor a year ago, before this, I wouldn't have this apprehension. Can I trust anyone, am I capable of it anymore? The thought scared him, he wasn't certain. Every person that he had encountered so far had been violent and untrustable, except for the Barnes’.
On the other hand, the solid fact that George had not only looked at and taken care of his wound but also used his own supplies on Adrian had to be a mark in a theoretical pro column. Now he was going a step further and offering this meal. With warm food, at a dinner table. With people.
Running with the notion of a pro and con list, Adrian tried hard to keep his head level and to think of any definable factors that would possibly fit in the cons column. One instantly came to mind, another shortly after. How about the fact that I’m locked in a room, like a prisoner?
If you were George, wouldn’t you lock a new comer away until you could deem him as safe? The counterargument presented itself to Adrian as a knee-jerk reaction from a compartment in the back of his brain. But the more he thought about it the more it seemed like common sense. Locking away a stranger when they come unannounced to the place you and your family are residing in was logical.
How about being unallowed to see my own dog? Even though George gave a reason for keeping Kevin isolated and resting, Adrian still had a gnawing in his guts that was proving itself as persistent. Although truthfully, he wasn't sure what condition Kevin was in, even when he saw those chocolate-brown eyes open for the first time. The gash his cane created was gruesome, and didn't show as many signs of healing as Adrian would have hoped for during the days along their way to here. Perhaps George was right, and Kevin just needed to be alone and to rest. He was the veterinarian, after all.
No, no. George has been good to me so far, and he’s done what is within his power to help me. I don’t have any reason not to trust him. Still, the gnawing persisted. Maybe this is how I’ll always feel toward others. Maybe I’ll always live in fear.
Since his room was bare and had little to do, Adrian decided to lay down on his bed and rest. His things lay unpacked, bundled close to the locked doorway. The sheets were dust-laden, and somehow the color white looked like it had began to fade from them as he pulled the top sheet back and gently stretched out on the bed’s surface. The lack of tension on his lower half was soothing to his throbbing wound and his muscles he had been straining.
It had taken George merely five minutes to examine, cut and clean him. Glancing toward the window, Adrian could see that there was still an ample amount of daylight left. A couple hours, perhaps. The dinner wouldn't begin until the evening arrived.
I could take a nap. He had grown accustomed to taking those. They were an excellent way to pass time, conserve food, and block thoughts. A considerable amount of time had been passed while sleeping at the Croteau's. Adrian thought back to the stiff, musty mattress he had gotten acquainted with, and the stranger's bedroom that became more and more familiar to him over time, but never became his.
But as he laid down on the hotel-quality mattress and sheets, a nap was ironically just a distant dream. The flutter of his eyelids was seldom, and not weighted with sleep as he wished.
Adrian tossed and turned in the sweltering heat, organized the pillows that were supporting him to be straddled on top, underneath and then beside him. There was no compromise to be made; this wasn't a matter of comfort but of energy, which Adrian still felt in droves. Despite what his body had gone through over the span of the last few days, getting any more rest apparently wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t long before he abandoned the attempt altogether, whipping the sheets off and slowly moving his broken torso upright.
Sweat was beginning to glisten from Adrian’s body. He wiped his face, the air was humid and the sun over California was roasting hot to boot. When it set it would bring a welcome retreat. He had always found the heat to be implausibly irritating, and currently found it no better with or without the bedsheet on. Taking another glance toward the window, he suddenly had the realization that during his initial shake-down of his room, he had stopped after finding the hidden firearm (where he told himself it would stay until he knew exactly what he wanted to do with it), and hadn't fully inspected it or the view that he was allowed.
As he made his way over, he heavily favored his injured leg. Though he knew what George had done for him was good, it had left him tender and sensitive. The three steps he made on it, plus the initial action of standing were painful enough to cause Adrian to involuntarily grit his teeth.
Looking out of the pane of glass, passed the dried dirt stains on the other side, he could see traces of the setting sun. Though directly in front of him remained clear and blue, to either side the sky leisurely darkened with a gentle purple. It must be around 5 o’clock. And as he thought on that, a gurgle in his stomach interrupted him. Supper time, he concluded. It felt too good to be true. Adrian again daydreamed of the meal, his first family-style, warm meal in close to a year. George hadn’t offered the details, and Adrian hadn’t asked. Out of sheer bewilderment of the invitation he had barely been able to squeak out the pitiful pleasantries he had managed. Whuh… I mean, yes. Yes. Th-th-thank you so much! When had he become such a social trainwreck?
When had he needed to rely upon those skills last? An excellent question. The answer was probably the same to ‘When did you last have a home cooked meal?’. And he had never been completely extroverted, even on his most affable day. In truth, he had started to rely upon the borrowed confidence from seeing Alyssa be able to constantly, flawlessly, carelessly speak at her whim. She had the gift of the gab that any aspiring radio host would pray for.
In fact, it was on that borrowed confidence that he made the decision to go to that party in the first place. He had relied on her reaffirming his doubts, his changes of heart. Not only in that instance, but in so many others before she had bolstered his own ability to suppress his initial fears and allow him to speak easily. To get things done without focusing too intently on the potential consequences and derailing, a trait that was embedded in Adrian. Watching the sky dim, he contemplated how he would be able to cope and rebuild himself.
“Adrian, are you coming out-” Alyssa broke his concentration after some time, from behind.
His breath caught. There was no conceivable way that he had heard that voice again, but he had. After realizing he hadn’t been, he blinked. He felt the beating of his heart strongly in his chest, but for all other matters he felt disassociated from his body. The glamourless hotel room was eerily silent now, and although the door was locked and he knew, absolutely knew there was no way Alyssa was behind him… he couldn’t quickly find the willpower to turn around and confront that reality.
For several long seconds he gazed out of the window but saw nothing beyond the glass. Then in an instance he whirled about.
And saw nothing new. It was unsettling how unchanged the room remained, as if even in his disbelief of hearing his deceased girlfriend he still expected to see something when he turned around. He hobbled to the bathroom, the sound of his footsteps on the tiled floor were piercingly sharp.
“...Alyssa?” Adrian called out as he rounded the corner of the bathroom, a small flutter in his heart.
It too remained the same as it had before his doctor’s appointment. The towel that was on the floor was still sodden and bloody, and he saw a few dried drops of red-stained water that had ran down the side of the toilet that he had missed before while cleaning. He felt foolish for the wishful thinking. But it sounded like she was right across the room from me…
Adrian left the bathroom, distraught and confused. Rounding the corner again he took notice of the small pile of his belongings that George had brought up from the car. A peculiar feeling came over him when he saw the easel. A small desire that he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever but was truthfully only a few days. I’m going to paint. And why not? What else was there to do, where else to go?
---
There, he thought as he set the last of five small paint containers down on the bedside table, beside a jar of water he had taken from the tank of the toilet. Each container contained its own color: navy-blue, green, brown, white and red. The easel was set with his last fresh piece of canvas, his paint-stained brush and empty palette lay on the bed. Though setting up the materials bothered his injured leg, the process was familiar and felt uplifting. As he started it, he even had the image he wanted to create come to mind almost immediately: the apple tree he had discovered while driving across America.
During the early months of the aftermath of the bombings, there would be some mornings at the Croteau’s where Adrian would wake up and, under the guise of disorientation, have a few, brief moments without stress. He would forget not only the destruction that had occurred and the threat that persisted, but the very place he was occupying. For a few moments, he had that bliss. When he painted, he felt a tiny sliver of that same feeling.
Other than that, the last moment of true, untainted peace he had felt was at that apple tree. A strange dust had covered the fruit; had covered mostly everything yet unaffected by rain. Once washed and peeled he couldn’t resist eating it, even in spite of the risk. As he sat down with the easel in front of him and began to pour paint, his taste memory produced the flavor of the apples.
---
As it did while he was painting, a slight feeling of satisfaction had eased over him again. On the canvas there was a fully formed tree centered in front of a dark navy-and-green background. No apples hung from the branches yet, those he would paint last.
Flaring near Adrian’s buttocks was his aggravated wound, not inclined to being sat on as much as it had been. It was a growing annoyance but a considerable trade-off. He could have used the chair instead of sitting on the bed, then he wouldn’t be bending about as much, but the chair was not cushioned and Adrian knew he wouldn’t last long before needing to relieve the pressure.
He paused to reflect on the status of his artwork, and then decidedly rinsed off his brush in the jar of water (which was now a murky dark gray that was turning darker), drying it off on a rag he always kept tucked within his painting supplies. Looking briefly at the window he was astonished to see how much darker it had gotten. What he had thought was twenty minutes spent in front of his easel must have been an hour, maybe an hour and a half. George would undoubtedly come and knock to announce the supper when it was ready and lead him to it, but Adrian hadn’t meant to let so much time pass while unaware.
“Are you stopping?” came the small voice of a girl, not far behind Adrian at all.
He leapt up in shock and turned to whoever was addressing him. Hot, explosive pain nearly drove him to his knee, but he was able to grasp the bedside table for support. The water jar was precariously close to falling over the edge.
Gaining awareness as he gained his breath back, he realized that a child had been standing right behind him. She looked bewildered, unblinking as she stared at Adrian bent over and supporting himself with a table. He flicked his eyes toward the door - the one that should have been locked and separating him from the others. It was wide open, he could see a bit of the banister in the hallway.
“Uh,” Adrian began without knowing where to start, “hello. Are you Candace?”
In a normal world Adrian never considered himself to be that great with children. He failed to capture their attention. In this world Adrian was relieved. He hadn't encountered many people lately, but this by far was the least horrifying encounter of them.
“Yeah,” Candace replied meekly, “are you Adrian?” she gripped the hem of her bubblegum-pink “I ♡ AUNTIE” t-shirt.
Adrian thought that she was rather short. George had mentioned that she was in elementary school when this began, and so he expected her to be small, but right now he found himself to be confused over the matter. Was she a child barely into school, or someone nearing their pre-teen years. The myriad of freckles adorning her face helped conceal her age. 6 years? No… 10. At least 10. But she’s so small… maybe 8?
Her hair (although disheveled) was curlier than any that he thought that he had seen before, and so richly brown that it shone bronze, falling in tight coils above her shoulders that bounced with her as she moved her head. She stood with her shoulders hunched forward, and even though she needed to look way up with her hazel colored eyes to meet Adrian’s, she kept her head lowered and habitually picked at loose threads from her shirt or her equally pink pair of jeans that she wore. He felt a pang of pity for her. She had been taken from the normal world much too young.
“Yes… I’m Adrian. How did you…” he gave an inquisitive look toward the open door and then back to Candace. She remained still and unresponsive, as if she hadn’t heard him.
“Er…,” maybe she didn’t understand me… he thought, “How did you open the door? Your dad locked it up, didn’t he?” after he finished he was certain she had understood him that time. She looked toward the door, then reached into her pocket and produced a small silver key.
“I took it from daddy. He doesn’t know, I’m not supposed to have it.” Candace blurted quickly, putting the key back in her pocket. She eyed the door very frequently now.
“How come you did?” he asked innocently. She was nervous and clearly didn’t want to get in trouble with her parents, but Adrian couldn’t resist prying a little further into this matter at hand.
“I, um… well, I saw my dad bring in your stuff, and then he dropped one of your paints by accident. The red one.” she stopped to stare at her sandals and pull at the hem of her shirt again.
“You like painting?” Adrian tried. Candace’s head lifted straight up.
“Yes! Do I? Yes, so much!” she raised her voice loud, but Adrian believed it might not of carried passed the door.
“What do you like to paint?” He didn’t know why he asked her that. Or why he was still talking to her, if George or Heather saw her here it would be very bad. Moreover… the door was now open.
“Oh… I don’t get to paint anymore, not since I stopped going to school.” she dragged a foot across the floor, watching it go as she did. Now is my chance. If I’m going to go, I should go.
He looked at the open door again for a very long moment that felt more like a minute. In that moment, the more forward thinking part of him responded. Where? A good question. Where would he go, with a bum leg and all of his supplies up three flight of stairs? That wasn’t even mentioning the two dangerous and armed parents of the child who he was standing in front of. He didn’t think that escape would be made easy, and the more he thought about it, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to attempt it after all. So far he was safer in here than he had been anywhere outside, bar the Croteau’s. And if he missed out on a warm meal, he thought he might regret that for months to come. After a bit of silence had stretched, Candace looked back up at Adrian.
“Oh. Sorry. You don’t have any paints here?” He asked. Candace shook her head slowly, not taking her eyes off of Adrian’s. He glanced at his last canvas with the incomplete apple tree memory, considered for a moment, then gave a half hearted shrug.
“Would you want to paint right now? This is my last canvas, but you can help me finish it. I started to make-” Adrian was going to explain what the painting was going to be, but when he saw Candace break into a brilliant grin he stopped. She began to shake up and down, making soft squeals of excitement. He chuckled, for the first time in a long time.
“Alright, let’s paint.” she sat down where he had been sitting, looking from the canvas, to the palette, to the brush, to Adrian.
“You’re going to have an easier time than me,” he said as he handed her the brush and set the palette of paints near her, “my back was getting sore from all of that bending over.”
Candace was wordless as she took the brush. The light outside was fading by the passing minute. George could come by at any moment to collect him for their supper. But if he hadn’t come yet there was a chance he wouldn’t still for a good amount of time still. How easily could you cook a meal for four these days, anyway? And after some thought Adrian considered that George might understand that he meant no harm, if he was to interrupt. Perhaps, while the opportunity presented itself, he could learn some things about his captors and hosts. And Kevin, too.
“What should I paint?” Candace chimed in. She hadn’t moved a muscle since she got the brush. Adrian knew the troubles of having the artist’s version of “writer’s block” very well.
“Well, what do you like? I’ve already started with a tree.”
“It’s really nice.” Candace said.
“Thank you. It’s from a nice memory that I have. Maybe you could paint something from a memory that you have?”
Candace looked toward the ceiling as she thought, and began to bang the heel of her foot on the bed frame. It took a couple of seconds before Adrian realized exactly where she was kicking.
“Oh, don’t kick that please,” he said politely, “the bed frame is loose.”
“Sorry,” she replied as she caught her foot before it hit the bed a final time, “oh, I know what I could paint. A horse!”
“A horse is a great idea, we’ve got the brown paint all ready. You must like animals?” Candace scooped a glob of brown paint onto the brush, nodding as Adrian asked his question.
“Me too, especially Kevin. He’s my dog.” he said. Candace paused short of making her second goopy brush stride.
“Kevin? I saw Kevin earlier. I like him.” she said, then promptly continued to paint her horse.
“You did? How is he? I miss him.” at first she didn’t respond, and Adrian had to repeat his question after he got her attention again.
“Oh, he’s good. I think. He didn’t get up but he has a big scar on his head. Dad wouldn’t tell me what was wrong with him, and he kept him penned up. He said that he needed to ‘get him used to people again’. What does that mean? Dogs love people.” she paused to look at Adrian. It was plain to him that she was beginning to trust him.
“Kevin was… lost from his family. I think your father is right. He might need time to get used to being around people again. He’s been outdoors for a long time, I think.” after he finished, Candace seemed to think about what he had said for a bit.
“That makes sense, I guess. I bet he’ll get used to everyone really soon, we have an old box of dog treats around somewhere, I remember. Dad said after you’re gone-”
“CANDACE!” the bellowing boom of Heather’s interruption made both Adrian and Candace jump. The brush fell to the floor. Before Adrian could react, Heather stomped across his room and put both of her hands on Candace’s shoulders, spinning her around.
“What are you doing!?” Heather cried out.
“I was, we were- painting! I opened his door! He didn’t mind!” Candace was already beginning to cry.
“Heather, listen. I should have yelled for one of you-” Adrian tried.
"Stay out of this. I’m going to talk to George, don’t get comfortable. Come on, Candace.”
Heather turned abruptly, keeping one hand on her daughter’s shoulder. As she stormed back out of his room Candace was pulled along. Both of them turned as they exited, the mother with a look of fiery hatred and the daughter with eyes full of tears. Heather slammed the door, and through it Adrian could hear her ask for the key. After a moment, the lock switched shut. He didn’t even bother to try it, and instead began to clean up the room.
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