Requiem for a Soldier (Requiem #1)

Chapter 2: Midnight Encounter

March 27

Ryan

I open my eyes at the sound of the irritating creeeeak from the refrigerator door. A figure is silhouetted by the light emanating from the appliance. I stare blindly at the person standing in my kitchen. With a start, I realize it's the girl from the woods, conscious, alert, and roaming my house in the middle of the night. I quickly sit up, grab the ski mask, and pull it over my face. She squeaks in surprise. I grimly wonder what that little shriek would sound like had she seen my face. Or what's left of it. I scowl, grateful the mask hides my expression.

"Oh," she says. "I didn't see you there." She's still wearing the clothes I put her in. Her long dark hair is a tangled mess and her pallor looks sickly, but that might just be the greenish hue the aurora is casting on her face. Remembering the look on her face when she asked if I changed her clothing still makes me feel sick inside. I tried to be as respectful as possible and I wish I could put the memory out of my mind entirely, but that's proving a little more difficult than expected. Despite being extremely ill, dirty, and a little smelly, she was the first female I've seen in years. And she's not hard on the eyes.

I try to focus on anything but the image of this girl partially undressed in my arms. I don't even know how old she is. She could be a teenager! She could be in high school! That thought makes me shudder.

I try to search for anything to say to her, but my mind is blank. This was much easier when she was unconscious. When she spoke, she didn't need to be answered. When she looked at me, she didn't see me, except for that time when she screamed after I closed the curtain. Even then, there was something vacant in her expression, like she was conscious but not really all there. I'm glad I wore the itchy mask, but in her fevered state, I don't think she was truly aware of anything she saw. What little she did say during her delirium was disturbing. Though most of her words were mumbled, garbled, and at least partially Spanish, I made out something about death and killing and running away. She seems very sure that someone wants to kill her. Why she believes that is beyond me. How she ended up unconscious outside my cabin, in the middle of the county with the lowest population density in the United States, is yet another sign that I must be cursed.

She's standing at the fridge, which has now closed, staring at me. 

"Hungry?" I ask. It's obvious that she is, but it's the only thing I can think of to say. Her staring is making me uncomfortable. No one has looked at me since the day I set foot in this cabin, only a few months after the battle that left me crippled and scarred. In my current state, I attract stares like rotting food attracts flies. That's part of the reason I chose to forgo all human interaction, at least for the foreseeable future.

"Um - yes. I'm sorry I woke you up." She takes a small step forward and I realize she'd been pressed against the door of the fridge, cowering away from me. 

I frown. I suppose the mask isn't doing me any favors, but am I really that terrifying to her? If she's going to wander around at all hours of the night, I may need to start wearing the mask 24/7. That thought is a rather unpleasant one. The scarred flesh the mask hides has very little feeling and isn't bothered by the itchy fabric, but the same is not true of the healthy skin on the left side of my face.

I stand and walk slowly over to the fridge. Like earlier in the bedroom, she watches me with much more scrutiny than I'd like. It makes me feel more aware of my limp and my crippled arm. As I approach her, she moves a few steps away, just out of reach.

"A sandwich ok?" I ask, looking at her sideways. She nods mutely. I pull out bread and jam, close the fridge, and retrieve a jar of peanut butter from the cabinet. I fumble with the bread bag, which is a little difficult to open one-handed. Along with most of my fingers, I lost much of the dexterity in my right hand in the explosion. I can perform simple tasks that only require the use of a stiff index finger and thumb, but not much else. The knowledge that she's watching me struggle with a task that a five-year-old could complete makes me more nervous, more tense, and even less capable of making a decent sandwich. I want her to go away. I throw the sad excuse for a PB&J together quickly, looking forward to her absence when she returns to the bedroom. I hand her the plate with the sandwich on it.