The Girl Down the Hall

by Apple Blossom

Disclaimer: Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D belongs to Joss Whedon, Jed Whedon, Stan Lee, ABC, Marvel Television, Mutant Enemy, and anyone else who wants to lay claim to it. Daredevil belongs to Drew Goddard, ABC, DeKnight Productions, Marvel Television, Netflix and anyone else who wants to claim it.

I'm sitting at the desk in my room, my fingers moving swiftly across the Braille letters of The Grapes of Wrath when I sense something happening at the front door of the St. Agnes Orphanage. It opens with a whoosh of air rushing in and instantly I know she's back. She comes and goes more than any of the other kids that call this place home in the last three years that I've been here. There is something very different about her that much is certain.

I hear the other kids teasing her. "Didn't work out again, Mary?"

"No one wants a loser like you." Laughter and worse echo through the halls and even though I've never seen her I imagine the girl with her face set in a mask of indifference even as her heart beats furiously and her fists must clench in fury at their words. The nun walking along beside her, heavy sensible shoes with thick soles snapping the linoleum beneath her feet, tells them to hush and the other kids disperse in a cloud of giggles and rude comments.

"I'm sorry Mary Sue," the nun, Sister Margaret, I finally remember her name, says to the girl as they stop at a door near mine. It creaks annoyingly on its hinges, the sound grating on my nerves, and soon the girl is left alone as rubber soles fade back the way they came. All at once a rush of emotion hits me as the girl, Mary Sue, finally unleashes the pent up anger inside. Her door slams hard, shaking the walls ever so slightly and a moment later the squeak of bed springs indicates to me that she's sitting down. Without thinking I reach for my walking stick and cross the room, reaching out by feel for the cold brass knob before opening my door and stepping out into the hall. It is empty, most of the other kids having retreated to the playground at the back of St. Agnes. I approach the girl's door, listening to the soft mutterings as she kicks softly at the plaster wall, and I imagine she takes at least a little bit of satisfaction in the bits of loose dust that trickles down toward the floor.

"I didn't want to live there anyway," she whispers, her voice hard and angry. "Stupid Brody's."

It's a lie, that much I can tell for sure. I've given up trying to make sense of how I know these things, I just do, but what I have learned is that I'm different too. Not exactly like her but I understand that I shouldn't be able to hear whispered conversations like the one Sister Margaret is having with Sister Angelica at this very moment about how Mary Sue Poots is back again.

"Did she ask any questions?" Sister Angelica inquires and Sister Margaret tells her no. Mary Sue sat quietly in the van as she brought her back from the suburbs of Chappaqua.

"She thinks it's her fault though," Sister Margaret adds. "Mrs. Brody wasn't very happy about it either. They liked her there."

The nuns are quiet for a moment but just when I think the conversation is over I hear Sister Angelica say, "It's for her own good."

What could that possibly mean, I wonder, knowing that it can't be good for this girl to think that no one wants her, no one cares. Taking a chance I knock on the door. There is no answer but I sense her need for some comfort and open it anyway. Her heart beats faster in anticipation of my presence. She smells of soap and fear and anxiety all rolled into one and I taste salt in the air. She is crying and barely the sound of a quick swallowed sob assaults my ears.

"Hey," I call out, using my walking stick to maneuver around her room until a soft clank tells me I am near her bed. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," she answers, sitting up on the bed and I can tell she's pulling her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around her legs. It's a defensive position, trying to protect herself from any harsh words or her own thoughts on being abandoned back at the orphanage again.

"Do you mind if I sit?" I ask her and if she nods I can't tell but finally she must realize I can't see it and she verbally agrees. The springs on the bed creak under the added weight as I lower myself beside her and say, "I'm Matt."

"I know," she tells me and I realize that even though we've never interacted, of course she must know me, the only blind kid in the place.

"And you're Mary Sue?" I ask. She's young, I can tell, by her voice which is still childlike and high. Nine or ten I would guess considering that they've moved her into this wing, which is for the older, hard to place kids. At fifteen I'm one of the oldest ones here and I can't wait to get out. They've never offered me a foster home, in fact the only one who ever felt like home after my Dad was Stick, but even he didn't want me. I understand what she's going through, but for her it must be so much worse.

"That's the name they gave me," she answers. "It sucks."

"Sorry," I answer as I suppress a smile. I don't know if she sees it but if she doesn't at least she seems to know I'm not making fun of her.

"Why are you here?" she asks.

"I thought you might need a friend," I tell her honestly.

"You are a sad, strange little man," she answers. "And you have my pity."

This time I can't stop the laughter that bursts forth and I feel the mood lighten around her too as I say, "Okay, Buzz."

If she's surprised that I get her Toy Story reference she doesn't say and we sit in companionable silence for a few minutes. Finally I say, "I'm sorry they sent you back."

"Whatever," she replies. "I should have known better."

"Known better?" I repeat, wondering what her words mean, but hearing the bitterness in her tone.

"Than to hope," she adds. "I hoped they would like me. Want me. Keep me. But it never works out."

She is crying again, her words stumbling angrily out of her mouth and I can't help but reach out for her. It is awkward and weird but when she lays her head against my chest I feel a weight lifting off her shoulders. Tears soak my shirt and all I can do is pat her back as she lets it all out. I'm angry at the injustice of it all. How could anyone treat a little girl like this? Why does Sister Angelica think this is good for her? She is a miserable child, unloved and unwanted, but it is obvious that she needs someone to care for her. To protect her and love her. She's never had that once in her entire short life and it is so unfair, I think to myself. Eventually her breathing slows and her arms, which were tight around my waist, loosen slightly as her head droops and I realize she's fallen asleep. As carefully as I can I lower her to the bed and quietly find my way out of the room, shutting the door softly behind me. Outside I hear the sounds of laughter, the whispered secrets of other orphans planning the days their parents will come back for them or when someone will want to take them home forever. They are no different than Mary Sue in this. They all dream the same dream. The one I had and lost. I know I'm luckier than most as I tap, tap, tap my way back to my own room and shut the door, blocking out some of the noise as I settle on my bed, reaching for the book I've been reading. Before I open it though I can't help but think of the crying girl once more and I vow to myself that as long as I'm here - and when she is here too - I will make a conscious effort to be a friend to her. She needs to know she's not alone.

The end