Written for the FKM.
The girl was maybe fourteen when her family left Novac. They had appeared one day, "just passing through," and had stayed for some of the worst years of his life.
He remembered the girl though. All gangly and awkward, elbows and knees banging everything, the wild golden curls. Mostly though, he remembered her hazel eyes, filled with tears and her pale face spattered with gore from her would-be captors.
He didn't know how they had gotten into town that night, didn't know why they went for the girl instead of anyone else. Her screams had made his heart race, but his finger had been steady on the trigger as he'd killed the two who had come for her.
He'd left his post then. Why had he left his post?
But the girl lay in the dirt where she had been dropped, and he had to help her. He hadto. She was just a child, and he was not a monster.
She was bound, but seemed unharmed. He breathed a sigh of relief and scooped her up. She wasn't much more than a child. Much like hischild might be. The girl clung to his shirt and cried, her body shaking with each sob. He let her cry herself out, and when she was finally quiet, he rose and carried her back into town.
Her parents didn't even know she was gone. Stolen from right beneath their noses. But they were grateful. He remembered that, too. The raw relief on their faces. He would remember that sometimes.
Most of what he remembered though, was how much worse his night was going to get. How he would berate himself later for leaving his post. But he was blissfully unaware.
It was the night they took Carla.
He never did find out if the girl had truly been a target, or if she had merely been a distraction. On his worse nights, he blamed the child. On the better, he reminded himself that he had saved at least oneinnocent that night.
For a long time, there were more bad nights than good. Nights where he saw the girl's scared eyes, nights where he could almost feel her sobbing. Nights where it was Carla in his arms instead. Where he had saved his wife instead of some child he barely knew.
She tried to thank him. He remembered that, too. The next day, as he'd been tearing apart the room he'd shared with his wife, looking for any sign of her, the girl had appeared. Her eyes had been wide and afraid once more, but this time he had been the cause, not her savior. He had roared at her, and thrown something in her direction. He hardly remembered. He just knew that it was somehow her fault.
He didn't know what else happened. Large parts of that horrible day were missing.
He remembered her watching him as he took his gun and left town. Remembered the feeling of her eyes on his back. She was so young. So innocent. He had saved her, but at what cost?
Later when he returned to the camp with blood on his hands, the girl was still there. Clinging to one of those damnable dinosaur toys. She watched him silently, her the top of her head and her golden mane just visible around the corner of the hotel as he trudged back in.
Even then, as gone as he was, he found himself wondering how she'd known he would be back. Whether she'd spent every day waiting for him, or she'd just gotten lucky. He didn't ask, didn't even acknowledge that he'd seen her. He'd just gone back to his room and lost himself in the bitterness and booze.
He saw her around town. Always watching. She didn't approach him again. Didn't seem to ever be doing much. Just watching him as he trudged from his room to the dinosaur and back. Slowly the pain ebbed. He began to realize that what had happened had to be an inside job. Someone had knownthat he would be in the dinosaur. They had known it was his watch, and they had known that the girl would distract him from anything happening in the hotel behind him.
He knew Carla would have fought. His wife had always been so beautiful and full of fire. He knew she would have kicked and screamed and made them pay. Carla knewhe would save her.
But he hadn't.
And it was all because some bastard had betrayed her. He didn't know who, and he didn't know why. But he knew someone had, and he wouldget to the bottom of it.
One night, in a towering rage, he cornered the girl. She was sitting at the dinosaur's feet. He'd known she would be there. He didn't know how he had known, but he had not thought to go anywhere else in his quest for her.
He remembered the confrontation vividly. He had grabbed her by the arm. She'd been so tiny that his fingers had wrapped right around her upper arm. She'd grimaced in pain, but hadn't made a sound, just stared at him with those hazel eyes. He'd shaken her, and accused her of every atrocity. Her. A child. And she'd just taken it. Tears had rolled down her cheeks, silent sobs had shaken her, but she hadn't said a word. And when he'd yelled himself hoarse, and fallen to his knees at her feet, she'd hugged him.
So pure. So innocent. He didn't deserve her forgiveness. But he'd had it. He was too far gone to recognize it at the time, but that was what had saved him. That act of forgiveness had led him to stop drinking. To clean up his act and think with a level head for the first time in nearly a year.
When the worst had passed, he wished he could apologize for scaring her. He regretted his behavior. But they were gone by then. Her family had left, and he'd been so lost that he hadn't even noticed.
He never even knew her name.