She'd cry a lot.
A sort of tortured whimper, like that of an overworked slave, beaten and manipulated; it was soft and weightless. Something to be overlooked. Something you'd expect her to get over within a minute or two, and that's what everyone thought it was, anyways. A few mercurial tears, an unidentifiable, insignificant whine, and the slight, haunting quiver of her scrawny arms.
The epitome of pain. She became a fragment, slowly, and they just passed her like flyover planes, skimming the clouds and not bothering to seek out the tiny houses below. They were granted the opportunity to see her as a nonsensical cause, lost and forgotten, already dead. Sooner or later, something would find her and taste the stone-cold frigidness of her bones. Already unborn. Tasteless. Hollow.
It was clear to him that she was helpless, and someday soon, she would fall behind, at the mercy of a ruthless beast. Everyone had disguised themselves with a hardened mask, blind and merciless. No one, nobody would ever, ever peek a glance at the poisoned charity work to make sure she kept up. She was already dead, rotting within herself, melting in the eyes' of others.
He was well aware that her blood was one pint closer to drenching the ground she walked on. Every day, one hesitation closer, one damaged, heartless gasp closer. There were times when he'd snatched her arm and pulled her nearer, cocking his weapon and killing the apparent threat. She was oblivious, but he'd still yank her lifeless body aside, place her slow tread in front of him, lightly gripping the tip of her pinkie finger to keep her close and secure.
It wasn't much, but it sufficed. He couldn't tell if it was worth his trouble, saving her life; he'd anticipate that the next day she would reappear, vibrant and cured, as if the past few weeks were a mistaken blur. He'd hold onto that hope continuously, being certain that each tomorrow, it'd be better, it'd be better; she'd be talking and laughing in her lavender voice. It made him feel less feral, like the brief grips with which he encased her fingertips would declare her unencumbered. As if the inhumane thoughts and infuriating briefings would stop haunting him. As if the infernos of loathing and manic regrets would stop burning through his nerves.
He felt an inexplicable responsibility, but she, still, never awoke.
She wasn't lethargic, in fact, she simply wasn't aware of the pawn into which she'd developed. She was just crying. And somedays, he'd see her wandering mind, the X's on her visualized map; he'd catch a glimpse of the reflective tears in the overexerted bags under her eyes- evidence of her laying supine and awake each night. On those days, maybe, he'd slide his hand around her's, leaving his original finger latched tightly on her pinkie.
He did not perceive himself as less squalid, suddenly overwhelmed by morals and unrealistic expectations, but he felt himself mitigating her. Organically ejecting the stories she withheld, conserving her bittersweetness out of their familiar, mutual terrors.
Night would fall, and they'd find themselves beneath the corduroy colors of autumn trees, atop the spininess of branches, leaves, and spared little lives. The unusual shade of married trees was an unspoken fear; the common susurrus haunted them all, and the all-consuming midnight colored over their eyes like a thick black crayon. It was a nightmare, but not as a scary mirage. A blackened, a roasted night sky, with the repetitive hums of night life. They were adapted and situated, and they communicated with deep breaths and smokey sighs. It was all relative, and to anyone else, it would appear as a nightmare; but it was solely a weak muscle in ordinary woods. The tightness in their shoulders, the relief of timeless schedule, the reliance on companionship- the mutuality broke the cold.
He prepared her bedding and knife- she had refused to touch it since her homecoming, wincing at the idea of weaponry- next to his, the knife on the far side, concealed by his poncho-made-pillow.