Kyle spent the afternoon and evening cleaning the apartment, while she slowly polished off the cold pizza by 9:30 pm. Removing the rubber gloves, the abrasive scent in the air battling its own war with that of decrepitude, he turned to the girl. He frowned, because she was still wearing the same clothes as earlier and he remembered the source of every stain. Most of them seemed dry by now, but they disgusted him.

Remembering her closed bedroom door, he realized there was at least one reason she'd not changed. In the back of his mind however, he knew she'd been unlikely to have grabbed a change of clothes even if he had left it open for her.

She'd barely said a word, other than curses and taunts anyway, which he willfully ignored. She refused to look at him and was pretending to watch the television. The remote was on the television and it wasn't even on.

He folded the pizza and put it into an empty blue bin, then sat beside her once again on the sofa. Noticing seemingly for the first time that she had red hair, longer than shoulder length, and a terrible matted mess, he said, a small smile spreading on his lips, "Do you want to take a shower alone or would you prefer I keep you from drowning?"

It had the intended effect: she scowled and sighed. "I have a choice?" she asked, staring directly into his eyes. Not for the first time, she furrowed her brow as she stared at him. He knew she was confused that he wasn't looking directly into her eyes.

Eyes told him things, spoke to him. He refused to look into eyes because they spoke. Could she understand that? Doubting it, he stayed silent, smiling slightly. After several moments, he broke the growing silence, "As a gentleman, I won't be staring." Raising his right hand toward the bathroom door, he said, "Shall we?"

They went into the shower and as she brought her sweater to her midriff, he turned away. She quickly removed her clothes and hurried into the shower, and set the water to a reasonable, hot setting. He inhaled the vapors coming from the shower and relaxed. He closed his eyes, sensing the water cascading down his body even though he wasn't in the shower.

Vaguely he realized it had been hours since she'd attempted to take her own life, and he was glad. He felt he was getting through to her, despite her vulgar description of him as an angel. His heart suddenly panged, making him gasp, but the memory he expected never came. When he was sure she was going to behave, he left the room and went to her bedroom.

As he'd already cleaned it – had it ever needed it – he knew where everything was. He grabbed some night clothes, some underwear, and a large fluffy towel and dropped it off on the sink beside the shower. He left and closed the door.

There was a broad smile on his face as he reveled in the good feeling one received when doing something for someone else. The water was still running when he heard her open the shower door, scamper silently to the vanity above the sink, and open it.

Opening the bathroom door, he stared intently at her forehead, and she halted, looking righteous and indignant that he'd caught her with a finger to her razor. "I need to shave." She made no attempt to cover herself.

"That's not why you're looking for the razor."

She puffed and brought fists to her hips. "And how do you know what I'm thinking?"

His eyes softened, and glanced for a millisecond to hers. It was a mistake, for he instantly knew without a doubt what she'd planned. "You thought maybe you'd wet the blade for a few seconds, bend over and make a few long strokes, to put me at ease, and then straighten and slit your throat with a vicious swipe or as many swipes as was necessary before blood clouded your vision." He'd felt oddly detached as he'd reiterated this to her, but was confident as to its content.

His eyes returned to her forehead. She quickly retreated to the shower, without the razor. Her voice quivered, "I'll be done soon."

When she emerged, dressed in the clothes he'd picked, with a large brush in her hand, she headed to the refrigerator. He thought briefly of smiling but instead left his face blank.

To her credit she didn't immediately burst out in curses. She stood there, in front of her nearly empty fridge, mouth agape, turning first to it then to him. Without betraying his thoughts, he silently counted the number of times she looked inside it.

She closed it with a lot more restraint than he'd predicted, walked to the sofa and dropped there in a heap. She started to cry again. He walked slowly until he stood beside her, crouched, and gave her a hug. "You wouldn't be doing this unless you were an angel," she muttered between sobs. "I can't be saved. I want to die."

His lips trembled as he felt the emotion in her words. He didn't need abilities to tell she believed it. "Why?"

She laughed, tears flowing freely. "You're the angel! You tell me."

He wanted to hug her harder, to make her feel again, anything but pain and suffering. "No Liz, short for Lizzy, not Elizabeth." Her sobs halted abruptly, and he continued, "You tell me. Get it off your chest." Resolved to listen only to her, he intently ignored the memory that surfaced of a younger man teasing him about common expressions.

"You won't leave me until I tell you?"

"I still won't leave, not today, and not tonight."

She tried in vain to separate herself from his hug; he'd formed a protective shell around her. He'd be her cornerstone if it meant she returned to the world of the living. She slumped deeper into his soft embrace. Hearing her breaths slow made him happy. When she was calm, he released his hold on her, and she came out of his hug with something like awe in her eyes.

Her eyes fell to the floor but no blush came to her cheeks. Tapping on the cushion beside her, she invited him to sit. She started to speak. With her words, she painted a loving little girl, living in a little house on a hill, with two much older sisters and an even older brother. Their father battled cancer for years, and bed-ridden, the secret that her mother was being unfaithful with his best friend had fallen to her.

Her mother and the friend were so discreet and believable that everyone had believed them over her. She was ridiculed for her overactive imagination. The moment she could do so legally, she left her mother and lived on her own.

She'd been strongly sheltered as a child and was soon taken advantage of by strangers, introduced to alcohol and drugs, and soon engaged in prostitution to make ends meet. She was spiraling out of control when one day her big brother pulled up at the corner she was working; she'd been so far gone and had been so detached from her family that she hadn't even realized it was him. She'd given him her pitch, promising a good time.

When he'd said her name – her real name – she shamefully got into his car and tried to clean up the shambles of her life. They'd driven for three days to their new home on the east coast, in Manhattan. Her mother and new husband, her dad's best friend, had won the lottery and were sharing it with everyone but her.

Despite going to regular AA meetings and into a drug rehab centre, she was constantly teased and ridiculed for having led a destitute life when she could have stayed and reaped life's rewards. Her family was far from religious; she'd picked that up from a friend she'd made at the rehab centre.

Tears flowed from his eyes as she eloquently told her life story in amazing detail. She was in college taking journalism, but he felt she would do much better writing poignant, heart wrenching books. Halting the errant thought, he listened more.

The black sheep of the family, and sensing no end in sight, she returned to drinking, and then again to drugs until her brother found her stealing from their mother. He'd beaten her that day, the first time he'd ever laid a hand to her. In his brand of remorse, he sent her away to college, all prepaid so she had no need of money. She even had a comprehensive meal plan, which she'd recently sold to a rich kid for a wad of cash. Then she'd bought all kinds of booze, drank for two weeks, hoping to die.

She hesitated, unwilling to continue. He stared at her nose, then her forehead. He urged her to fill in the gap that he knew she'd created. It felt like a white space on an elaborate canvas, or a gaping hole in a beautifully woven tapestry. The why still hadn't been completely answered.

"Two days after he'd sent me to college, they all went on a trip."

"On the plane that crashed in the Atlantic," he supplied.

She nodded, having noticed his tears. "No one survived. No one knew where I was; my brother had never told anyone where he'd found me, nor did he ever say where he'd sent me." She looked into his eyes but he stared at her eyebrows. "It's been four and a half months since they've been gone and now the entire estate went to his ex-wife and their kids." She took a deep breath. "Because his ex-wife died fifteen years ago, the money went straight to the kids. They've both got kids of their own," she started to sniffle, "and although I could fight the estate settlement, they'd lose everything and probably have to repay what they spent and it just would end up a huge mess." The deep sobs started anew. "They're cute kids; they deserve it a lot more than I do."

"Have you talked to them?" he probed.

"They claim I was on the flight and that I'm dead," she said matter-of-factly.

"DNA would prove who you are." He now knew exactly why she wanted to be dead; everyone she knew and loved, despite mistreatment, was dead. Even strangers didn't believe who she was. He hadn't seen any sign of ID anywhere either, and knew she wasn't carrying any. He wondered if the college even realized she was currently in attendance. Remembering the state of the apartment, he thought probably not.

He could think of many things she could do with her life, wholesome things, things that didn't involve alcohol or drugs, and that she could rebuild her life, find love, get married, have –

An unbidden thought appeared before his eyes. She couldn't have kids – gonorrhea – she'd only be able to share her life with a husband, and she didn't think particularly highly of those either. She'd likely be alone much of the time, bouncing from one relationship to the next, never committing to one person. His resistance weakened for but a moment.

What if he changed her, healed her? Wouldn't she have to heal herself first?

He found her staring at him, at his eyes, at his lips. She moved forward and he resisted the reflex to dodge. Her lips found his, her hands rested on his shoulders. Her tongue sought entry into his mouth but he did not comply.

His heart remained cold.