And just like that, Moira gave up.
She was never going to see Barry or her family again anyway, nor would she see Claire. What did it matter what she did now? She'd just try to forget everything and assume her new life as some four legged hunting partner. It wasn't how she wanted to give up, but she had to survive. She'd let herself go crazy when the old bastard died, but not before.
Surviving for herself was a foreign concept to her. Since she'd turned fifteen, she'd been surviving exclusively for other people. She wanted to blame Barry for that too, but deep down she knew it wasn't his fault. Maybe it wasn't anyone's fault, but it was everyone's fault she was still alive. Wanting to die was easy, but the fear of actually dying was something else entirely. To embrace death, to cease to exist, to fade from the memories of everyone who loved her as few as they were, that was too much.
Claire had made it harder to want to die. She felt like a reason to stay alive. Moira never spoke it, she feared sounding like a freak and maybe she never actually got better at all. Maybe she only got better at hiding things. Maybe it was just easier to repress the bad feelings around her because the other woman was hardly any better off. Claire hid her bad feelings well too. Too well actually. So well in fact Moira didn't even know they existed until they'd known each other for over a year.
She would survive until the old man died, after that she didn't know what would happen, but doubtfully anything good. Maybe in that time she could learn to accept herself and figure out some kind of plan but the truth was, even if she didn't succumb to the creature lurking in her mind, she'd succumb to loneliness. The dark nights she spent alone in her room were always the hardest. Sometimes she'd forget she was supposed to be an adult and sleep on her sister's floor. Polly was usually good to her on her bad days, and as she got older they grew more and more infrequent. Still, she never figured it was serious enough to talk about, so her parents never knew.
In hindsight, maybe she was wrong. Maybe they should have known, but it didn't matter now.
The old man and Moira never talked about who they were before all this happened. He never asked her name, so she never asked his. He never asked about her family, so she never asked about his. They didn't talk a lot, but on calmer days he'd venture up to her cabin to spend the day working on something small when they weren't hunting. Turning had given her a stronger stomach it seemed, so eating the putrid flesh of those other monsters never seemed to upset her stomach. She wasn't proud of it, but it kept her form killing animals, and it helped keep the both of them safe.
Moira was amazed at how quickly she lost track of days. Night, day, hours, weeks, they all began to blend into each other. The only reminder that her life was progressing was the approaching chill in the night air which bled into daylight over time. She'd long since been running around essentially naked, but the shame of nudity was far over shadowed by the shame of the twisted body she now inhabited. Her shreds of clothes were long discarded, and sometimes she wondered if being no longer human meant she couldn't be "naked". Dogs weren't naked, so could she live that way too? Just as well, the old man never seemed to pay it any mind so long as she was useful. Working hard usually gave her the leisure to pass out before she thought too much.
One early afternoon, the old man ventured up to meet with her. It was already too cold for her to care much about anything, so she'd opted to spend the day curled up under a blanket she'd found while rummaging through the abandoned fishing town not far off. This cabin became her little project, but sometimes it was hard to justify fixing it up at all. It wasn't really for anyone, just herself.
"Volchok!" He called out as he stepped inside, kicking his boots clean at the door. He'd taken to calling her that, and like with everything else, Moira never asked any questions about it. She just figured it was some insult, but she didn't know what it meant so she didn't care. Sometimes, she swore he smiled when he said it, but it wasn't exactly that kind of smug smile she remembered seeing in her old life.
"I'm taking the day off!" She called back, figuring he wanted her to go out and hunt. Not today. She wasn't even hungry.
"I not here about hunting!" He said, walking into her "room" with a brown bundle in his hand. "Something for good little Volchok. Killed maaaany monsters. Save bullets."
Moira swore, briefly, he almost sounded proud of her. Brushing it off, she sat up, pulling the blanket around her to keep warmer. "What is it?" She held out her hand, taking the bundle from him. When he didn't answer, she unwrapped it, soon discovering it was a long, patchwork bit of cloth. She turned it over for a while before looking up, confused.
"Scarf." He said simply. "Keep you warm outside."
She opened her mouth to comment, to say thank you, something, but he was already on his way out. He'd done what he needed to do, and needed no sappy thank you or questioning as to why he was doing this. His goal had been to give her the scarf, and that was it.
Moira began to look it over more closely now, realizing it wasn't just something he'd dug up. It was too damn long to be a scarf for a normal person, and it was made entirely of random bits of fabric in no logical order. If he knew how to sew, it was only to repair clothes, because the thing had the appearance of being repaired and over repaired with ten dozen patches…
It didn't feel right that he'd be giving her a gift like this. That he'd care enough to be this nice to her. Without a doubt it was the nicest thing she'd ever gotten but it somehow made no sense. Had he been sewing this for himself? Did he decide he just didn't need a scarf or… was it made especially for her? The size seemed to imply that but… No. It made no sense. The old bastard probably hated to sew anyway. Probably thought it was "woman's work" or something ridiculous but then why had he done this? A scarf wasn't her idea of a "great job at killing freaks" present, but what did she know?
Was there more to it then? She lay back down under her blanket, scarf now wrapped loosely around her neck. At some point she'd started crying without realizing it and it showed no signs of stopping. Had Barry ever been this nice to her? She couldn't remember, but she was fairly sure he'd never done something this comparatively selfless. Still, she was really just making up stories in her head to entertain herself. The old man was, at times, a better father than Barry, so maybe he was making up for some kid he'd lost too. It probably wasn't true, but it helped to ease Moira's mind if she imagined him as a father once. Maybe the island took more away from him than just his home. That's why they never spoke about it. They just filled in a gap of what the other lost, albeit loosely.
It was just a fantasy. She was still a giant monster and there was no way a man like that had the imagination to pretend she was someone he knew once. Hell, she was an American monster at that, which probably somehow made it even worse.
Still… he respected her. In some weird way and that was nice. She had a place. Some kind of a place. But a place.
