Ch.12 The Kindness and Harshness of Strangers

I stood at my door, when I realized I couldn't get in. My keys were in my pocket of my jeans—which were somewhere in the hospital. I could hear Suzy whining—she never barks—and I tried to reassure her. But I couldn't. I was too scared and too exhausted and my feet hurt too much—I'm pretty sure they're bleeding. I was so confused and this day was so long, and I couldn't get into my own damn apartment. And my sister was dead. And my parents were dead. And the only people that know who I am were my landlord, and my editor, and maybe a few fans who don't buy enough of my books to keep me in my own damn country. I'm lost and I'm cold and I'm hungry and I'm so alone. My head is fuzzy and I can't see right. The sky is black and stormy—the heavens are about open up and unleash their wrath on me. Suzy's crying again. She always does that when I'm sad about something. I think she learned it from me.

I laid down on my front porch, in nothing but a hospital gown. The skies drenched me. I cried. I think I screamed a few times too. I couldn't hear anything over the lightening. The trees in the garden were shaking. I was shaking too. I wondered why I wasn't drowning. Maybe I died. Maybe hell is a place where the sky cries with you and your only friend is crying and you're screaming. Maybe hell is my broken heart shattering all over again. Maybe hell is the frostbite you get when you lie on your porch for hours in the pouring rain wearing nothing but a plastic gown. The horrid pain on your hands and feet and nose and ears. Your eyes burning and your hair slowly drying along with the dirt and leaves it picked up. The humiliation you get when your elderly neighbor finds you the next morning shriveled up on the concrete bawling your eyes out.

Her name is Amelia Scarlet she says as she lets me in her own apartment, smelling of tea and soap and home. She leads me to the kitchen where she sets me in a very comfortable chair and sets about making tea, calling her grandson to help pick my lock and then she tells me of her late husband. She tells me the adventures she had with him. She tells me her parents died in a car accident when she was little and she went to live with an old foster family who only accepted a few people. I stay silent but I think she can read the understanding and pain on my face. She tells me how she fell in love. She tells me how they traveled the world. She tells me how he became an art museum curator in the smallest museum in the world, a little shop in the middle of a busy nowhere somewhere in Asia. I smile at her stories. I tell her about how I'm a science fiction writer. How I write about little girls meeting aliens or dying and becoming the first guardian angel or how they meet a man who traveled the stars. I tell her I come from a small town in a big state in America, how I grew up in a Christian community even though almost everyone I met did drugs or got pregnant way too soon. How I wasn't really a people person and sometimes I had to just lock myself away. I tell her about my Mom, and my Dad, and my sister. I tell her I'd known I would be a writer since I was eleven. I tell her I'd never had a boyfriend or even kissed a soul in my life. I tell her about a strange man in a strange Bar and a strange Sidewalk. And I tell her about the city at night and a hunger that comes from inside me but isn't really me.

After two cups of tea and a lot of talking, Amelia Scarlet shows me her bathroom and tells me to take a long, hot shower and not to worry about the water bill or any nonsense of that sort. She puts out some of her granddaughters' clothes (as her grandchildren are very fond of her stories and come to stay quite often,) on the toilet seat and a towel as well.

I turn the faucet and shed myself of the ragged cloth that had dried but still yet clung to my tired and worn form. I place it in the trash bin beside the door. I wish I could sew my memories to it and throw away those as well. The water is hot. I push aside the lavender curtains and bury myself under the steamy air. The liquid engulfs me and I sigh, rubbing my tense muscles. I turn my head down and watch the dirt disappear into the strange darkness of the water drain. I think I see the crimson of my blood fall into that abyss as well; of that I cannot be sure. Halfway through the shower Amelia pokes her head in to say her grandson has picked my lock, and had heard my dog so he fed her and watered her and let her outside, and that he will be staying for tea. I thank her and take the soap from the window ledge beside me, the smells calming me and releasing my tension. I finish my shower regrettably, but I look forward to more of Amelia Scarlet's stories. I smile numbly and climb out of the shower, drying my sore body and putting on barrowed clothes. The clothing is modest—I silently thank Amelia for her insight to my taste.

I look in the mirror. The last time I'd seen my reflection was before I collapsed in the clubhouse's bathroom. I had been pale and pasty with bags under my bloodshot eyes, my hair sticking out in all directions and loosing its color to a dull shade. My eyes, usually sparkling, had been dull grey storming clouds, unfocused and tired. Now I look hesitantly in the ageing mirror of Amelia Scarlets'. My skin is glowing its usual olive tone and my silver eyes are shining even though they are exhausted and have cried many tears. My hair is wet (of course,) and lying against my skull in an untamed mess. The clothes of a stranger sit on my shoulders and my breath is a little bad. I barrow Amelia's toothpaste and rub it against my teeth with my finger. Not really something to make a habit of, but it gets the job done. At last I'm ready to face home. I'm ready to face my blue-eyed warlord.

I exit the steamy room and enter the kitchen from which I hear chatter. Amelia is sitting framed in the sunlight streaming from the window and looking beautiful. I never understood why people always said 'she must have looked so beautiful when she was young,' for beauty isn't measured by time. It's ageless. Amelia is the perfect proof of that. Across from her sits an equally handsome teenage boy. He must be her grandson. He smiles at me and silences when I enter the room, reaching out a hand in a friendly gesture, telling me his name is Ronald Scarlet when we exchange hands.

"Thank you for picking my lock and taking care of my dog, I was feeling under whether and had… forgotten my key." The last part I said mostly to Amelia, who nodded with a knowing look. She knew I didn't exactly want everyone knowing I'd come from the hospital. I smiled thankfully at her in return, vaguely hearing Ronald talking to me about how beautiful Suzy is and how she was such a good dog.

"Well, I better be off. Thank you, once again, and thank you, Amelia for helping me out and providing me with such comfort. I hope we can be great friends." She smiles warmly at me and replies with an 'I'm sure we will be,' and she led me to the door, embracing me slightly and watching me retreat into my apartment with a worried look, as if she genuinely cared for me and my safety, as if I was one of her own children or grandchildren, staring after me as I slipped into my doorway and only smiling and waving slightly when I look back for a millisecond, before the door in front of me closes on the scene and the kind elderly woman disappears from my sight.

I sigh as I walk into my empty apartment. There are still boxes everywhere. The couch is still wrapped up in plastic. It's as if I don't live here, as if I'm just a phantom. I hadn't even set up the bed, just laid the pieces in the bedroom floor and slept on the mattress. I sighed again. I pulled out a kitchen knife from the box labeled 'Kitchen—silverware' and slit the plastic on the sofa, then set the cushions in their place. I pack away the books and things on the bookshelves next, and hook up my TV, though I don't really use it much. I rearranged and shifted and pulled until it looked at least like it had potential to be half as homely as Amelia's apartment. I stopped and looked at the place. It didn't have many memories yet. But I knew it would. The last things I put away were the pictures on the mantel. One of my sister and I when we were on top of Guadalupe Peak. My graduation photo. One of my Mom and Dad, their prom picture.

And one of us all the day we got back from canoeing on the Trinity River, we were all on the back porch of the cabin we were staying in, all smiling and laughing. Mom and Dad were staring into each others eyes, my Mom captured in mid-laugh, my Dad leaning in to kiss her nose. Their arms were wrapped around each other, so loving. My sister was staring at the camera, with her arm slung around my shoulders and her left leg draped over my own. I was exhausted looking with a dopey smile on my face, chocolate smores caking my lips and my arms wrapped around her waist, my head resting on her shoulder. My mom always said that this was her favorite picture of all time. I think I'm crying. I'm not sure until Suzy spots me and walks over, laying by my feet and whining. I choke out a laugh and lay beside her. I lay there until she was quiet and I was quiet. The world was quiet, and I think the wind held its breath. All too soon she wanted lunch. I laughed and the wind started to blow again.

I finished unpacking the kitchen and my bedroom too soon, and it was noon now, the sky clearing up and the sun poking out of its hiding place. I smile, and grab my coat—altogether forgetting that I was wearing Amelia's granddaughter's clothes—and made for the door. I pet Suzy one more time and promise my safe return.

I'm going to meet the man of my dreams today.

Literally.

Gwen knew what she had to do.

She's sitting on the baby blue sheets of the hospital bed. She's being discharged. She looks at this room, which should bring her happiness because she gave birth to my first child here, but all she sees is the pain and confusion and fear that Tegan Erin Farrow has caused.

She knows what she has to do. She knows that Tegan goes to that Bar. Gwen knows that she remembers a few things. She knows that Tegan's going to find out about them soon, if she keeps up this path. She knows that she's scared. She is too. She knows that Jack wants to see her, for what reason she does not know. She doesn't want to do this. But if Torchwood were to stay a secret, she has to do this. If Jack were to stay a normal, healthy human being, she has to do this. If Gwen's family is to stay undisturbed, she knows she has to do this.

She checks her pocket.

It's still there.

Gwen smiles. She stands. She sighs. She grabs her purse. She walks out of the hospital into the city. Rhys is home with her mother and little Lisa Toshiko Williams and little Ianto Owen Williams. Twins. She should be happy. She doesn't know why She's not. Maybe she's not a good mother. She stops thinking. Gwen's in the street now. She takes the bus to the string of pubs by the pier.

She sees the black double doors.

She walks in.

She smiles.

Sitting directly across the room from her is a silver-eyed girl with a cup of tea in her hands, looking around the room and trying to meet people's eyes. Once she does her own just slips to the next person. She met Gwen's eyes. She looked to the man beside her. She looked and looked until the whole room was scanned. She looked back down, frowning. Gwen smirked. She stood and walked, very quickly, to the ladies. Gwen rushes over to her seat.

Gwen smiles.

She's done it.

She's sitting patiently and then she arrives, looking at Gwen, then her tea, then back at Gwen. She pulls a smile across her face. It's friendly and apologetic.

'I'm sorry; I thought this was my husband's booth! I'm such a ditz. I'll be off then.' Gwen stands and makes her way across the room. She looks back. The girl drinks the tea. Gwen grins devilishly. Goodbye, Tegan Erin Farrow. For good.

The retcon is working her system now, Gwen thinks as she makes her way back to the flat. She'll be out when she gets home. And then she'll be gone forever. And Jack will be all right. And Rhys and I and the twins will be all right. And there will be no more

Sidewalks being stepped on, no more confusion and no more anger. It was for the best.

Little did she know, a tall man in a navy war coat was sitting in that very restaurant, a perception filter draped around the nape of his neck. He watched his coworker exit the restaurant. He watched the silver-eyed woman called Tegan sip her tea. He watched as she slowly stopped looking around the restaurant at people's eyes, and he watched as she eventually crinkled her nose in disgust at the smell of alcohol and rush off. He fallowed her to her apartment; at least he knew where she lived that way.

He watched through her window as she slipped under her forest green sheets, as she slowly drifted to medicated sleep, and he watched the single tear slip from her eye before she was lost, forever.

And he went home. He went to his bed. And he smoldered in his burning anger at the coworker who took yet another person from him. Not that he'd ever had her.

And in that woman's final thoughts before she drifted into sleep, the blue-eyed man stood. I'm so sorry, I couldn't save you.