Author's Notes:: Sorry I was supposed to update yesterday but I sort of got
lazy so here's another chapter. This takes place in Sierra Leone, which is
in Africa.
~*~
Every muscle in his body ached. It was a combination of the humidity and the hostile work environment. The people seemed to need him and resent him at the same time. She had said it would take time, but he would not be productive. He wanted to help, but sometimes help took sacrifices as well. They had seen over 100 patients today alone. She was a natural, accustomed to the complaints and the people. He was a complete outsider, lost in a world of primitive diseases and worthless antibiotics. All advanced medicine needed to escape from his thoughts. He had to go down to the basics, the simplest killers. He closed the door behind him as he left the clinic and the patients. The rainstorm in the middle of the day had only added to the heat. The ground was muddy and damp, yet the air was heavy. His shoes got caught in patches of dirt on the way to the shelter. He was sharing a two bedroom wooden lodge with her. It was apparently the second most stable structure in the whole area. He walked through the village, avoiding any eye contact. He hadn't been greeted with such hostility before.
He finally saw the house the man had described to him earlier. It was built on a foundation of rock, the structure made out of wood. It was off to the side, yet close enough for emergencies. He paused for a minute, it hit him at that second that he was in a completely different nation, in a completely different world. He looked off toward the setting sun in the west. It was a completely different sunset, more vibrant. There was nothing to pull away from mother nature's glory. He headed toward the house, unsure of what the night may bring. The trail he was on was a worn one, probably by her and her aides. He could hear children laughing in the background. They still managed to laugh, the simple joy of life. He was growing weary and exhausted. He hadn't eaten anything all day, and he had lost his appetite knowing that people went on for weeks without food.
He got to the front of the house, a set of stairs blocked his path. He could barely lift his legs to walk to the house, let alone handle a set of stairs. They looked like they had been through hell, and were unsettling and unstable. He tried the first one with his weight, and when that one held, he went up the second. After twelve stairs without collapsing through the rotting board, he stepped up onto a veranda that seemed in particularly good condition. His bags were left standing by the door, he hadn't brought a lot. A few changes of clothes and nothing more. He started to pick up the bags, but instead decided against it, and followed around the veranda to the back of the house.
He looked out at the barren land, trees had been cut down to be used as fuel. There was no vegetation, a few streaks of green here and there. It looked like the world was slowly in decline, the people were trying to save what little hopes they had. He pushed forward, wanting to do so much for these people, yet he was worthless. One person could not change the world. He got to the back, and the squeak of a swing attracted his attention. He followed the sound. The world had turned dark and eerie with only the stars as light. He saw a wooden swing, probably ages old, yet still in use. He saw her sitting comfortably in it, one leg along the length of the swing, her other bare foot pushing lazily against the deck. She was wearing a sleeveless dress, made out of some light material. Next to her laid another breathing form, a little girl. She had the girl resting against her chest, her arm protectively around her. Both of their eyes were closed, the girl was asleep, the woman was not. She was wide awake, resting and recuperating for the next day. She could feel his presence a few feet away; she looked up. She instantly tensed up, avoiding his gaze once again. He had spent the entire day working by her side, yet they had not exchanged any words beyond formalities. He walked closer, and she gently began to sit up, trying not to wake the sleeping child.
He looked closer at the girl, she was African, of that he was sure. She had dark skin and hair, but she did not look as impoverished as the rest. Even as she was sleeping, she held an aura of joy and comfort. He watched her lean down and pick the dark figure from the swing. She delicately placed the girl's head onto her shoulder; the motherly instinct that he had sensed about her was in full play. One of her arms held the girl up and the other swung around her back to keep her steady. She walked past him, trying not to acknowledge his presence. She got to the screen door, and expertly opened it. The girl would not stir. She walked into the house, leaving him alone.
He sat down on the set of stairs in the back. These seemed newer and more stable than the ones in front. It may have purposely been done to discourage people from coming up them. He rolled his head from side to side, stretching the muscles in his neck. He had never experienced such silence. The only thing he could hear is the chirping of crickets and the beating of his heart. The stars shimmer vibrantly against a black sky. There were no lights to take away from the grandeur of the show. He could hear the slap of bare feet against wood inside the house, the clank of glasses. He didn't want to move. He didn't know what to expect. The door swung open and shut, with a little less delicacy. She sat down on the top step, careful to keep her distance. She handed him a glass, filled with what he presumed to be water. He took it and sipped it slowly, letting the cool liquid ease his throat. He looked back up at her. She was starring out at the barren fields. Her hair was down, and the light breeze that happened to come through shifted strands around her face. The material of her dress also flew with the wind, yet she took no notice. She either was trying to ignore it or she was accustomed to it. She pushed the hair behind her ears and looked down at the wooden steps. He knew she was trying to avoid the inevitable questions he would ask. She was trying to mentally distance herself so she had no recollection of this conversation in the morning.
She crossed her arms in front of her lap, putting her head down into the basket she formed. She looked exhausted; taking care of herself was obviously not one of her main concerns. She would slowly wither away in this foreign land. His eyes rested on her, not being able to pull away. He had dreamed of her during his darkest hours, the time he felt like he couldn't go on. She was an angel etched in white. He still had hate for her; he still resented her for what she had done. Yet he wished she had stayed. It would have taken time, but she would always be let back into his heart. He maneuvered his body up slowly, step by step until he was on the same platform as she was. He moved closed to her, his hand reaching out to touch her. She was real; this wasn't a dream. She jumped at his touch; he was a disease. His hand stayed stable, a different shade completely from her skin. He started to pick her head up to face his, yet she retaliated, pushing his hand off. She looked up at him for a second; her expression showed uncertainty and fear. She eased herself up; his hand ran the length of her body. She was so delicate and fragile: a completely different woman. He watched her walk back inside the house. She glanced back for a second. He wanted to follow her, but it would be no use. She had locked herself up a long time ago and thrown the key away in the deepest, darkest ocean.
~*~
Every muscle in his body ached. It was a combination of the humidity and the hostile work environment. The people seemed to need him and resent him at the same time. She had said it would take time, but he would not be productive. He wanted to help, but sometimes help took sacrifices as well. They had seen over 100 patients today alone. She was a natural, accustomed to the complaints and the people. He was a complete outsider, lost in a world of primitive diseases and worthless antibiotics. All advanced medicine needed to escape from his thoughts. He had to go down to the basics, the simplest killers. He closed the door behind him as he left the clinic and the patients. The rainstorm in the middle of the day had only added to the heat. The ground was muddy and damp, yet the air was heavy. His shoes got caught in patches of dirt on the way to the shelter. He was sharing a two bedroom wooden lodge with her. It was apparently the second most stable structure in the whole area. He walked through the village, avoiding any eye contact. He hadn't been greeted with such hostility before.
He finally saw the house the man had described to him earlier. It was built on a foundation of rock, the structure made out of wood. It was off to the side, yet close enough for emergencies. He paused for a minute, it hit him at that second that he was in a completely different nation, in a completely different world. He looked off toward the setting sun in the west. It was a completely different sunset, more vibrant. There was nothing to pull away from mother nature's glory. He headed toward the house, unsure of what the night may bring. The trail he was on was a worn one, probably by her and her aides. He could hear children laughing in the background. They still managed to laugh, the simple joy of life. He was growing weary and exhausted. He hadn't eaten anything all day, and he had lost his appetite knowing that people went on for weeks without food.
He got to the front of the house, a set of stairs blocked his path. He could barely lift his legs to walk to the house, let alone handle a set of stairs. They looked like they had been through hell, and were unsettling and unstable. He tried the first one with his weight, and when that one held, he went up the second. After twelve stairs without collapsing through the rotting board, he stepped up onto a veranda that seemed in particularly good condition. His bags were left standing by the door, he hadn't brought a lot. A few changes of clothes and nothing more. He started to pick up the bags, but instead decided against it, and followed around the veranda to the back of the house.
He looked out at the barren land, trees had been cut down to be used as fuel. There was no vegetation, a few streaks of green here and there. It looked like the world was slowly in decline, the people were trying to save what little hopes they had. He pushed forward, wanting to do so much for these people, yet he was worthless. One person could not change the world. He got to the back, and the squeak of a swing attracted his attention. He followed the sound. The world had turned dark and eerie with only the stars as light. He saw a wooden swing, probably ages old, yet still in use. He saw her sitting comfortably in it, one leg along the length of the swing, her other bare foot pushing lazily against the deck. She was wearing a sleeveless dress, made out of some light material. Next to her laid another breathing form, a little girl. She had the girl resting against her chest, her arm protectively around her. Both of their eyes were closed, the girl was asleep, the woman was not. She was wide awake, resting and recuperating for the next day. She could feel his presence a few feet away; she looked up. She instantly tensed up, avoiding his gaze once again. He had spent the entire day working by her side, yet they had not exchanged any words beyond formalities. He walked closer, and she gently began to sit up, trying not to wake the sleeping child.
He looked closer at the girl, she was African, of that he was sure. She had dark skin and hair, but she did not look as impoverished as the rest. Even as she was sleeping, she held an aura of joy and comfort. He watched her lean down and pick the dark figure from the swing. She delicately placed the girl's head onto her shoulder; the motherly instinct that he had sensed about her was in full play. One of her arms held the girl up and the other swung around her back to keep her steady. She walked past him, trying not to acknowledge his presence. She got to the screen door, and expertly opened it. The girl would not stir. She walked into the house, leaving him alone.
He sat down on the set of stairs in the back. These seemed newer and more stable than the ones in front. It may have purposely been done to discourage people from coming up them. He rolled his head from side to side, stretching the muscles in his neck. He had never experienced such silence. The only thing he could hear is the chirping of crickets and the beating of his heart. The stars shimmer vibrantly against a black sky. There were no lights to take away from the grandeur of the show. He could hear the slap of bare feet against wood inside the house, the clank of glasses. He didn't want to move. He didn't know what to expect. The door swung open and shut, with a little less delicacy. She sat down on the top step, careful to keep her distance. She handed him a glass, filled with what he presumed to be water. He took it and sipped it slowly, letting the cool liquid ease his throat. He looked back up at her. She was starring out at the barren fields. Her hair was down, and the light breeze that happened to come through shifted strands around her face. The material of her dress also flew with the wind, yet she took no notice. She either was trying to ignore it or she was accustomed to it. She pushed the hair behind her ears and looked down at the wooden steps. He knew she was trying to avoid the inevitable questions he would ask. She was trying to mentally distance herself so she had no recollection of this conversation in the morning.
She crossed her arms in front of her lap, putting her head down into the basket she formed. She looked exhausted; taking care of herself was obviously not one of her main concerns. She would slowly wither away in this foreign land. His eyes rested on her, not being able to pull away. He had dreamed of her during his darkest hours, the time he felt like he couldn't go on. She was an angel etched in white. He still had hate for her; he still resented her for what she had done. Yet he wished she had stayed. It would have taken time, but she would always be let back into his heart. He maneuvered his body up slowly, step by step until he was on the same platform as she was. He moved closed to her, his hand reaching out to touch her. She was real; this wasn't a dream. She jumped at his touch; he was a disease. His hand stayed stable, a different shade completely from her skin. He started to pick her head up to face his, yet she retaliated, pushing his hand off. She looked up at him for a second; her expression showed uncertainty and fear. She eased herself up; his hand ran the length of her body. She was so delicate and fragile: a completely different woman. He watched her walk back inside the house. She glanced back for a second. He wanted to follow her, but it would be no use. She had locked herself up a long time ago and thrown the key away in the deepest, darkest ocean.