Chapter II: You Know It's Hard To Believe
Milo stood with two hands braced on the doorframe for support. Now way could this be happening, he had seen her thrown…he had seen her die...There was no way she could be here; yet here she was. He blinked. She was dead. But - was that really a hindrance to her being here? He looked her over, even as cold rolled in his stomach. At least she looked…fresh.
She looked dead, even though she was up and moving. Mercifully, for him, or for her, none of the vermin known to accompany the dead attended her. For a moment Milo had been so certain he would see maggots crawling twisted in her hair that he did see them until his vision cleared and there she stood clean. Her hair hung straight in fine curtains over her face, shoulders and back, giving her a shaded, patchy look. Its ends were singed an unfortunately pretty brown on up, but at their tips were blackened and dry. It was the only part of her that had any color. The rest of her rich blond hair had turned an almost translucent gold, her skin was white. Any little bit of color she had ever seemed to have had drained, not as if it had faded, but as if it had seeped out completely, and not even should she be cut open would any show, but a spilling of cold grey organs, clammy and moist.
The tank top, with its forever loose straps come down now free of her shoulders, was ripped across the stomach and burned at the edge. He saw her left arm hung low and twisted at the shoulder, as if dislocated. The elbow bent backward, broken he supposed. Alabaster skin was so smooth in the night with only here and there blue broken places which Milo realized after staring at the shredded mouth of one for a long while were cuts. As a light breeze blew up, he saw the peels of flesh from the deep one on her stomach below the rip in her shirt. Her legs were defying every natural law he could bring to mind merly holding her up, much less having brought her all this way. Milo brought a hand to his mouth as he thought of those dead, twisted things carrying her over mounds of volcanic ash and rock, across the long bridge and all through the city. How had nobody seen her? The legs made him sick. Attached to a pelvis strangely bent and twisted to the right, so that the upper and lower body were off center of each other, the right hip was fused and unbending, this leg bore all the weight. The knee wrenched in opposite of the pelvis to rub against the inside of the other leg. Milo wondered for a moment and tried to remember if this perhaps had been the leg Rourke had so viciously twisted and held as he threw her. One look at the torn mess that attached below the ruined knee of the left leg told him it was not. He rubbed his eyes below his glasses, covering his mouth with his hand as he thought. He brought his eyes back up to hers.
"Hi." She gave no sign that she had heard him. Her dark green eyes which had been so sharp and rich in color were bloodless and clouded. As he watched she reached slowly around her front and wrapped her hand around her broken elbow. Her breast pushed up, and Milo thought a few weeks ago she would have been very provocative in this position. She did not move again. He passed a furtive hand in front of her face once, twice. Two inches from her nose he waved rapidly.
"Ack!" he mocked, throwing up both hands, "It's you!" He tried a smile. Nothing. She was not even seeing him. Milo frowned. All thoughts of the irregularity of the situation left him. He lifted up his hands, taking her face gently into them, moving closer. He could feel his own breath bounce back at him off her face. There was no trace of her breathing, her skin was very cold. Two inches from her face he held her up to himself and called to her. He snapped his fingers, spoke her name, even sung a few bars of a popular song. Nothing. The vague eyes could not focus. Milo dropped his hands and stepped back, suddenly very afraid for this poor wretch who stood holding her own shattered arm.
"C'mon, Helga. You can come inside."