When the old man died, it didn't come as a surprise to her, but that didn't make it hurt any less. She didn't want to grow attached to an old bastard like him, but… it hadn't stopped her. She wished it had. Their parting came quietly one night. She'd watched him deteriorate as the days went on, but they both tried to ignore it. They couldn't forever. They didn't have forever. Moira didn't know if the old man planned to shoot himself or not. Maybe he just knew his time had come, but it was too hard to ask questions.
They were walking home together, in their usual silence. The old man lagging behind more so than normal. Moira stopped every so often to let him catch up, and, when they reached her home, he hesitated, staring forward.
"I have gift for you." He said, breath more ragged than normal. Moira swallowed, but said nothing. She watched him fumble in his coat for a moment before handing her a book. She took it gently and waited for him to speak.
"I do not think…" He paused. "I do not think I should be forgotten." Moira felt herself grow cold, the back of her throat tightening. "You are all I have left my little Volchok." A few harsh coughs followed as he rested his weight on his rifle. "I think you should have that."
Moira could only nod, body numb at the realization she was going to be alone now. Truly, truly alone. "I understand…" She said softly, voice barely above a whisper. She couldn't bring herself to be angry with him. She wanted to blame him for giving up so easily, to shout at him for daring to leave her alone this way like everyone else but it just wasn't his fault. She couldn't even bring herself to ask him his name. She was a monster. She had no business knowing a man's name, and she had no right to her own name. They met as strangers, and they'd part as strangers. If things were different, if she wasn't this twisted thing then maybe she would demand some kind of closure from him but her heart wasn't in it.
The old man nodded in response, patting her on the head with a shaky hand. She couldn't help but realize how frail he was now. A broken, tired old bastard who needed to rest. He earned it. The family and friends he lost to this hellhole were waiting for him and Moira knew that.
"Do not cry little Volchok. You do fine on your own." He said, letting his hand slip free. The moment of vulnerability made her feel sick. This wasn't a man to break down this way. Men like this didn't have this kind of weakness. She looked up at him again, and briefly she swore she saw someone else. The moment didn't last long enough to process though. By now, he was slowly hobbling away. Off to find his peace alone.
Awkwardly, she called off after him, voice weak, ready to break at any moment. "Thank you—"
The reply was little more than a grunt, and in a way, she swore it was a laugh. A fragment of a laugh. A relic of the person who once inhabited that body, so confident and sure of himself. Moira could only sit and watch him go, fading into darkness never to return. Their last moments together had only been mere seconds. That wasn't enough. That wasn't what she wanted. They spent so much time in silence she knew nothing about him. It was over as soon as it began and it just wasn't fair. Nothing about this island was fair. First it took Claire, then it took her, and now it took the old man too. Everything gone. Just like that.
Why couldn't there be more? More of something. Something she couldn't reach no matter how hard she tried, or how long she stared into the empty blackness the old man vanished into. She could stare at herself all day and she would never change back. Nothing could ever change. She would never be normal, he would never be back, and Claire would never see her again. Gone.
Deep down she knew things could change for the worst. She could let go. It wouldn't even matter if she let go. There was no one to find her, no one was ever going to come. Even if they did, what? She couldn't go back home. She was a monster. A giant fucking monster! There was no home for her, this was it. This vast, empty fucking island was all she had left and she was going to rot on it like everything else. Every goddamn thing came here to die and that was it. Misery and decay like that crazy old bitch wanted. Even if she did fight it out of spite, who would she be fighting for? At home she could fight Barry, she could fight "society" whatever that was, but here? She was all that was here, and she wasn't about to fight herself anymore.
Empty and numb, Moira gazed into the blackened forest until it turned light grey, then gold. Her body became stiff and sore, too stubborn to move. When she found the strength to turn her head, she saw insects attempting to burrow into the red boils on her flesh. A few were already leaking. Forcing her body to cooperate, she began to scrape them away until the itching stopped. Maybe she already was rotting and she just hadn't realized it yet.
The book the old man gave her was still clutched in her fingers but with a bit of effort she pried them apart. She looked it over for a moment, deciding it was best to allow herself back inside before she was eaten alive. Heading into her house, she pushed the door closed and collapsed on the floor. She could see well enough, and with a bit of effort, she began to paw through the pages of the old man's book.
It couldn't just be a regular book. The thought was bitter, but it was enough to force her to turn away from it. If she was going to allow herself to lose her mind, she couldn't allow herself to read that. A personal journal might just be enough to keep her suffering in sanity for far too long. He wanted to be remembered. This is how he planned to do it. It was too small for her hands anyway, there'd be no point in trying. She'd just ruin the pages anyway. Tear them out by mistake then hate herself for it.
It was too soon to touch something like that. It might always be too soon. Moira couldn't even bring herself to look at it any longer, and drug it off to her bed to hide. With a few quick and awkward gestures, she wrapped the book in her scarf and shoved it under her makeshift bed. Later. She'd try later. Maybe. Maybe she'd try. If she needed to know whether or not to let go, a real, definitive answer, she'd look to it. Not before. Before was too hard.
Whimpering an apology to no one, she curled up onto her bed, feeling the lump of the book pressing into her side. Finally, she'd started to cry. Crying over a man who told her not to. A man who was probably long dead anyway. He had control over his life, his death, enough to make Moira jealous. Their time together had been so short, and she already had things she regretted doing or not doing. She regretted not reading the journal and she'd only just hidden it. She regretted not following after him, asking his name, sharing anything about herself.
Yet part of her lingered on the idea that it might be better that way. They weren't the people they were before they met. Their time together was their own. He took care of her when he didn't need to, and she was compliant when she didn't need to be. At any moment, they could have killed each other but they never did. They were just two people suffering through a short passage of time alone together. It wasn't enough to stop her from crying, but it was enough to calm her nerves enough to finally sleep.
