Object of Affection
Within the dilapidated structure, the only sound comes from rainwater leaking through the element ravaged roof. The windows have all been broken and boarded up. It's like being in a wooden crate with no lid, but it is quiet and peaceful.
The silence is broken by the screech of nails being torn from humidity swollen wood as the door is pushed in. A young girl supports the weight of a young man, while his head hangs limp, and his feet drag uselessly. Though he looks to be nearly half again her weight, she does not strain in the least.
She carefully lowers him onto a filthy, mildew ridden seat, torn from some long forgotten vehicle.
"John, your injuries are minor." His only response is a quiet groan. "This is going to hurt." Again, he just groans.
When the girl gives his left hand a gentle squeeze, he comes back to reality, and looks into her eyes with surprise, then misty eyed relief. "Cameron?" The girl places her other hand on his chest, over his heart, and he smiles at her with unfettered love. "Cam, I've waited for-" He screams when she pulls hard, reducing his dislocated shoulder. She takes her hands from him, and he looks down at where they had been. "I didn't realize my should-"
"Many people don't," she states emotionlessly. Her delicate hand comes to rest on his thigh, and he shakes his head emphatically. "It has to be done."
"No, you need tools! No! Don't! NO!" He grips her wrist with both hands, and she responds by gripping both of his wrists with one hand, pushing his hands against his stomach, and leaving him unable to protect himself. "NO! PLEASE!"
The bullet wound is tiny- too small even to accomidate a straw or a pencil -but the girl forces her thumb and forefinger into the channel. He should pass out- it would be for the best -but he doesn't. His screams are ear splitting as his flesh tears around her fingers. The sharp edges of the bullet's copper jacket snags, cuts, and scrapes as she pulls it back out the way it came.
He screams long after it is over, long after she has bandaged his leg with a piece of her shirt. "I'm sorry."
What ever sounds this agonized young man wishes to make, he instead forces out, "It's... okay... I... unders...tand."
She moves to sit beside him, and puts her arm around his shoulders. This time his surprise is greater than before, and she is aware of the questioning look she is being given, but not the barely restrained hopefulness. "You've lost a lot of blood. It's cold out."
He laughs quietly, then his laughter becomes louder until he is unable to breathe. She joins him, but it's meaningless to her. When he hears her laughter, his own slowly changes pitch until it is replaced with wails.
He buries his face in the crook of her neck, sobbing because every hint has been a lie. He squeezes her tightly, seeking comfort from the 'person' he knows will never care for him as he does for her.
He cries harder when she starts to 'soothingly' rub his arm and 'lovingly' stroke his hair. It means nothing to her, and he knows it. She's trying to keep him warm and quiet. Nothing more.
She acts and looks real. She sounds and feels real. She even smells and tastes real... but she's not. She's not, and he'd give anything to make her real. Even if it were only for a day, he'd trade everything for it. For her. He'd throw everything away to have her return his affection just once.
He has spent one quarter of his life jealously hoarding each tender moment, hanging on her every word, and making room for every show of affection by pushing aside thoughts and memories of his lost loved ones- his mother, father, would-be father, his uncle, and the only two girls who have ever loved him. After filling his heart with her until there was room for nothing else, he learned that none of it had been real.
He's just an objective, and she feels nothing for him.
She's just an object, and he feels everything for her.