I apologize for the exceptionally long wait, but I am now working on this story again, since the obstacle preventing my is out of the way. Anyways. I do not own the 28 days/weeks later series.
It still smells new. The room still smells new. They stuck things in my mouth, my ears and my veins, for this. They looked in my eyes, for this. They made me take off my clothes and put my legs up, for this. A room that still smells of paint and cut wood.
It's worth it.
There is a small round table in front of me, with two tan chairs padded by gray cushions. This is going to be where I eat my meals, like a normal human being. It's where I set the things they gave me for now instead.
A district one ID card. It has a small little symbol in red representing the area we are in. a signal stylized skyscraper in white, with the curve of the river also in that shade, set on a circle of red. I wonder if they choose that color deliberately, or if they really didn't consider that red might not be appropriate for city that bled to death.
I hate the ID card already, just because of that little symbol. I hate it because it lists my nationality as British. I never hated that before, but now it makes me feel as if I am some sort of separate species, like something that might become extinct. I hate the have my name printed on the back above an occupation.
I had to pick one. I choose to work in the laundry room. I chose it in the hopes it would limit how much I had to interact with these people. From how I understand it the laundry would be delivered in bags marked with the specific rooms number, and a tag to hang on the washer and dryer to keep track of it. When it would be finished it would be put back in the bag and returned not them, by people who were not me. That would be the job of the mail carriers.
The welcome packet they gave us as well joins that thing on the table. A 'welcome you home' pamphlet offering information and advice about settling into district one. A map of the district and a satellite photo with information about future repatriation districts as well as a copy of my repatriation case information.
I just don't care about any of that. I care about cupboards, and a stove, and sink. I care about a throw rug and the couch on it. I care about a desk with a lamp and a phone. I care about a bedroom I can't see yet, and a bathroom too. It's all so stupid, I shouldn't care about these things, but they are all so unnecessary, but I never thought I'd have this again. This is mine.
And now a door is opening. It's not the door behind me though, it's the door that must be to the bedroom. It's a detail I forgot for a second in my moment of appreciation. They said I would have a room mate. They said I would share a room with one H. Baker. They didn't mention it was going to be a man.
He is a Caucasian male, that just by guessing I would put in his forties. His height and his weight respectively seem to be at a glance around five foot eight and 140 lbs. Having an American born roommate in my old life is rubbing off in my estimations. He has a long rectangular sort of face with thick black brows over his brown eyes and a head of black curls. He also has a broad smile and a hand outstretched to me.
"My apologies, I didn't hear you come in. My name is Howard Baker." I hear those words and register them, but I don't respond. Instead, I am just looking at that hand, long enough that it makes the moment a bit uncomfortable as I continue not to take it. "I don't shake hands. Don't take it personally." That last part I add only because it seems I will be living in this apartment with him and I might as well make it not as uncomfortable as it looks like it will be.
When they said I would have a roommate I didn't give it much thought. It was just another piece of knowledge that got filtered through my ears, but didn't register as important at the time. If I had an opinion on who it would be I thought that 'H. Baker' was going to be a woman. It is not uncommon for women from the UK to have names that start with that letter after all.
His response to that is to let his outstretched hand droop visibly and a look of awkward confusion to overtake his expression. It's not very different from what I imagined his response would be.
People have come to generally see me as a rude and disrespectful individual, in a more polite way of speaking that is. Those I seem to offend enough beyond the use of polite words seem to all be in agreement that I am simply a bitch. That they choose to think this way of me matters very little.
"I? Uhm? Well okay then..." He seems to be trying to salvage this introduction in a sort of awkward manner, apparently feeling it is necessary despite the fact I obviously do not. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you. Cassandra... Bell was it?"
"Yes..." My response is a quick, but very neutral one as confirm for him what in fact my name is. While I am doing this though I am also waking towards him. But it's clear by his expression it will not be for what he wants. "...they said they would have clothes for me?"
While he seems to have thought words other than those were going to come out of my mouth he doesn't remain surprised by them long. "Oh yes!" Understanding what I want he moves out of the way even while he continues speaking as I move past him into the bedroom.
"The box is waiting for you on the bed..." I notice the fact that he said 'the bed' the same time my eyes take in the fact that there is only one bed in this room. A suspicious thought is now forming in my head, this little fact like the sprouting of a seed. I have a man for a room mate, there is only one bed.
I let it go for now. The very real prospect of clothes out weighs the only potential prospects of my suspicion.
Beyond my roommate and the doorway I find the bedroom to be nicely furnished even if it might be considered sparsely so. There is an entertainment center with a TV to my right and two tall closets flanking it on either side. The bed itself is set across from that with a night stand on either side as with as a small table lamp.
"If the sizes are wrong you can trade it in at the commerce center on the main floor, ..." I let my ears vaguely listen to him while I open the card board box and remove the thank you letter that is doubling as a list of the contents within. The first item I lift out is a green tee-shirt. "...a lot of those from the refugee camps have had to do that it seems."
"...and if you need anything else, purchases can be made with your ID card." The next item is a pair of sweater pants. There is no underwear in this box, but for now I will make do with what I have.
"It is very nice to meet you miss... they didn't have a picture of you, but I wasn't expecting them to assign me such a lovely partner." Suspicions were always something I did not enjoy because usually my suspicions are correct.
Turning around now that I have a pile of clothes in my hand I find my eyes on him again. Seeing my attention return to his I watch him perk up a little, offering me another congenial smile. Just like the soldier I watch his smile falter a little. "Is there a shower in there?"
"Uhm? Yes?" While his responses may be awkward and unsure mine are rather straight forward and to the point. "Good. If you need to use the loo I recommend the sink." I tell him as I step into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I'm not leaving this room until morning. They informed me of a curfew, so my complaint will have to wait until then.
There is the long awaited chapter 3. I should have the next one up soon in short order.