Chapter 4: Flaw in the Camouflage
The cozy little house sat suitably in center of a long line of homes. Each house was made up of varying shades of gray bricks, giving them a more natural look than the building the woman was so used to. She'd only seen the outside two times; on the way in and when she turned back to look at the man chasing her on the way out. A happy hum escaped her throat as she walked contentedly, realizing how quickly she seems to be picking up on these words the men speak. The pair stop at the door so the man could open it and allows her to pass first while calling out to his wife, asking her to enter the living area.
The woman in question steps out dressed in a dark spotted blue dress and a tinted cream apron. She wore her brown hair up in a bun, with strands sticking out here and there. A pair of glasses sat on the bridge of her nose, small wrinkles decorating her face in a way that hinted wisdom more so than age.
"Hun, I thought you were out with Harold? I di- Oh my!" Both women stare at each other wide-eyed, the younger quickly hiding behind the man again from having been surprised by the other's outburst.
"Martha, this young lady was being harassed by Ben's boy."
"Oh lord, not another," she hurries over to the girl to get a good look, assessing any damage, "Come on dear. Let's, umm, clean you up and find something for you to put on. You must be freezing." Martha takes the girl's hands in her and gently leads her down a small hall to a small bedroom. She releases her hands to rummage through a dresser sitting beside the bed. The young girl surveys the room, taking interest in the pictures hanging on the left wall. One held the man and woman, with less gray hair and wrinkles, in an outside setting. Another has them holding a small…thing. A baby! Right, she'd seen a picture of these things from one of the men of the cold room, he'd said it was his little baby girl. Maybe this room is hers, it's small enough. Then, where is she?
A heap of fabric was being placed in her arms as her eyes returned to this Martha woman. "Let's hope these will do, we can adjust it if need to," she sighs then smiles lightly, "The brown shade of the dress there really compliments your skin. Do you like this dress? I have others if you don't." The girl unravels the fabric sitting on the top of the pile and nods her acceptance. It would fit and she would not be so cold, what else did she need? They go back into the hallway and into the bathroom. The woman leaves and quickly returns with a small box filled with various colors of threads and needles. She takes a towel to dowse it with water from the sink.
"I hate to ask you this, but I should really know what Ivan did to you. Are you hurt? Where are you hurting? Do we need a doctor?" Martha continued asking for information in hopes that the girl would respond or give some hint of what she went through that night. Nothing, she only stared blankly at the floor, clearly confused. That confusion turned into a small amount of anger and she huffed in frustration. For a moment, the old woman thought the worse by those actions until the girl looked back up at her and tilted her head with a grimace. Poor girl must not know english then. A lost foreigner.
"Okay, okay, then just point to where he touched you," she spoke and communicated with her hands the message across. The girl took a few seconds to understand, but when she did she just tapped her arms and neck. The old woman breathed a sigh of relief, "Oh, good. Looks like my Frank found the two of you just in time." Martha hands over the towel to the girl to pick up the brown dress and begins cutting it down to her slim form. The girl's eyes watch and she leans forward as the woman gracefully weaves the needle through the dress. Neither spare a word in the comfortable atmosphere. The young woman still can't seem to identify the flow of emotions seemingly lifting and drowning her inside. The other simply lets the, much appreciated, warm return of happiness caress her aging heart.
"Aha! There we go. This should do, once you put this on, I can stitch the loose ends so it'll fit perfectly. Now, off with that ratty thing. You need to dress like a proper young lady," and with that she points to the coat and scowls. The girl looks down at herself, then back up to vigorously shake her head, stepping back until her elbow hit the wall. She hisses at the pain, but promptly stomps when she hears a gasp from the old woman. Her heart nearly stops.
"Careful dear! You'll bang yourself up even more," both women sigh, "if you really don't want to change in front of me that's absolutely alright. I'll step outside until you're decent, just knock for me to make adjustments." The door clicks close behind her as the girl lays each piece of clothing out on the floor. She guesses by size and shape where and what order to use them, saving the brown dress for last. Tentatively, the white article falls to the floor and the girl glares at what she was afraid to see.
Oh, Oh lord!
That's disgusting.
Get that, that thing restrained!
Jutting out from her bottom ribs, four small appendages fold inward and curl further, keeping the sharp ends from becoming noticeable under the coat's fabric. She concentrates hard, but still finds them to be unaccessible for use. They refuse to unfold to show their full form. The only piece of her old self is still attached to her, and she can't even feel them. She brushes her hand against the black hairs lining along her spider arms, the softest shiver running down them. Well, that's better than before. A dark, bluish-black shade encompasses the arms and an inch around them. That's different. After one last look, she rushes to dress in the new clothes in case the old woman decides to see what's keeping her.
Her hand goes to open the door then stops. She looks back to the box sitting on the counter, taking one of the needles in hand. She pricks her finger on the sharp end and pulls away, remembering how the old woman used it. Such a familiar skill.
After a couple of minutes, the bathroom door creaks open again. The soft sound of footsteps drawing nearer brings Martha to attention, "Uh, ma'am? I thought I told you to knock, what…" The silent girl stands smiling in her brown dress. It goes down just above the ankles, with a soft pink line going across the waist like a belt, accenting the curve of her hips since it hanged a bit loosely on her figure. The material is soft to the touch, but strong enough to capture the warmth escaping her body. The sleeves stretch down to her elbows, with the cuffs at the end folded back neatly. The cut around the neck leaves just the edge of her collarbone in plain view. The old woman smiles with her, "Darling, you look wonderful! What fine stitch work, is this what you do?" The girl nods her response, the two skill sets were practically the same. Well, in a way.
The ladies continue to chat along, okay so one was signing with her hands, as if they were good friends together for tea instead of a molestation victim and her savior. Frankford joins them about an hour later. They spend a good portion of the night listening to stories of his workshop and Martha's old tailoring job. With each passing word and visual explanations from the couple, the young woman picks up more and more of their language. The chemicals seem have taken effect, exceedingly so.