Dependance

A different darkness, was what it was, quite different indeed. Not looming over you with expectation, not waiting for you to drop so it can whisk you away to the unknown. No, this was pleasant, lulling and soothing, whispering sweet nothings in your mind as well as ears, blocking out everything distressing. Vincent was awake, but could not be bothered to move. It was abnormal. Peaceful. He had not got much peace in a while, so he savoured it, drinking it all into his still recovering form.
He had remembered the continual assistance from the female, her effort to dig through wax (of all things) and her consoling when she was mending his wounds. Vincent had not remembered getting much help in his lifetime…Mum, bless her soul, had indeed helped him with the masks but, if he remembered correctly, she was the one who wanted him to wear the wax, and she who had started his insecurities about himself. Dad was always too busy manhandling Bo to have time for him. And Bo himself, well he had taken care of them, and he was grateful…albeit the belittling of him.
And then, in his final moments, help had been received. Maybe an apology from God for what he had done to his face? Ah, but he had committed sin, the Lord would not bless a murderer. So why this help? Why this Salvation? A chance for redemption, maybe?
He could hear her breathing, slow, calm and deep. Cleary exhausted by the happenings of the previous day -and night- the girl was sleeping like she had eaten her weight in sedatives.
For the sake of repayment, Vincent opened his dark, slightly glazed eyes. After waiting calmly for the focus to come, he shifted his face from the wax to scan the area surrounding him. It looked like he was lying in a World War wax sculpture, the dirtied-yellow trench, polka dots of blood praying for the fallen soldiers. She was sprawled a metre away, one of the fallen. The thought disturbed him.
Vincent pressed his hands to the ground and pushed, raising himself from the floor. He proceeded by crawling over to the girl and checking over her. There were minor cuts that seemed to have been inflicted not by his rescue, stings from the vegetation, and hands red from blood and sores. He was not going to leave her with these injuries, however minor they were. Reaching for the Med Kit which was off to the side, Vincent remembered when he had tried to help Bo with his arrow wound. It brought home the fact that Vincent was alone. He knew very well that he had had trouble when his mother had died, and had depended on Bo a lot, listening attentively to his brothers commands. And now he had to face the world.
Shaking his unmasked head a little to bring him out of his flashback, Vincent brought the medical kit over to the girl. He cleaned the cuts with the remaining rubbing alcohol, treated the stings with some ointment , and bandaged her hands with gauze.
The male stood, feeling a twinge in his back, to look out to the edge of town, where his home stood, unharmed. He had to admit, that even though he was still in an unhealthy state, he felt refreshed somehow. He began to tramp towards his destination, his knife injury causing him some pain that was purposely ignored. The ground was uneven as he went on, the wax creating new roads. The disfigured man felt different about his home; it was once viewed as a place of shelter, warmth, family and above all, a place to hide away from the world. But now it seemed to advance on him with haunting memories that only served to make him look back and regret, and be filled with grief and loss.

Opening her sleep filled orbs, Lorna stared lazily at the blue cloud filled sky above. She revelled in it’s pure, innocent beauty for a few moments, then decided to check up on her ‘patient’( for a brief moment she was reminded of her younger days, where she had a fondness for playing Doctors and Nurses with the neighbouring children; but no game was as great as Cops and Robbers, Lorna thought with a smile). The runaway was more than shocked to find the man, who yesterday was close to death, now apparently able to move -however to where he had moved to, Lorna did not have a clue.
After getting up off her backside to scramble to the top of the hole, Lorna looked to the horizon, hoping to spot him. The noise of shuffling footsteps spilled through the air from behind her, and Lorna immediately pivoted. She gasped quietly.
A huge chunk of his face was missing, leaving him with only one eye (however his mouth-chin area was intact). Red, calloused skin was all that covered one side of his face. Lorna also noted that he did not really have the posture of a man, more of a child. His head was bowed to the ground, shoulders hunched and hands held stiffly in front of him. He almost looked…shy. He was holding in his hands a loaf of bread and a bottle of water.
‘Stop fucking staring!’ She commanded herself and broke her gaze.
“Hi…um…are you feeling okay now?” Lorna asked tentatively. He replied by giving her a quick nod. A few hesitant moments flew by, then he decided to step forward and hand over the food swiftly, uncomfortable with interacting with a stranger.

Lorna’s chocolate eyes travelled down to his hands as the food was pressed into hers; artists hands, slightly calloused through work, though still managing to look like they could thread a thousand needles without fault.
Next Lorna noticed the gauze that embraced her palms. Looking to her arms, the cuts had been clean and there was no sign of infection. A smile spread across her creamy skin.
“Thank you.” she said, mirroring the man and sitting down. “Aren’t you having any?” She added, holding up the loaf. He shook his head.
Lorna chewed thoughtfully on the bread (which was a little stale, but she was too hungry to care); so what was going to happen now? Would he go do live the rest of his life? Would he hang around? Would he talk? Taking a gulp of the water she looked to him again, still feeling a little bit…odd -if that be the word- about his disfigurement, but otherwise felt sympathy for him. The girl decided to take in some other details than the obvious: he had black hair that reached past his shoulders, a strong chin, and the sort of gentle roughness to his skin that most healthy thirty-something year olds obtain.
“What’s your name?” She asked. He looked up nervously. Lorna could see his Adam apple bobbing up and down in an attempt to speak, words working their way into his throat.
‘Does he have a speaking disability?’ Lorna wondered. Then he spoke, but it was strained, guttural and gave Lorna the thought that he was not much of a talker - like he had talked only a few times in his entire existence.
“Vincent.”

His throat felt soar already, after just one word. But it was necessary. Vincent was glad to see that she was not rejecting the food. He did not think he could have taken it if she had thrown it back in his face. The man had never really been insulted in his life time, so his mental defences and tolerance were not developed; the only insults were his brother’s, and that was tolerable because he was a familiar, a sibling, his family. And she had asked his name! A courteous gesture that meant him no harm, no harm at all…aside from his throat.
“My name’s Lorna. You have a cool name…reminds me of the artist, Vincent Van Gogh. Do you like art?” She questioned. He nodded his head a little more enthusiastically this time. She giggled a little, a simple, pure sound that make his lips twitch.