Unseen Enemy | PG13 | Ironweed
Title: Unseen Enemy
Fandom: Helen Archer/OFC, Ironweed
Requested by: kitnkabootle
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1500
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: All right, I've only seen Ironweed once, so I apologize if my characterization is a bit off or if I completely fail at producing 1930s New York dialects. Aside from that…I hope I managed to do okay. I also wrote this while reaaallly sick with the flu, so all mistakes are mine. Let me know what you think.
-
Someone is following Helen Archer, or so she believes.
There's a constant state of struggle going on within her body between her rational self and the rest of her. Rationally, she knows that she is not being followed by a human or a monster, but instead by the perceived physical manifestation of the cold weather. Deep down she knows that she's not being stalked, but all she can see is the white cloud of air as it puffs out of her mouth and snakes behind her shoulder.
Her paranoia subsides long enough for her to cling to the notion that the chill in the air is everywhere, and that's what she needs to be afraid about.
She can handle any old person giving her a hard time about being a woman alone on the streets at night, but she isn't as adept at handling an enemy that she can't see or touch. While some wise guy might rough her up a little, it's this enemy that she fears.
This is the enemy that might claim her life.
Helen pulls her tattered coat closer around her neck and tries to eject the thoughts of freezing to death from her mind.
She wishes that she knew where Francis was. It's been days since she's seen him. It all wouldn't seem so bad if he were there.
Not that she needs him. Helen can get by just fine without him.
She wishes the night were a little warmer. She's shaking so hard that she feels a little sick to her stomach, but she pauses and takes a few bracing breaths. She can't afford to throw up the only real meal she's had in days, not when she doesn't know when the next meal will come. She spent her last dime on a hot meal, and she'll be damned if she gives it up that easily.
Helen stops in the street, jumps several times, and shakes her arms loosely at her sides. She must look like a raving lunatic but she doesn't care. She needs to get warm. She wishes she had enough money to buy a stiff drink. She could use a little fire in her bones.
She keeps walking, thinking instead of what she does have: a pressing need to find shelter for the night. She scans the deserted street ahead of her. There are a few abandoned lots that she may be able to find refuge in, assuming she can avoid the territorial men who've gotten there first.
Down the road, under the glow of a flickering streetlamp, Helen notices a figure stumble and fall. She debates whether or not to approach. Despite her better judgment, she takes several tentative steps forward, and then a few more, until she is only a yard or two away from the person kneeling on the street. Now that she's got a better look, she can see that the fallen person is a woman -- a girl, no more than sixteen. She retches onto the street.
"Now now," Helen says, scooping the girl's red hair away from her face. "Let it all out."
The girl's chest heaves once more, though her stomach appears sufficiently emptied. Her arms shake and Helen pulls her to her feet before she can fall into her own sick. Once standing, the girl gives her a weary look.
"What're you doing out here?" Helen asks, using the stained kerchief from her pocket to wipe the remnants of vomit from the girl's face. Helen notes at once that she's unspeakably pretty, with large, scared green eyes. "Hmm?"
"P-pa threw me out," the girl stammers, her teeth chattering. "I have nowhere to g-go."
"You an' me both," Helen says. She curls an arm around the girl's shoulders and pulls her in the direction of the closest empty lot. "What's your name?"
"Christine."
"You don't have a last name?"
"Not anymore."
"That bad, huh?"
"Pa called me a hussy…he said I was a disg-grace." The girl's eyes well with tears. "He told me to leave and never come back."
Helen nods, deciding not to ask what the girl did to earn being thrown out on the streets. "It's rough out here. Night's the worst, especially for a woman."
"How do you manage it?"
Helen neglects to tell her that she survives by doing anything she must. She can't imagine this child turning tricks or thieving. Maybe she's hurting her by not telling her what she really needs to expect: innocence won't get you far. But for some reason, Helen feels the need to protect this girl. "Luck, I guess."
Helen steers her into the lot, scanning the area quickly before spotting a beat up sofa. Her heart skips a beat; they may live through the night after all.
Christine watches, immobile and shivering, while Helen clears the trash and debris from its tattered, lumpy cushions. One of the cushions is emptied of its stuffing, and there are holes all throughout the fabric, but it will do.
With a fair bit of maneuvering, Helen manages to turn the sofa on its side, holding the back up with her hand. Her arm wobbles and she waves the girl to join her. "C'mon, before I drop it."
Christine chews her lip, looking around as if searching for an alternative option.
"Pa's not here to take you home. You'll freeze to death if you stay out there alone."
Christine reluctantly lowers herself to the ground and scoots her petite frame against Helen's. Helen lowers the top of the sofa and, when they're secure beneath the triangle of musty cushion and hard ground, she curls her arm around Christine's waist. She's shocked to realize how thin the younger woman is; she feels nothing but bone beneath the thin layers of clothing.
"When was the last time you ate?"
Christine is silent for a minute before answering. "I don't know. A few days."
"We'll find you something tomorrow," Helen adds. "Some hot soup, maybe. That sounds nice, doesn't it?"
Christine says nothing and trembles instead. She twists so that she's lying on her back and nestles further into Helen's body. "Why are you being so nice to me?" The minimal light beneath the sofa reflects on Christine's wide eyes, which are focused carefully on Helen.
"Well…because no one else is going to."
"Is anyone nice to you?"
Helen thinks of Francis, of the others who have been good to her. "Sometimes. I make it a habit to be nice to myself though. Can't hope to get by any other way."
Christine nods, her fiery hair brushing against Helen's cheek. She coughs fiercely, her tiny frame buckling under the intensity of it. Helen holds the girl a little more tightly to her body until the whooping subsides. She's so cold. Not even Christine's stale, acrid breath is warm on her cheek. Helen rubs her gloved hand along the girl's arm, hoping to pass on a little heat. Christine continues to shake.
She entertains the idea of kissing her, of coupling with her, for the sake of the heat they'd no doubt create. She remembers the many nights with Francis, rutting like animals just to stay warm. The temptation is strong; Christine is so beautiful. She wouldn’t be the first woman, and will certainly not be the last.
But Helen can't fathom putting Christine in that position. She can't compromise a child so young. She wants, if nothing else, to help preserve her innocence a little longer, even for a night.
"I'm s-scared," Christine mumbles. Her teeth click together in a steady tap.
"Just sleep, all right? Turn a bit and curl up to me and sleep." Christine does as instructed. "That's it. Now sleep."
Helen closes her eyes, praying to a God she doesn't believe in that she'll wake up in the morning.
Several hours later, when Helen awakens to see the light peeking through the holes in the sofa, she smiles.
She's alive. She feels a renewed appreciation for life, for Albany, for Francis, for herself. She fought the enemy and survived.
She shifts. Her body aches, but she doesn't care. She feels good simply to be moving at all.
The moment she places her hand on Christine's shoulder to wake her up, she knows something is wrong. She knows without having to look at her or touch her that she's gone.
Helen knows that she is not responsible for Christine's death, that she was half-dead when she found her, but it hurts like hell nonetheless. She feels the thrill of being alive begin to dwindle. Christine wasn't lucky enough to make it, so why was she?
She may have escaped from her unseen enemy's wrath, but Christine didn't. It just serves as a reminder: this enemy is everywhere. There's nothing to celebrate, nothing to be excited about. As long as Helen exists like this, on the street, drifting from one elusive meal or bed to the next, she is risking her life.
But what other option does she have?
---
Fandom: Helen Archer/OFC, Ironweed
Requested by: kitnkabootle
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1500
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: All right, I've only seen Ironweed once, so I apologize if my characterization is a bit off or if I completely fail at producing 1930s New York dialects. Aside from that…I hope I managed to do okay. I also wrote this while reaaallly sick with the flu, so all mistakes are mine. Let me know what you think.
-
Someone is following Helen Archer, or so she believes.
There's a constant state of struggle going on within her body between her rational self and the rest of her. Rationally, she knows that she is not being followed by a human or a monster, but instead by the perceived physical manifestation of the cold weather. Deep down she knows that she's not being stalked, but all she can see is the white cloud of air as it puffs out of her mouth and snakes behind her shoulder.
Her paranoia subsides long enough for her to cling to the notion that the chill in the air is everywhere, and that's what she needs to be afraid about.
She can handle any old person giving her a hard time about being a woman alone on the streets at night, but she isn't as adept at handling an enemy that she can't see or touch. While some wise guy might rough her up a little, it's this enemy that she fears.
This is the enemy that might claim her life.
Helen pulls her tattered coat closer around her neck and tries to eject the thoughts of freezing to death from her mind.
She wishes that she knew where Francis was. It's been days since she's seen him. It all wouldn't seem so bad if he were there.
Not that she needs him. Helen can get by just fine without him.
She wishes the night were a little warmer. She's shaking so hard that she feels a little sick to her stomach, but she pauses and takes a few bracing breaths. She can't afford to throw up the only real meal she's had in days, not when she doesn't know when the next meal will come. She spent her last dime on a hot meal, and she'll be damned if she gives it up that easily.
Helen stops in the street, jumps several times, and shakes her arms loosely at her sides. She must look like a raving lunatic but she doesn't care. She needs to get warm. She wishes she had enough money to buy a stiff drink. She could use a little fire in her bones.
She keeps walking, thinking instead of what she does have: a pressing need to find shelter for the night. She scans the deserted street ahead of her. There are a few abandoned lots that she may be able to find refuge in, assuming she can avoid the territorial men who've gotten there first.
Down the road, under the glow of a flickering streetlamp, Helen notices a figure stumble and fall. She debates whether or not to approach. Despite her better judgment, she takes several tentative steps forward, and then a few more, until she is only a yard or two away from the person kneeling on the street. Now that she's got a better look, she can see that the fallen person is a woman -- a girl, no more than sixteen. She retches onto the street.
"Now now," Helen says, scooping the girl's red hair away from her face. "Let it all out."
The girl's chest heaves once more, though her stomach appears sufficiently emptied. Her arms shake and Helen pulls her to her feet before she can fall into her own sick. Once standing, the girl gives her a weary look.
"What're you doing out here?" Helen asks, using the stained kerchief from her pocket to wipe the remnants of vomit from the girl's face. Helen notes at once that she's unspeakably pretty, with large, scared green eyes. "Hmm?"
"P-pa threw me out," the girl stammers, her teeth chattering. "I have nowhere to g-go."
"You an' me both," Helen says. She curls an arm around the girl's shoulders and pulls her in the direction of the closest empty lot. "What's your name?"
"Christine."
"You don't have a last name?"
"Not anymore."
"That bad, huh?"
"Pa called me a hussy…he said I was a disg-grace." The girl's eyes well with tears. "He told me to leave and never come back."
Helen nods, deciding not to ask what the girl did to earn being thrown out on the streets. "It's rough out here. Night's the worst, especially for a woman."
"How do you manage it?"
Helen neglects to tell her that she survives by doing anything she must. She can't imagine this child turning tricks or thieving. Maybe she's hurting her by not telling her what she really needs to expect: innocence won't get you far. But for some reason, Helen feels the need to protect this girl. "Luck, I guess."
Helen steers her into the lot, scanning the area quickly before spotting a beat up sofa. Her heart skips a beat; they may live through the night after all.
Christine watches, immobile and shivering, while Helen clears the trash and debris from its tattered, lumpy cushions. One of the cushions is emptied of its stuffing, and there are holes all throughout the fabric, but it will do.
With a fair bit of maneuvering, Helen manages to turn the sofa on its side, holding the back up with her hand. Her arm wobbles and she waves the girl to join her. "C'mon, before I drop it."
Christine chews her lip, looking around as if searching for an alternative option.
"Pa's not here to take you home. You'll freeze to death if you stay out there alone."
Christine reluctantly lowers herself to the ground and scoots her petite frame against Helen's. Helen lowers the top of the sofa and, when they're secure beneath the triangle of musty cushion and hard ground, she curls her arm around Christine's waist. She's shocked to realize how thin the younger woman is; she feels nothing but bone beneath the thin layers of clothing.
"When was the last time you ate?"
Christine is silent for a minute before answering. "I don't know. A few days."
"We'll find you something tomorrow," Helen adds. "Some hot soup, maybe. That sounds nice, doesn't it?"
Christine says nothing and trembles instead. She twists so that she's lying on her back and nestles further into Helen's body. "Why are you being so nice to me?" The minimal light beneath the sofa reflects on Christine's wide eyes, which are focused carefully on Helen.
"Well…because no one else is going to."
"Is anyone nice to you?"
Helen thinks of Francis, of the others who have been good to her. "Sometimes. I make it a habit to be nice to myself though. Can't hope to get by any other way."
Christine nods, her fiery hair brushing against Helen's cheek. She coughs fiercely, her tiny frame buckling under the intensity of it. Helen holds the girl a little more tightly to her body until the whooping subsides. She's so cold. Not even Christine's stale, acrid breath is warm on her cheek. Helen rubs her gloved hand along the girl's arm, hoping to pass on a little heat. Christine continues to shake.
She entertains the idea of kissing her, of coupling with her, for the sake of the heat they'd no doubt create. She remembers the many nights with Francis, rutting like animals just to stay warm. The temptation is strong; Christine is so beautiful. She wouldn’t be the first woman, and will certainly not be the last.
But Helen can't fathom putting Christine in that position. She can't compromise a child so young. She wants, if nothing else, to help preserve her innocence a little longer, even for a night.
"I'm s-scared," Christine mumbles. Her teeth click together in a steady tap.
"Just sleep, all right? Turn a bit and curl up to me and sleep." Christine does as instructed. "That's it. Now sleep."
Helen closes her eyes, praying to a God she doesn't believe in that she'll wake up in the morning.
Several hours later, when Helen awakens to see the light peeking through the holes in the sofa, she smiles.
She's alive. She feels a renewed appreciation for life, for Albany, for Francis, for herself. She fought the enemy and survived.
She shifts. Her body aches, but she doesn't care. She feels good simply to be moving at all.
The moment she places her hand on Christine's shoulder to wake her up, she knows something is wrong. She knows without having to look at her or touch her that she's gone.
Helen knows that she is not responsible for Christine's death, that she was half-dead when she found her, but it hurts like hell nonetheless. She feels the thrill of being alive begin to dwindle. Christine wasn't lucky enough to make it, so why was she?
She may have escaped from her unseen enemy's wrath, but Christine didn't. It just serves as a reminder: this enemy is everywhere. There's nothing to celebrate, nothing to be excited about. As long as Helen exists like this, on the street, drifting from one elusive meal or bed to the next, she is risking her life.
But what other option does she have?
---