(no subject)

[betagainstme]

foul demons of the earth and air.
from this their wonted haunt exiled,
shall flee before thy presence fair.
- ave maria (english translation)

It's Christmas Eve. She wouldn't know if they hadn't told her, hadn't made her wear a dress and fix her hair and go to the chapel with all the other girls and the doctors and nurses. He's there, her angel-doctor. He has an angel's name too, Gabriel. She turns her head to watch him walk by, lips parted, and his hand grazes hers, his icy, hers burning hot.

She feels like she's on fire, every day she's here. Her throat is forever dry and her hands feel papery thin. The girls all sit as the reverend stands before them, giving the sermon and she stares at a bandage around her finger. She's not even sure she remembers how it happened, the small cut there. All she knows is that Gabriel held his breath as he taped it around her finger.

They stand again and Mary Alice feels lightheaded. She licks her lips and listens to the nurses and doctors sing, while none of the other girls even try. The operatic voice of the matron nurse fills the small chapel, leading them in a beautiful rendition of Ave Maria.

At least, Mary Alice thinks it is beautiful. She has lost her ability to see the beauty in things, she thinks. She idly listens as she counts bruises on her arms. She vaguely remembers the words to the song, from a life she has not acknowledged since she left (since two days before when she saw it coming). She tries to sing along, her voice cracking and her eyes filling with tears.

She has to stop. She's remembering too much and she needs to not do that. She focuses on her bandage again, always making the conscious decision to not remember.

They serve cookies and punch after the service, a rare treat for the girls. Music wafts over the loudspeaker, the sounds of choirs singing Christmas hymns filling the small room. The older girls stand there with their plates in one hand, cups of punch in the other, too far gone to enjoy anything, while the younger, newer additions try to chat with one another, have some vague semblance of what their lives used to be.

Mary Alice stands on her own, staring at the bandage. She's trying to remember what happened, how she got hurt, but the memory doesn't recall. She takes a bite of her cookie and finds it tastes like dust. The punch is mildly better so she sticks to that. Her angel-doctor wanders the room, checking on all the girls before lingering at Mary Alice.

"Do you not like your cookie, Ms. Brandon?" His voice sounds so soft and musical, she could almost dance to it, if she felt she could move without hesitating, clunky steps.

"It tastes like dirt." She whispers and he smiles, sharp and bright and his laugh is soft, like they've just shared a private joke. Her lips turn upward, just slightly.

"Dirt-cookies are no good. You look tired, Ms. Brandon. Do you want to go to bed?" He holds his hand out for her.

She takes it, nodding. She can't remember if she liked to socialize when she was younger, but the only people to socialize with here are people just like her and she can't bear it. She'd feign all the sleepiness in the world if it meant leaving them, if it meant Gabriel escorting her to her room. He stops outside the door, lifts her papery hand to his lips and kisses it.

His eyes are sad as he calls her his Mary Alice. And he promises her it'll be okay, soon, he promises. He drops her hand and opens her door, murmuring a "Merry Christmas" to her.

She hums Ave Maria as she crawls in bed.