Talking out problems had died many years before the majority of the North American population. It had died with stolen glances, whispering voices, and DatelineΒ specials. Cameron had survived a national tragedy that had taken her boyfriend and best friends from her and taken out the perpetrator of such offense. But Nathaniel had not gone down without a fight. He had taken her ability to connect with others, deal with her feelings and conflict, and ___ in his clutches as he clawed at her for his terrible life. It had taken almost a decade of work for her to reclaim it and still, when left to her own devices, she floundered. The cheerleader, the psych major, the spring queenβthose versions of herself with few and far between, shared like trists behind closed doors with select few people. Since her familyβs deaths, only one person had been given the privilege of seeing the deeper, kinder parts of her ( hidden away in nooks and crannies, spread thinly into little boxes like holiday decorations in the church attic ). OUT OF SIGHT; OUT OF MIND. Finn Stokely had dusted off cobwebs and dust, lantern in hand and found the brightest parts of her lurking beneath old communion chaliceβtarnished from years of disuse. And then, to find that while she had felt like she had found someone to slowly warm toβthe temperature of that cold glass adjusting to the warmth of sure handsβand learn that he hadnβt even trusted her to tell her about a sister. It was beyond devastating.
Cameron didnβt mean to be cold; she never did. She merely matched the temperature of the environment she was in; no light meant NO WARMTH. His choiceΒ to leave her in the dark about the very real, livingΒ connections he still had with the world left her feeling bitter, but it wasnβt out of punishment or spite. Bitterness had become a flavor in her mouth for so long that to taste anything as sweet as what theyβd had going on for months was nothing short of foreign.Β βMmhmm,β Cameron acknowledged him absently, hands setting to the work of finding things of use. Remembering that it wasnβt her DESIREΒ to be cruel, she exhaled slowly and looked up at the family portrait that hung above the short buffet she was searching through.Β βWere you close?β The idea of the house they stood in being a crypt for his old memories only salted the wound sheβd momentarily forgot was the cause of her ire and she shut the drawer roughly.Β βYou have a lot of people you know in town.β The inflection made the statement a hard question.
Β Β Β Hmm, not exactly the reaction he wanted, though had somewhat EXPECTED. They werenβt soft people, or rather there were hard shells around their softness, but Finnegan had foolishly believed maybe she was starting to let him in. Maybe HE was the only one letting someone in, maybe he had just wished that she was and interpreted it wrong, thinking glances meant something other than just looking at him when he spoke. There was hesitation in everything he was doing, from the repeated flexing of his fingers to the twitching smile of a jaw clenching to the way his eyes were darting around in an effort to look at anything that wasnβt HERΒ ; he was nervousΒ and he didnβt understand WHY. Finnegan had prided himself on being grounded, in CONTROL of himself and confident in every action. Ever since the LIGHTΒ dimmed, he found himself insecure around her, afraid to make the wrong move and scare the light even farther away. A soft cough crawled up his throat, making him crave for a drinkβa drink of WATER, just water, please just let it be water. It was quite stuffy in this house as well, fingers working to open up the bottle he brought along and take a large swig, in part of relieve in the dry itching and to give him something else to focus on.
Β Β Β DEBORAH SLOANE, his mind recalled from the depths as his eyes caught sight of the family portrait. Β β Β No, not really. Β β Β Truthfully, he had hated Deborah, she was every stereotype of Catholics that he had set out to destroy in his churchβLOVE, NOT HATE. Still, even if he hadnβt liked her in life, Finnegan didnβt believe in speaking ILL of the DEADβor the assumed dead, at least, judging from the dusty lifelessness of the home before they had stepped into it. It was almost eerie, the way the house had been left almostΒ untouchedΒ in the past three years, as if it was FROZEN in time after that fateful night in September. He had been in the process of taking another drink when her question, which really seemed like more of a statement, caused the water to spit back into the bottle. Fair brows creased together, turning to her with a curious tilt of his head. Β β Β I suppose so. Β βΒ Β He grew up here, he worked here, he LIVED here, after all, it would only make sense. Β β Β Though I would suspect most have... passed on now. Β β Β Even before the outbreak, Finnegan had mostly kept to himself, and the majority of his parishioners were upwards of sixty years old, not that he didnβt get on swell with old people, of course. Β β Β Why do you ask? Β β Β The idea of someone from his high school meeting Cammy and telling her old stories of his dreadful teenage years was enough to make him shudder.
