In the Blink of an Eye

" Maybe it was a stupid question. He didn't really want to interact with people, from what she could tell. But Prilla's open and loving heart couldn't help but reach out to him, knowing that he was hurting. 

That was something that she didn't have to ask, for she could see it clearly in his face. And she couldn't stop herself from at least offering help. Even if he didn't accept, the hand would be there. That's just the way that she was.

Okay, so maybe Ice Cream wouldn't fix absolutely everything, but sher could definitely give it a go. It was probably better than moping.

Sinclair caught a glance of her reflection in the glass separating the waiting room from the hospital entrance. There were dark circles around her eyes and she looked pale, sickly pale. There was dried blood on the side of her temple; a layer of dust from the ballroom rubble on her clothing and in her hair. No wonder Graham sent her to the hospital. No wonder this girl was worried about her. Sinclair was sure that she would probably benefit more from a warm shower than waiting around for help that was bound to never come.

Finishing up the sling splint, Sinclair stood back up, ignoring the way everything in the room was overwhelmingly bright for a few moments as her body adjusted to the position change. “Don’t worry though, I’m tough. An earthquake has nothing on war.” The words came out of her freely, and immediately Sinclair was astounded as to why she said it aloud. She had never been in a war. 

Her brow crinkled a moment later. "You've been in war? I'm sorry, that must have been really hard." then the smile widened, though her eyes were intently focused on Sinclair's posture, worried that she would fall or something. "But I'm glad I have someone like you with me. I can't be scared."

Sinclair was always okay. She was better than okay. And she never gave those around her the chance to think otherwise. But for some reason, this young girl’s question resonated inside of her and kicked her deep in the gut. Because maybe… she was not okay…

“Let’s get you all fixed up,” Sinclair pushed that possibility out of her mind, focusing on the task at hand, ignoring anything else. It was the only way that she knew how to be okay. 

"But, um... okay." Prilla frowned, for all the world looking like a pouting child as they continued their work. The sling was almost finished, which meant that theoretically the pain would abate soon. "I still think your head hurts." she informed her companion.

But then she remembered why they were doing this in the first place, horrible images from her imagination taunting her with her friends... no, her family's broken bodies. They needed to find them. But Prilla was wobbly and useless, and the Officer was hurt too. That bothered her.

There were times when Sanford found himself in a similar situation. But, with no one to talk to and his friends busy with their own tragedies, he found himself alone in that situation. Lonely.

Lonely. The word rang in Sanford’s head as the girl on the bench with him spoke aloud. He was lonely a lot. It didn’t matter if he deserved it or not, he was. But, silence was a friend that never betrayed.

I – Sanford pointed to himself, wondering if he should lie, focus on Prilla. But, if he could finally talk to someone, without actually talking, what did it mean if he chose to use his precious few words in deception. I am lonely a lot. But, I am not lonely now. With you. You make me happy too. 

When you need to talk... "I'll listen," she whispered. I'm not much, but I won't ever... B-E-T-R-A-Y your trust. She fingerspelled the one word that she couldn't call to mind, a little nervous to be so honest, and so... raw, out loud. Something about her promise made her feel vulnerable, even though she was the one that was promising integrity. 

Wanting to say more, but not knowing what or how, Prilla's hands stilled. But her smile remained, stronger now. To think that such a short time ago, she couldn't force a smile if she tried.

"Cupcakes sound wonderful" she chuckled as the girl looped her arm in through her’s. "That might be good idea, you don’t want to get caught in her paint rage"

Her smile only widened when she thought of Bria's Paint Rage, and she continued speaking. "I figure a peace offering is always best when dealing with Painter's Block. And you could take one home for Treven! Or two, for Treven and Sally. Speaking of, have they made out yet?" Prilla spoke of this with an air of nonchalance, as if it was an eventuality that her friends had just not gotten around to yet (which really, it was). It was a topic that the rest of the "Hollow" kept tabs on, as absolutely everyone had some interest or investment in them finally getting together. It may have been a huge overstep of social boundaries, but none of them really cared.

He was tired, emotionally drained. He just wanted to get home. Topher had no idea why he was still standing there.

"Do you sign, or...?" she lifted her hands and shaped her words, hoping he could communicate that way. "Is this a new thing?" she added to her questions.

He was almost taken aback when she introduced herself, and raised his free hand just a fraction in acknowledgement. He couldn’t say his name. Couldn’t say anything at all, really. So knowing her name would have to be good enough for the both of them. He didn’t even have a piece of paper to scribble it on. Wonderful way to meet someone…

But he could nod at her question. Yes, he did play guitar. And bass. And drums. Keys. Pretty much any instrument, and if he didn’t know how to, he could learn it. Music was what he did. Though singing seemed beyond his abilities now. Which cut out most of his rock… He fidgeted slightly, finger tracing over the pick more roughly as she continued to look at him, something disturbingly like pity in her gaze. He wanted to walk away. Or punch her. And had he had a voice, he probably would have had the resolution to do so. But without it he couldn’t do anything, not even muster up the energy to frustratedly walk away. He was being pitied. Again. He’d spent so much time trying to get people to stop with that. But here he was. Back to square one.

She wasn't anything but curious, and maybe a little sad. She knew how it felt to be lost. 

Then, finally, the young woman realized how pushy her question may have come across, and backpedaled. "I'm sorry, that was probably nosy. I just... you seem sad." she finished simply. "I'd like to help, if I can."

"I wasn’t headed anywhere in particular, and you aren’t keeping me. If you want to do something we can do anything you want"

Prilla beamed, hooking her arm even more firmly into Ms. Quinn's. "Awesome! Want some cupcakes? I was thinking of picking one up for Bria, so maybe she'll let her within twenty feet without chucking a brush at my head." And maybe one for Beck, since she's coming over later. And one for Brooke, because of reasons.

"You mean it?" she clarified, dubious. Not to look a gift-horse in the mouth or anything...

It saddened Sanford deeply that such an intelligent and delightful girl had such self-doubt. Insecurity was the silent, faceless killer of dreams. I – he began, pointing to himself, still unused to speaking so much – I am all alone, for the most part. I have no family, few friendships, the brunet hooked his fingers together. You have to find something that makes you happy. Anything. You don’t have to be good at it, it doesn’t have to be worth anything to anyone else. Just you. Sanford pointed to Pilla, hoping that his signing was not too fast for her to follow. His words were reminiscent of a time when he still spoke aloud, debating and conversing greatly. Find a place inside where there is joy, and the joy will burn away the pain.

And if you want to feel less alone, find me, Sanford smiled sadly, moving his hand away from his body to rest on Prilla’s arm, an attempt at reassurance and friendliness. You don’t have to be happy with me, just be.

Especially so when his next sentences registered. How alone he was, it saddened Prilla far beyond the effect of her own plight. He didn't deserve to be alone. He was warm, like Brooke, or Treven. And though she wasn't sensitive to the nuances of people's characters in the way that he was, Prilla could tell enough to know that her new friend deserved to be heard, too.

I can't imagine not feeling happy, with you. she admitted. I am happy now. You made me happy. Though it might have seemed strange to say so with tear tracks still on her cheeks and a mouth that was too exhausted to remember to smile, something inside of her felt lighter, just to know that someone else understood her. That maybe she'd be okay.

Sanford, she carefully formed his sign name, You... "are kind." she whispered that last, though her hands still moved with her voice. "I hope... you aren't lonely." You don't deserve to feel lonely...

Something stirred within the officer – a fragment of one of her reoccurring nightmares, one that felt more like a memory than a dream. The image of a young recruit, his brown uniform splotched with dark crimson. His eyes were haunted as his friends’ ghosts lingered. Sweat beaded, pouring from every pore, Sinclair bit down tightly. “Private, you need to let me wrap your shoulder. Moving it could further damage any injured muscles or nerves,” she spoke firmly, but her own voice was shaky, shadowed by the auxiliary noise, the shaking of the earth as tanks and bombs met face to face. They’d been here for too long. For weeks now. The Argonne Forest was once a beautiful region of France, Sinclair had visited once as a child. But now, the grounds were dyed by the dying soldiers. She carefully extracted the young private’s arm, ripping the bottom of her brown jacket to serve as a makeshift splint; medical supplies were far and few these days. “I have to, I have to go back, I have to get to Berthelot,” the private cried, his fingernails clawing into the trench wall. “We have to take care of you,” Sinclair urged, using a firm hand to hold him in place, in face of his heartbreak.

“We have to take care of you,” Sinclair voiced aloud, the image of the private flickering back to the young girl as the hospital settled around her and the battlefield vanished. The cries of pain and the barked orders from doctor to nurse was still reminiscent of the trenches. The blonde flinched, her eyes shutting for a moment as she attempted to ground herself in the here and now.

Lightly ghosting her fingers over the injured arm presented to her, Sinclair found that the injury was nowhere as urgent as Private Mathias’s was; the man from her dream, not memory. Sure, he felt real. And sure she knew things like he later died due to putting his rifle in his mouth, a note scribbled hastily, addressing her. And sure, she remembered bringing his dog tags back home to his mother, whose despair felt as deeply as her own. But, they were just nightmares.

“Just keep your arm in that position, supporting it with your other arm,” Sinclair guided as she leaned over the girl, placing a triangular bandage across her chest. “What’s your name?” Talking was important, she needed to keep the conversation flowing. 

"'O-offi... okay." The officer was in pain too, she had to be. But Prilla's uptake was too slow, she couldn't catch the look that crossed her face and identify it before it was already gone. So, when a bandage began to be placed around her and the pain brought tears to her eyes, she lifted her good hand and caught Sinclair's wrist for a second.

"Are you... your head... okay?" It was very important for her to know. She shouldn't help if she was really hurt. And though she didn't have any words after that, Prilla squeezed the Officer's wrist to show her concern.

“Wait here a moment,” the officer ordered, although she was sure that the girl was not headed anywhere anytime soon without assistance. Sinclair stood up, bursting into movement. The action turned the world write and all ambient noises into a shrill ringing that overtook her ears and echoed in her skull. She reached out with a hand, grasping empty air but somehow managing to regain some balance. Her slender form, shadowed with weeks of unrest and alcohol abuse, waivered for a moment as her vision came back into focus. And the incident was pushed aside without consideration as she returned to her earlier determination.

Less than a couple minutes later, the officer returned with a wheelchair, two triangular bandages that would work in splinting the girl’s injured arm, and a dose of pain medicine that she swiped off the distracted nurse. She dry-swallowed the pill, praying that the second line in her head would be chased away.

“So, I’m Officer Sinclair,” the blonde introduced herself, feeling it was necessary in the situation, even though she was out of place in the caregiver role. “Would you like me to splint your arm and then we can have a look around the hospital for Quinn Miles and… uh… everyone?” 

The Blonde Deserter eventually came back, with a wheel chair. That was sorta strange. "What? Oh." Prilla studied the stuff that Officer Sinclair had, who was blonde and a deserter but she apparently came back after deserting, so... maybe a slight turncoat who had good loyalties. but her name was Officer Sinclair. So Prilla should probably call her that.

"Y-you want to... Okay." she said, taking a second to surface from her thoughts and frown. "It's... pretty bad. I mean... I can barely move it. But," she shrugged the blankets away, revealing shoulder and upper arm that were more bruise than skin colored. "Something fell on it. We tried to get it off, but it... it took awhile." Prilla studied the injury for a second, knowing how much moving it would hurt, then turned watery eyes back to Sinclair, jaw set. "I need to find my friends. Go ahead."

Sanford was not sure exactly what to say in the situation, a common occurrence in his life. Usually this went unnoticed and caused no hindrance since he was used to being unable to communicate with others. But now? Now he had the opportunity to say anything, in any way, and not worry about being misunderstood. He wanted to make sure that he got it exactly right. After all, he stopped speaking because he found silence to say more than words.

Talking, Sanford emphasized with the same distaste that Prilla did earlier, is not always a bad thing. Never be afraid to talk. But, the man paused, crossing his fingers and separating them, pointing in opposite directions and holding them there for a few long moments. Do not be afraid of silence either, nor your sadness. Most people are content to talk and talk, never once thinking about how much talking they do. The fact that you think about this, that it affects you, makes you more intelligent than you can imagine.

A soft smile graced his features, unsure about how he felt. It was the most ‘talking’ he had done in years. Sure, he was not using his vocal cords, but he was still using his ‘voice’. A small part of him felt like if he was going to carry on a conversation in sign, he should just choose to talk. But, a bigger part felt like this meant more, that his words were carefully chosen for someone that really needed to hear them. At least he hoped his words were the right ones.

It seemed a struggle for Sanford to speak the way he wished, so Prilla tried a smile to encourage him. And... after several moments of thinking on his words, she disentangled one hand from the mess that was her limbs and brought the thumb to point  towards her chest, then rest under her chin and pull forward. I don't... f-i-t. she fingerspelled the last word, then let her other hand interact with the signs while she remained curled up.

I have big... family? Many friends. But... s-o-m-e-h-o-w I feel... alone. Stupid. I'm not... w-o-r-t-h anything. I smile. But I hurt. She didn't speak this admission out loud, even when she ran out of words, because she was afraid for it to be true if she said it. What if she really was a failure who had no niche? What if she failed at thing after thing because there was really no place for her? What then?