Kiss of Life

Mab could hardly feel the heat anymore. It sat atop her little town forcefully, as restrictive and constrained as the occupation, though not quite as beneficial for her. Though it had faded some now, been whisked away with some early morning rain, it was still rather humid and she could feel the sweat beading on her forehead, under her heavy hair and wide-brimmed hat, and even below the soft, light yellow material of her newest summer dress. She always thought it must bring out the best in people, as well as the worst, this war. For her it had been a far-off thing, mythical even, the stories she heard of inhumane brutality as nightmarish and surreal as the bed time tales her father told her as a small child, to scare her into submission. She had seen the White soldiers marching through the mist in early summer mornings, heard the gunfire and heavy artillery and the low rumbling of planes on some secret mission, but she, Mab Little, remained entirely untouched by it.

This naivety was probably the reason she lingered in the street when there was really no reason for it; her face slightly flushed but ridiculously passive, mirroring the solitary mannequin she saw through the dirty glass window. Briefly she touched her fingers to the glass, felt the burning urge to press her hot forehead against it, and for that moment was all alone in her vulnerability, and was glad for it, glad that no-one was around to witness it. In less than a moment she had pulled away from it, and stepped delicately to the side of the pavement, when the first burst of fire erupted into the tranquility
.
She would have liked to say she was brave, that she was quick and calculating and efficient, but suddenly it was so real and so close that she had frozen to the spot, standing stupidly with her mouth hanging open slightly and her eyes as wide as saucers. She couldn’t think – there was nothing in her head but that pure, unadulterated panic that hits those unaccustomed to war. She felt strangely detached, her arms hanging at her sides, until the gunfire was closer, harsher, and she swung around the window, facing it with no-where to go. Later she would hate herself for her complete incompetence and the utter relief she felt when someone caught hold of her lower arm, and started towing her away. She could see the back of his head and focused on that bobbing away in front of her, rough and entirely beautiful in that moment because he had saved her.

Caught in the darkness of the alley, her back pressed hard against the wall, her breathing shallow and her face torn between fear and indignation, she peered at her savior over furrowed eyebrows, not quite sure what to think or what to say. ‘Alright’ doesn’t seem quite the word for what she was feeling, but she nodded anyway, a slight, shaky jerk of her head, though she was on the verge of spitting out something irritated and marred with incredulity. She opened her mouth then, turning her face up to the man who had rushed in and saved her, full of childlike curiosity about him, which starved off any other of the overwhelming emotions coursing through her veins, making her pulse throb visibly. “I-” She started, only to be interrupted by a small, lean, hungry-looking boy dragging another, bleeding boy into the alley. The unharmed one asked, no, ordered her to help, and for a moment she pursed her lips tightly, annoyed that he should ask for her help because she was a woman and therefore obviously good at caring innately for things. Until of course she realized quite what was happening and then could only gape like a fish out of water, turning her rabbits eyes up to Rook helplessly, knowing full well that if she got any closer to that bleeding boy than she was now she was quite likely to pass out.

“I- er, I don’t think I can,” She said quickly, panicked, wanting nothing more than to slide down the wall to sit on her backside on the grimy concrete, bury her face in her hands and compose herself. But, knowing that was impractical in her current situation, she only looked utterly horrified, flapping her hands uselessly, her face changing from sickly white in reaction to the blood to flushed pink. There was a very good reason why Mab Little had never pursued nursing as a career, after all.