Father is God in the eyes of the Child
Summary: Another for the class I took, also edited. A short scene from near the end (though this is always subject to change). A teenage girl and an apocalypse of a sort, and all she wants to do is find her way to her father. Violence, mental instability.
Barely breathing, the girl pauses before the automatic glass doors of a partially burnt down hospital. The charred sign above the front entrance reads only ‘Saint A’, the remaining letters shards of red plastic and broken bulbs on the cement below. The girl sniffs, swinging a metal bat from one hand to the other, muscles flexing powerfully in her stocky build. The glass doors make no effort to open for her, and she hadn't really expected them to. She whispers tiredly to the emptiness, lamenting her hope that maybe, just once, things could have been easy on her, but nothing answers, nothing moves, so she tries to push them open. No such luck comes and she heaves a sigh. After a moment of quiet deliberation, she steps back, steadies herself, and slams the bat full force into the doors, face contorting with the effort.
The first hit barely leaves a sign, as the doors are thick, probably safety glass, and only a dent left in her wake. She curses, tries again, then once more until she forgets how many hits she's given and her arms ache with exertion. A few thin cracks have started to snake through the door, not enough, so she powers through the pain as her arms burn, screaming her frustrations. She's surprised that nothing has come for her yet, with all the noise she's making, and she thanks whatever luck is with her for however short a time. After what seems like ages, but is probably only a minute, the glass gives, the right door shattering inward in an explosion of thousands of glittering, deadly shards. They tinkle against the chequered tile of the inner lobby, the fading sun throwing light every which way across the walls. It would be pretty, perhaps, if it weren't for all the bloodstains.
The girl steps cautiously over the glass, now bent bat held tight in her fingers as she scans the room. Her dark eyebrows furrow as a small sound drifts through the silence, so soft at first she cannot hear it. She takes a slow step forward, breath held.
Sobbing. Coming from behind the front desk. Definitely a woman.
She raises the bat on high as she approaches, the sobbing growing louder with each step, becoming almost manic, howling.
“Come out.” she commands, knuckles turning white, but her voice trembles.
A hand emerges from behind the desk. It is slender, pale, with long curved nails painted blue, only barely visible under the layer of dried and drying blood. Following, a blue sweater, blue scrubs, and blonde, matted hair, all bloodied. The figure looks up, oval glasses shattered over a broken nose that had been long and straight.
“Cordeliaaaa,” The nurse rasps, crawling on hand and knee towards the girl, Cordelia. She doesn't back away, even as the woman grips tightly at fabric of Cordelia's loose cargo pants. “All gone now. All alooooone. Just poor little me, and the man from 315.” She shifts into sitting, arms embracing Cordelia's leg and she can now see the fresh bite wound on the nurse's shoulder, bleeding slowly down the wool of her sweater and staining her breasts red. She recoils, stumbles back, eyes wide.
“I'm so sorry.” That's all Cordelia can manage, choking as tears start to stream down her face unbidden. She wipes her face with a dirty sleeve, arms shaking with exhaustion.
The nurse falls to the ground, as if sitting is too much of an effort, and her hair spreads out around her bloodied face like a wreath. There's blood and spittle foaming at the edges of her mouth, and her eyes have gone red, full of burst blood vessels. She turns her head, weakly, slowly, giving Cordelia something like a smile with two teeth missing, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. “Please.”
Cordelia sobs, but nods.
The crack of the bat echoes throughout the lobby, again and again and again, blood obscuring the nurse’s name tag, ‘Kara’. Silence follows, absolute but for Cordelia's small, breathless pants.
She sways, more blood staining the front of her top, and she nearly drops where she stands. She manages to think of her father in Room 225, thinks of his smile, and steadies somewhat, finds the strength to keep going, if only for a few minutes longer. With a quivering hand, she bends and plucks the tag from the reddened scrubs, thrusting it into the pocket of her pants, where it clinks lightly against the other things she's saved. She stumbles away, finds a wall to lean against, breathes deep.
“I can’t stop.” she murmurs, even though her friends are all far behind her. She's most likely speaking to their memories in her pocket, if any thing at all. “Just a little bit more.” She pushes off the wall, back straight, and doesn’t look back.
Thanks for looking.