Fire

"So, what's the first thing you did?" I ask, poking the fire with a stick.


I can tell she's not listening, probably lost in memories of those first few days, but the quiet is too loud so I have to make conversation. I stare at her, watching the shadows flicker across the bones of her face, and marvel that she hasn't been touched, hasn't been corrupted by the human nature running rampant in these parts.


She shudders and then snaps back into the present, focusing on me. She is haunted, the memories trapped in her eyes, but she pushes them aside for the moment.


"I stole a car, actually." She replies. Her voice is soft, a little husky and tinted with a light European accent. I would hazard a guess that she inherited it form her parents but we haven't talked about that yet. Families are too hard to remember right now.


I smile, hoping to encourage more; she rubs her arm and shrugs her shoulders, almost like she's embarrassed.


"Yeah, I don't really know what happened. I was walking along some torn up street, maybe a highway, and there were all these cars just sitting on the side of the road. So I found one that was unlocked and took it for a ride."


She glances over at me and explains that her father used to be a car thief and that when she was little he showed her how to jump cars. She's grinning over the memory, savoring the warmth it brings. This is the most relaxed I've seen her in the time we've been together and I'm desperate to hold onto that.


"That's awesome," I say, lamely. I grimace at my weak reply but she's not paying attention. She isn't smiling anymore.

"I remember thinking that at any second a cop would pull up behind me or something like that but nothing happened" she says, staring into the fire again.


"No one came. All I saw were abandoned cars and clothes and open suitcases and other stuff that people left behind. And bodies; there were a lot of bodies." She's shivering and she rubs her arms again. This time she's not embarrassed.


I wish I could offer her a blanket or say something encouraging but there's nothing I can do. I stare at her again, at a loss. The quiet becomes deafening. I try again.


"What kind of car was it?" I ask softly. She jumps slightly, almost like she forgot I was there, and then looks me full in the face. She studies it for a moment, then shakes her head.


"Look, I can't talk about this. I-" She stops, overcome by something, then clears her throat and continues,


"I did some things, some things I'm not particularly proud of and I've seen things that will haunt me for the rest of my life; however long that may be. Can we just, for a few minutes, not talk about it?" Her voice is shaking, and I know that she's crying, but she refuses to wipe away the evidence.


I look away and poke at the fire again. I know what she means, about the shame, so I don't push.