Sammy.
A second tear followed quickly after the first and into the corner of his mouth.
Blair.
Muscle memory moved Mark's hand to the inside pocket of his worn jean jacket and removed an old postcard. Clearing his nose, he unfolded it and read the short, hand-written paragraph. He read it every day and night for the past year. The lines of the folds were starting to wear along the seams. Dirt, blood, and fingerprints stained the paper, almost making the words ineligible. Mark carried a pen with him always and traced over the words religiously once they began to fade, never wanting them to disappear. For it was all he had left of his eldest son. He knew it all by heart. Opening it was merely ritual.
Fingers shaking, Mark pressed a kiss to the signature.
Heat rushed through his body, up his neck, and across his face. Wiping his sweating brow quickly, he rushed over the to the bay windows next to the desk and pressed his forehead against the cool glass.
Controlling his breathing, he touched the fabric of the curtains. Crisp and soft against his calloused fingers. Too soft. A third tear fell.
Focus. Focus on what's in front of you.
Once more into the...
"Do you mind if I film this?"
Mark jumped involuntarily and dropped the postcard. Bending down to retrieve it, he cursed himself internally. Letting his guard down was a mistake he'd conditioned himself to make again. Last time, it nearly cost him his life.
"Huh?" the words were gummy in his mouth, his tongue sore from lack of talking.
Folding and unfolding the postcard four times, Mark slid it back into his jacket.
Deanna Monroe gasped when Mark stood up straight and turned to face her. She disguised her shock with a fake cough and regained her professional composure. All morning, the largest group of survivors she'd seen in a long time came in and out of her office, all walks of life revealing trauma after trauma. Markus Crowe was her last interview of the day. She thoughts she'd be used to their appearances by now, but this man was different.
Against her pristine, organized office, Mark stood out like a feral dog who never saw the light of day or the softness of a loving hand. He looked at her like one, too. Weary, distrusting, deciding if he wanted to bite or lick the outstretched hand.
Deanna was familiar
"Do you mind if I film our talk?" She asked again, her tone neutral.
"I'm not talking about anything, lady. I want to leave. Now." Mark backed into the corner between the window and the bookcase. His round, dark eyes doubled in size, scanning the room as if looking for the nearest exit.
"I just want to get to know you better. Let's start with our names. I'm Deanna Monroe."
He grunted and gripped the windowsill until his knuckles turned white.
"And you are?"
"Leaving. I didn't ask to be here." Mark answered.
"The windows are welded shut. Please, have a seat." Deanna pulled
"I'll break the glass. I'm not afraid. Let me out. Now." Mark never raised his voice, but Deanna recognized a certain tremor underneath his words. The way a dog flattened its ear and growled in warning.
"I'm sorry I made you wait in here for so long. For taking your weapons. We just have certain precautions." Deanna tread the waters carefully, rounding the desk without turning her back to him. She pulled out the cushioned chair from her desk and sat down gingerly. She waited and gauged his reaction. Nothing. No move made towards the chair opposite of her. His eyes never wavered from her slow movements. It was that abused, worn look all the survivors wore. It was a part of them now and she feared it would never fully fade. She thanked God that her eyes remained innocent. For the most part, anyway.
markus.
Start from the beginning
