Cold

Clockwork

When Molly first showed up at Rosie's Jo wasn't sure what to make of her.

This knobby-kneed girl with white blonde hair stumbling down the hall, sporting a bleeding nose, and, despite the trembling in her shoulders and hand, staring defiantly at anyone who came within a five-foot radius, all the while April was apologizing profusely, clinging to her scooter like it was a lifeline.

Molly didn't really talk much, barely acknowledged Jen when she appeared, carrying a first aid kit, and flinched every time Jen even so much as breathed at her.

After half an hour of staring contests, glares, and hushed growls, Molly had an ice pack on her face and a bandage on the swollen lump of her nose.

It was never really discussed whether Molly was staying or not, but she simply took the painkillers Jen offered, crept into one of the spare bedrooms, and didn't reemerge for at least two days.

And Jo didn't know what to do except watch.

Ripley was Ripley and immediately latched herself onto Molly's side like a koala to its mother.

April was April and extended an Olive branch as soon as she could get Molly to emerge from her bedroom.

Jen was Jen and all smiles and reassuring words, gentle encouragement.

And Jo... Jo just watched.

Molly was monosyllabic, bruised in places she didn't try to explain, clinging to sweaters and jeans far too big for her, so that no one could see the bones that peaked from under her skin.

Jo watched when, the first time Ripley grabbed Molly's wrist without warning to pull her and show her something, the girl flinched so harshly she nearly whacked her head into the wall.

Jo watched when, the first time Jen chastised Molly for something, just a simple reminder to clean up after herself in the kitchen, Molly had broken down sobbing, curling up in her closet and refusing to come out for hours, Jen apologizing the whole time and looking close to tears herself.

Jo watched, mesmerized, when Molly was put on dish duty and somehow managed to clean the entire kitchen so thoroughly that Jo could actually see her reflection in the floor, and Molly simply left the kitchen without a word, a bottle of bleach clutched in her right hand so tightly her knuckles were white.

When dropped a pan in the middle of making dinner one night, she watched as Molly's eyes dilated, the tensing of her shoulders, how every little bit of color and feeling left her body and she dived beneath the kitchen table. She watched as Molly pulled her knees to her chest, tucked her head between them, and trembled.

She didn't scream, didn't cry, didn't even gasp, she just curled into a ball and shook.

And Jo watched, helpless.

People were like clocks, Jo had learned a long time ago.

Constant, forward things, no matter what Clocks always moved forwards.

But clocks were also so fragile, so easily broken.

So easily stopped.

Clocks never moved backward, mind you, unless forced to, unless someone wound them backward, but clocks stopped sometimes.

Sometimes it was something simple, a rusted gear, a broken part, a bent axel, a cracked bell.

Sometimes it was no one's fault and the environment or age simply caught up to the machine.

And sometimes, a clock was broken.

Flung to the ground, smashed in with a hammer, left in shattered pieces on the floor for someone else to pick them up later, face frozen, showing only the time the clock broke and nothing more.