Chapter Text
Fourteen days after the world went to hell, you got everyone to be in your basement. You kept track of the days through abandoned chalk on the walls.
The radio told you it was going to be over, to give it a few days. You never questioned why you weren’t happy. Just… disappointed.
Eventually, people left. Some far from dawn, others decided to test the sun again. You didn’t hear charring outside when you got out of the basement. Your house was still intact.
Some were kind enough to thank you, others said goodbye and some left without a word.
That kid with the cap stayed back. She never asked to stay, she just never left.
You didn’t care. You let her sleep on the office couch and eat your food. You barely talked to each other. Sure, she’d say she was going to sleep and lock the office door as you nodded, but things never got past that.
Tonight was one of those nights where you would sit in the living room and think. You thought about everything, what you should and what you shouldn’t.
You had just finished taking a deep breath when someone knocked on the door. Of course. There were always some dumbasses who didn't know the world was going back to normal. You considered ignoring whoever was out there, but the thought of hearing that kid going over to the door and yelling made you get up.
She always said she was going to sleep. It was bullshit. All she did was cry.
You went to the hall, and looked through the peephole.
You’ve seen that face many times before, from all the times you ordered things. The frizzy blonde hair, the beard. Yet, you didn’t ask for anything.
“I didn’t order anything. You have the wrong house,” You said. Talking sounded foreign. You haven’t done that for a few days.
“It’s not a delivery this time.” The man said. “Post offices are still being covered, so ForRest basically acts as one and everything.”
Post office? You weren’t waiting for a package. And you’ve been around enough to know that kid didn't use the horrible computer you have.
You opened the door out of instinct. You have officially stopped caring. The man handed you an envelope, told you goodnight and disappeared into the night. You closed the door, and placed the white rectangle onto the desk where your telephone stayed.
If that thing was important, it would be on the news.
You woke up the next morning. The sense of dread disappeared completely - the outside was safe now - and you had a person to be with and something for you to do. Things felt… normal. Too normal. You heard cupboards opening and closing in the kitchen. You didn't pay the teenager a glance, too focused on the envelope sitting in your accent table.
Ripping it open on the top was easy. You unfolded the paper inside and let the cover fall beside your feet. On the top, there was a flag you didn’t recognize. Red and white, with five crosses. You were never good at Geography. And you looked at the contents, reading those few lines with confusion.
That wasn’t Russian. Or the alphabet they used in English. The letters were round, or meant to be round. The writer’s handwriting wasn’t the most graceful, but it was clear they tried to make it pretty to some degree.
"Svool! R ulfmw blfi zwivhh gsilfts gsv gizrm nzkh. R'n gsv glfirhg blf ovg rm. gizrmh dviv zxgfzoob dliprmt, xzm blf yvorvev rg? Dvoo, gszmp blf uli ovggrmt nv hgzb drgs blf. R nvzm rg. R'n slkrmt gl ivzw yzxp uiln blf hllm, yfg gzpv blfi grnv. Ovggvih ziv vckvmhrev gsviv!
R slkv blf'iv dvoo,
Matthew"
Okay. Whatever that meant. But it was the actual guy, because his name was in the most common alphabet, written in wonky letters. Matthew.
You’re sure you’ve heard that name before, through a thick accent. Though you have no idea what that letter meant at all, the man who sent it was one you’ve lived with before. You deduce he’s home already, for him to be sending letters.
You should really write back. He was actually very nice while with you, even if it was only with gestures and messy, bloody smiles.
You’ll probably do it later. Probably. You don’t promise yourself anything - that has never worked out to be something good - and went to the kitchen. You no longer had to eat canned food for breakfast. You had everything but your precious alone time.
The teenager was still sitting down at the table. In fact, she seemed halfway through her - your - off-brand cereal. Seeing her pick up milk with the spoon was what opened your eyes. This was normal now. Your new normal. You were no longer with… her, and you weren’t alone either. And still, the sun was normal.
Your eyes slipped to the calendar. End of August. The twenty-eighth, specifically.
Doesn't that kid have to go to school?
You sat down and picked up the bread from yesterday’s afternoon sitting on the center of the table. You were too hungry to bother spreading something on it. Maybe you’ll make yourself a coffee later - even if it hurt to believe it, you had the possibility to make it hot from the start and not through the stove.
The teenager didn’t look at you. She seemed focused on her dear, dear food - it’s been a while since she had something that wouldn’t leave her stomach begging for help - and probably didn’t notice you coming in the first place. And then it dawned on you - you’re living with a stranger. You didn't know her name. You knew nothing about this girl except how taunted by her past she was.
“What’s your name?”
She took the last spoonful to her mouth before answering.
“Angelina,” she told you, not looking up. She looked to the left instead, trying to read the clock on the wall. Her eyes were red and she was confused.
You assumed she wasn't very bright.
A desperate knock came to your door. She glanced towards you. You said nothing. All you did was get up on instinct, even if it wasn't the dead of night. You’ve grown so used to it, that the thought of someone coming in didn’t scare you.
You were opening the door when a well dressed man straightened his back at the sight of you.
“Good morning, sir. I’ve heard Ms.Angelina Petrova resides here?” The posh man said. His accent made you think he was from the richer parts of the capital. “I’ll need her information to enroll her in the closest school.”
He didn’t even ask you if you were her parent, a relative, something. You could be neglecting the shit out of this child and this guy would only think about the papers he had to read and fill out.
You called her. She came with a card in hand and the face of someone who was about to cry. She was smart enough to bring her ID here, at least.
The man told her she starts next Wednesday. He handed her a sheet of paper. Must be the timetable, you assumed, judging from the squares. He walked off, and you closed the door.
Ah, right. The letter. You scrambled to find a pen and a lonely piece of paper. Angelina closed herself in the office again. You have stopped going in there, now that you thought about it.
You sat at the kitchen table, unsure how to start. You’ve never done this before.