A Porcelain Romance

Cold. Dirty. Filthy.

These are the words he used to describe the city he felt a strange kinship with. He was one of a kind, a kind he hated with all his being.

Logan was himself. A sorry failure of a man if there ever was one. Something he reminded himself of every single day.

No, no, he didn’t remind himself of that. His depression did. He just listened to and had believed it for far too long.

Logan was walking back to his apartment after a long day at work in the local bookshop. Mister Harold had given him a fairly generous pay for working extra hours, even offered to take him out to dinner. Logan had almost thought he was coming onto him until he remembered Mister Harold was a happily married man, with a wife and three kids. Wonderful people he was privileged to know. Mister Harold had once told him the kids saw him almost as an older brother they never had.

Logan was a terrible older brother. He’d known that ever since he gave Emily a black eye.

“Spare change, sir?”

Logan stopped walking. Sprawled in a sleeping bag before him was an old man wearing utterly filthy garments, his face lined with dirt, spots and warts. Without a second thought he took out his wallet, counted out roughly seventy dollars and gave the man fifty. The man had watched with a smile which quickly became stunned surprise when he counted the money.

“Are you sure you don’t want some of this back?” the old man asked, holding out at least twenty dollars.

“No, keep it,” Logan said, waving as he walked off. He didn’t need that much money anyway. At least, that’s what he told himself.

He also took the time to remind himself that a failure didn’t earn that kind of money nor give it away so freely. No, a failure would scream that they had done it from the rooftops and demand everyone acknowledged what a wonderful person they were for something anyone would do.

Logan preferred to keep this too himself.

He took a sharp turn down an alley in a few moments. It was a quick shortcut on the way back to his apartment, one he’d been down several times. It was rather clean now, the garbage men having done their job that morning, but rather was used for a reason. There were a few hastily tied, half filled black bags laying next to ones which were practically spilling open. Logan tactically avoided stepping on the broken eggshells covered in dirt and coffee grinds, when he saw a white, slender hand sticking out of an oversized black sleeve. First he summarized it belonged to a woman, judging by the size and shape, before noticing something peculiar.

It was made of porcelain. Clean and unblemished from the grime of the surrounding trash.

Logan’s curiosity was a strong thing when passive, just a thirst to learn more, yet when heightened it was unquenchable. He knew he should move on and look again tomorrow, but it wasn’t everyday someone threw away a perfectly good porcelain…

Logan now realized the puzzle before him. Because he could clearly see the outline of a person curled into a ball, lying against the stacked up bags of garbage carelessly left next to the green container. The oversized hoodie they were wearing covered their most of their body, and it was covered in faded bleach stains. Only the hand and two bare feet were visible. And they were all made of porcelain.
The questions running through his head came to a screeching halt when the porcelain hand twitched, and then the body moved.

For the whole time Logan had been watching it, this thing had had its back to him, but when it turned around so that their face was now visible, Logan saw it was an…an…

An angel.

She was an angel made of porcelain. Her platinum blonde hair was hidden behind the hoodie but he could still see the edges of it. But he wasn’t focusing on her hair, despite how beautiful it was. Her lips were a soft pink, and porcelain, like the rest of her pale, luscious skin. He was staring into her otherworldly eyes, a dark green coloration that entranced Logan the longer he stared.

It took him but a moment to see she was terrified.

Her lips parted slightly as she inched backwards, trying to crawl away from Logan. He instantly held out a hand in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.

“Wait,” he said softly, “don’t be scared.”

Internally, he was scolding himself. He was trying to reassure a girl made of porcelain that she didn’t have to be scared, and the best he could come with was basically pleading. And bad pleading at that.
Pleading which actually made her stop.

“Well,” she said in a voice as sweet as honey, “you’ve already seen me, so I…don’t see the point of running.” She was choosing her words slowly and deliberately, but looked at the ground before she continued. A slight change came over her, her entire body seeming to become more subdued and sullen. “You’ll probably be able to catch me in an instant, so if you’ve got anything planned I guess you should-”

“No!” Logan said quickly, “no, no I swear, I wouldn’t do anything you’re implying.”

The porcelain girl slowly looked up to meet his gaze, breathing in and out slowly. Her eyes were searching his face, trying to find something in there.

“I…” Logan turned away for a moment, rubbing his hand across his mouth than his greasy black hair. God, he needed to find some kind of shampoo which would fix that. When he turned back to the girl, her arms were curled up her legs, head resting on her knees as she watched him. This was just…awkward.

And Logan didn’t like awkward.

“Look, I don’t know what to say. I’ve never met someone with your…condition. But you shouldn’t be out here on the streets. Look, I’ve got an apartment nearby you can stay for a while-”

“My name’s Abigail,” she said suddenly.

Logan had been interrupted, but grunted softly, glad that she trusted him enough to tell him that.
“Logan. Logan Thornsberg. Now, get up and I’ll take you-”

“Don’t,” Abigail said quickly but firmly, “don’t help me.” Her jaw was clenched tightly as she fixed Logan with a grim stare.

“Why?” he asked, bemused.

“Because they’ll find and kill you. Or wipe your memory. Maybe worse.”

“…who will?”

Abigail chuckled. And when she gave Logan a melancholy smile, he suddenly felt his throat tighten. It was a smile filled with pure cynicism.

Okay, so looking at this objectively, he had found a teenage girl made of porcelain who had just explained a group of people would most likely wipe his memory, kill him or worse if he helped her. Clearly, his life was probably on the line right now, and he didn’t know why.

Sighing internally, he sat down right next to Abigail, leaning his back against the trash container. Abigail followed his every movement, startled, before spitting out a question.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Staying with you.”

Abigail didn’t know what to say to that. She could point that Logan would be stuck out here all night, in the cold, sleeping literally in piles of trash…like she was.

Instead, she just asked a question. “Why?”

Logan shrugged. “Cause someone needs to protect you.” He could have added how his own feelings of self-worth meant he didn’t see his own safety as all that important when someone else needed help, but he didn't. That was a secret he kept secure under lock and key. He always had.

Abigail was speechless. After years of being contained and protected by the Foundation, having someone offer, no, declare they would protect her was…pretty funny. Something she made very clear to Logan.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, trying to hide his own smile from her.

“It’s ironic,” Abigail said through her chuckles, “very ironic.”

“Me protecting you? I don’t think it is. You’re a homeless girl trying to sleep on garbage bags in an alleyway. Not to mention you’re made of porcelain, and-”

“Only my skin,” Abigail interrupted lightly.

Logan gave her a look, eyes drawn first to her beautiful lips before he moved back up to her eyes. They weren’t filled with fear anymore. She seemed interested now.

“Okay, but my point is, you’re not safe out here by yourself.”

“I know,” Abigail answered, turning away from Logan. She was perfectly content in every single way. Far too content.

“You could die,” Logan said, barely attempting to make it a question.

“I know.”

Logan didn’t make a sound. Instead, tentatively, he reached a hand out and touched her arm. Through the fabric he felt the solid skin tense up, making him pause. He remembered the last time he grabbed a girl’s arm. He’d liked her a lot.

She didn’t like him after that.One more mistake he would never be able to take back.

Then Abigail relaxed, and Logan began rubbing his fingers gently up and down her arm.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Trying to uh…well, make you feel better?”

DON’T BE A CREEPER AGAIN GODDAMN IT DON’T BE A CREEPER-

“Thank you.”

Now he froze, stunned. “You…like it?”

“It doesn’t hurt.” She still wasn’t looking at him. “Could you keep going?”

Logan obliged her, keeping his breathing soft and even via a strenuously conscious effort. They stayed that way, Logan trying comfort her while praying he wouldn’t go too far while Abigail tolerated it, even somewhat enjoyed his small attentions.

She had seen through his outer shell already. Inside, she saw someone timid and gentle, yet undeniably brave. Someone who was willing to stay out here with her all night when all she wanted to do was lay down and die. When his fingers reached her shoulder, she shivered softly and he felt it. Again, he froze with fear. Maybe his timidness was more of a character flaw…

“Could you rub my shoulder?” she asked him, but this time made eye contact with Logan.
He was probably her age, eighteen, with dark hair and pale skin. His brow had a few marks, probably left over from acne, dotting it. She noticed his high cheekbones and lean face next, and those brown eyes with orange marks around the iris. They weren’t hard or cruel like some of the Foundation researchers, but instead, she sensed they seemed to be hiding something - something deeper than his timid, gentle nature. She couldn’t help but notice how he nervously licked his lips whenever she would made eye contact, almost like some kind of self-conscious response. A response to what, though? She had an idea but didn’t buy it for a second. The last time any boy had been interested in her was when her neighbor tried flirting with all the effectiveness of an immature twelve-year-old.
When Logan obliged her by rubbing her shoulder with that signature gentleness, her relaxation deepened and she hummed softly. She closed her eyes then leaned the side of her head against the trash can, breathing softly. Then Logan stopped. She opened her eyes to find him taking off his jacket and bundling it into a ball, exposing how lean the rest of his frame was. When he turned back to her, he did so by offering the garment.

“You can use this as a pillow,” he said, “I imagine that this” - he gestured to the green box - “isn’t very comfortable.”

Abigail had only one response to that. “Take me to your place.”

Logan looked floored. In fact, he probably was. “You’re serious?”

Abigail smiled again in amusement. “Absolutely.”

“But you said you were-”

“Logan,” Abigail cut him off, reaching out her hand and gently touching his arm, “you’ve been really nice for the whole time I’ve known you. You didn’t freak out and call the police, try to hurt or take advantage of me. You’ve just tried to take care of me this whole time and…I’m grateful for that. Very, very grateful.”

Logan had taken on a stoic expression, yet another attempt to hide his inner turmoil. A girl had agreed to come back to his apartment. Scratch that, an angel in the skin of a girl. Under normal circumstances he’d be feeling very pleased with himself. And he did. But it wasn’t because he had gotten a date. No, this satisfaction was from helping someone take care of herself.

Logan easily put his jacket back on as he stood up, before offering Abigail his hand. When she took it, entwining her fingers with his, a jolt shot up his arm and down his spine. He sharply inhaled, a little taken aback.

Abigail had noticed. She didn’t comment on it, simply writing it off as surprise. It wasn’t everyday you touched living porcelain.

His hand was soft and smooth. Abigail liked that. She also liked him.

Logan wasn’t to stop himself from quickly studying her. Just a glance to see if she was hurt anywhere else. To his shame, this glance turned into a lingering stare when he saw her legs. She was wearing a pair of ripped jeans that cut off at the knees, and what he saw was as angelic as the rest of her. His heart skipped a beat while his eyes remained fixed in place.

“Um…my eyes are up here?”

Shit! You’re being a creeper!

“Sorry, but I noticed that you’re probably going to need a change of clothes soon. Probably a bath as well.”

Abigail nodded, not buying his excuse for a second. But he did have a point. After the Serpent’s Hand had broken her out, they’d left her to fend for herself.

She grimaced bitterly. Fuck them all. They hadn’t even let her take along with beauty products or even a mirror. God, she must look awful.

Like every other day of her life.

“I’d like a bath,” Abigail answered softly.

Getting Abigail to his apartment had been easier than Logan had expected. Nobody had been close enough to pay attention, and his apartment wasn’t a particularly long trip. Once they exited the elevator, Logan peaked his head out of the elevator and quickly scanned the hallway. With the coast clear, it was a cinch getting home.

“It’s not much,” Logan admitted when Abigail took her first steps inside.

“I like it,” she said ruefully. There were things she’d never had back when she was a kid. A television, computer, books that weren’t devoted to her father’s ideals, and-

“Wait, is that a Thomas the Tank Engine train set?”

Logan smiled and looked away, embarrassed. “Yeah, uh…kind of a fan. Have been ever since I was a kid. That particular set I’ve had ever since I was five.”

He remembered how he had excited he’d been ripping off the wrapping paper to see Thomas’s smiled grey face on the box. Smiling for the camera with the set sprawled before him, then hugging his dad for such a wonderful gift.

Thank God he didn’t fight with mom that Christmas.

Abigail, meanwhile, was kneeling on the ground beside the blue train track. Thomas, Anne and Clarabell were at the station. Unable to help herself, Abigail flipped Thomas’s switch and off he went, racing along the track merrily. She glanced at the bookcase above it. Row upon row of Thomas the Tank Engine books were neatly stacked in the shelves. Pulling one down, she opened it up and began reading.

“Oh yeah, the original Railway series by Wilbert Awdry. Classics.” Logan was in the kitchen, getting out a box of spaghetti and some tomato sauce. “You ever read those as a kid?”

“My dad read me the Turner Diaries every night before bed,” Abigail answered dryly.

Logan immediately shot up and gazed at her from across the kitchen counter top. “He read you…the Turner Diaries?”

Abigail closed the book shut harshly and stood up. “Hated every single word.” She turned back to Logan, his eyes wide as saucers.

“I’d like that bath now,” she said. Logan nodded, walking around the counter top and pointing to the bathroom.

“I’ve got shampoo and body wash, but there aren’t any towels available. Left them in the dryer all day. I’ll bring you some,” he told Abigail as she walked past him to the bathroom.

The floor was composed of creamy tiles and the walls painted a dull yellow, but what really got her attention was the mirror. Immediately she began inspecting herself.

Yup, just as she feared. Her hair had small clumps of dirt in it, brown smudges on her legs and hands. She ditched the black hoodie she’d worn for the past week or so, discarding it so she could look up her chest and stomach.

A few stray fabrics were scattered across her frame. There were grass stains on her elbows and lower arms.