Five - Deaf, Dumb, And Blind

Deaf, dumb and blind, you just keep on pretending
That everyone's expendable, and no one has a real friend
And it seems to you the thing to do would be to isolate the winner
Everything's done under the sun
But you believe at heart everyone's a killer

Who was born in a house full of pain
Who was trained not to spit in the fan
Who was told what to do by the man
Who was broken by trained personnel
Who was fitted with collar and chain
Who was given a pat on the back
Who was breaking away from the pack
Who was only a stranger at home
Who was ground down in the end
Who was found dead on the phone
Who was dragged down by the stone
 - Pink Floyd, "Dogs"

She stood in the kitchen, ladling chili into a bowl and avoiding the gazes of the other tenants.

Inside, behind her eyes, Christie Waterman watched and thought.

The Recovery House was  exactly what she had expected it to be, more or less. Perhaps she had thought that there might be more tenants there, that surely no organization such as the House could exist and not be flooded with those who needed its shelter, but some part of her, at least, was not surprised to find the place as small as it was.

In some ways, that made things much easier. In others, it made them much, much harder.

With only four other residents, not including Seward, she could not hope to just be a face in the crowd. She had gotten good at fading into the background of things, over the years. If you carried yourself a certain way, spoke with a certain inflection, people would just... ignore you, eventually. They might be curious for a while, but eventually they would accept you as the quiet, strange girl that was best off left alone.

But it was easiest if there was a crowd to blend into. She could do it with a group this size, of course. She had before. But it was more difficult, and it took more time.

She didn't want it to take time. She was tired of waiting.

She was tired of a lot of things. Running. Hiding. Being alone. Being afraid. Being helpless.

Well. All of that would change, soon.

Outside, her body ran through the motions of eating with the rest. Or, rather, not eating with the rest - ducking into the hallway, avoiding eye contact, offering only short, terse whispers in answer to anything said to her. Inside, Christie Waterman's mind ticked along, blued steel and icicle clockwork, with memories and thoughts sparkling through the machinery like shards of broken glass.

And, at the center of the chill and sharpness, a bright, angry core, a single emotion honed by time and pressure into something that burned and spun and seethed at the heart of everything.

Hate.

Absolute, unflinching hatred. Not raw, animal fury, but sharp, knife-edged hate. Hate that burned cold and sparkling, that dominated everything with the sheer gravity of its presence.

Inwardly, she smiled at the cold heat of it. Plans spun on in the engine of her thoughts, all orbiting the raging coldness at its center. In her imagination, knives flashed. Mirrors shattered. Fires blazed. And, at the end of it all, there stood a smiling young man with brown hair, arms outstretched and waiting.

And, outside, she lifted her eyes away from her hands and the sight of the Worms under her skin.