MABEL
— before delphi
Morning frost hangs in the air. A ghost-lamp flicks off outside the house with a click, leaving the kitchen in the dim early daylight. Mabel's head snaps up in response to the noise. She's been staring, spaced out, at the kettle on the stove for the past twenty minutes; pressing her hand to its side reveals that its freezing cold, and she decides to give up on the tea.
Instead, she heads back up to her room. Her white socks (not-so white anymore, thanks to the dusty floorboards she never manages to sweep) pad against the carpet, loud in the quietness of a 6AM in Portland Row.
She sips at a glass of long-stagnant warm water left on her bedside table, falls back into her bed, and curls herself into a ball beneath her duvet. Knees to her chin, eyes staring at the sunlight through a space between the bed and the blanket. Her eyes grow heavy. She drifts off into a daydream.
She hasn't found that sleep comes easy. When it does come, it's as if she's fallen into a coma.
For now she just watches the morning light grow brighter.
—
Her bedroom door clicks open. Someone hums her name— she doesn't stir, despite beginning to notice the dried tears on her face and the soaked state of her pillow. Glasses and plates clatter nearby her head, as if the someone is clearing them away. They've been piling up for a while.
"Bels?" The voice is muffled, and soft, but much clearer now. She can pick out Cameron's tone. Something about it, the pity in it, makes her want to move less— not out of spite, though. More embarrassment. She pretends to be asleep until he leaves. The door clicks shut, and she pulls her knees even closer beneath her chin.
—
Sometime, she drifted off. When her eyes flutter open, it's dark outside; the green light of the ghost-lamps shine on something new on her bedside table, and Mabel has to practically force herself to sit up to satisfy her curiosity. She pulls the duvet up around herself like a cocoon.
It's a tray— usually, the food Cam brings goes cold, but it's fresh cookies wrapped in clingfilm and a little sealed pot of apple slices, and one of those cups designed to keep your drink or soup warm filled with tea. He thought ahead.
The idea sends fresh tears to bloom in her eyes. Mabel places the pot in her lap, pulls off the lid, and nibbles at an apple slice. The tartness spreads over her tongue; he specifically chose one she'd like, knowing she hated the sweet apples from the market closest, making him go out of his way to pick these up from the other side of the city.
It's embarrassing that she's crying, she knows that. But she realises just how useless she feels. It's only logical Cam picked these up on the way home from a case, one he didn't invite her on, one that kept the heating on and the water and put the food she was eating right now on the table. He was doing everything, and she was sitting and rotting.
Then again, he wouldn't let her do anything. Maybe that was the frustrating part.
She eats a cookie next. White chocolate chip. She hates that he's so thoughtful— why does she hate it? Would she rather he do nothing? Leave her there, let her sleep herself to death?
Sometimes she wonders why she was allowed to live, and they weren't. Was it worth it? Was she worth it?
Mabel leaves the half-eaten cookie on the bedside table. She drifts off back to sleep until morning. Her dreams are non-existent.
She makes a point of ignoring the leftover knife on the plate on the floor, and pretends she's in love with the idea of being alive.
