The Crow: Fractured Mirror
A/N: All ideas of the "Crow" belong to James O'Barr. My deepest sympathies to him for all he's been through, and my sincere gratitude for creating the story in spite of all that's happened.
-Love-
The air was thick, even though the breeze sent a chill down her spine. It made sense; it was a typical October night: not warm, but not too cold either. If it weren't for the monitors in her ears, she would be deaf with the raging crowd, the screaming guitars, the thundering drums. Instead, she heard only a slight beat from her uncle's kit, the chords of her father's acoustic, and the solo of her twin brother's electric. The bass of her other uncle remained silent; she didn't need it. She knew her mix sounded nothing like those of the men on stage. They each chose what they wanted to hear. An ending chord resounded, and the band briefly froze for effect, steam rising off the stage and forming a mist in the air just above it. She was dressed in all black--the standard for stage hands--and stood with the others along the wing. Her father ran over to her and handed her the acoustic Ibanez he'd been playing, trading her for the tawny tiger striped Fender in her hand. She carefully set the acoustic in its rack and hurried back to the edge of the stage just in time for her father to introduce her. She stopped quickly for a kiss from her brother, then carefully picked her way to her mic, avoiding cords laid to carry vibrations from the guitars to the speakers. She sang an undetectable note into her monitor and quickly matched pitch with her dad.
The lights, to any untrained eyes would be blinding. But she'd grown up beneath them; the stage, the noise, the sounds, were old friends. She raised a hand to thank the audience and turned to her father. He nodded back at her, then to his friend on the drum set, and the song began. Her voice floated on the air, melding with the notes of her dad's guitar and his own voice's harmony. As the music faded into cheers, she felt the familiar lift, that rush of endorphins some would go so far as to take drugs to feel. She thanked the crowd again and made her rounds, kissing each of the band members, before retreating backstage to finish out the concert as her father's and brother's guitar-tech. As much as she loved being on stage, she liked taking care of her family more.
After two encores, the boys all met her out in the trailer designated as the green room for this show. Their bodies were covered in sweat, their faces in smiles. "I still say you should sing more often, Cariad; the crowd loves you." Since Branwyn and her brother were twelve years old, her father had been trying to get them up there with him. He'd finally succeeded when the band's original guitar soloist had left for rehab, and Bowen was tired of fighting.
"Yeah," her brother chimed in. "At the very least, I could go back to keyboards and you could take the solos; we all know you can play me into a ditch."
"And then who would make sure your guitars get taken care of? Parker? He's got enough to worry about." They decided to leave it at that; both knew they wouldn't get anywhere arguing with her. She was more stubborn than all the guys put together.
Branwyn's godfather--also known as the bassist--approached from behind and slung an arm around her. "Will you at least come to 'meet-and-greet' with us tonight?" She smiled coyly and nodded; she would give them that.
---------
She sat at a long table just beyond the stage between her brother and their "Uncle Mark," known to fans as the drummer. Person after person passed by, picture after picture was taken, poster after T-shirt after ticket was signed. Hours felt like minutes, and faces blurred.
A boy appeared before her, obviously different from the others who had passed. He was tall and looked uncomfortable in his own skin. There were two others standing with him, pushing him forward, it seemed. His sly smile sent a chill down her spine, but she couldn't show it, had been taught not to show it. He placed his poster on the table. "Did you enjoy the show?" she asked, just like she always did.
"I only came for you."
There was that shiver again. "But I only sing one song," she laughed forcefully, trying to sound like she was joking. "You didn't stay for the rest of it?"
"You're the only one worth watching."
"Yeah," one of his buddies spoke. "He's in love with you." In the back of her mind, she thought he didn't look half bad; though they looked vaguely similar, he wasn't nearly as creepy as the other boy.
"That's an understatement, Cor," the third added.
"Well, thank you, Sweetheart; I love you too." She had been taught to reciprocate fans' feelings; without the fans, they were nothing.
"You do?" he seemed a little surprised.
"You hear that, Skiff?" the third boy laughed. "Maybe she'll go out with you."
"No, sorry," Branwyn answered, forcing a laugh again. "We've got a tour coming up; I've got my hands full."
His jaw set--barely noticeable--and his face began to turn red. "You shouldn't say things you don't mean." His gaze was icy, sending needles into the back of her neck and making her stomach fall to the floor. Bowen felt his sister's unease and shot an askance look at her and her new "friends."
"Hey, guys, why don't you move along, huh? Thanks for coming out, but we've got a lot of people waiting here." He put his arm around her, but that only made things worse; she noticed Skiff's fist begin to form and turn white with the pressure of this grip. Just as the punch flew toward Bowen, Branwyn stood and deflected it.
"Whoa there, Skiff," one of the boys with him called.
"Shut up, Darry!" Skiff spat back.
Jace's eyes darted up just in time to see his daughter catch the blow. He jumped from his chair and moved to stand behind her. Ricky did the same, laying a hand on his god-daughter's shoulder.
"Hey, Skiff, let's just go back to the Cave before they throw us out of here, huh?" He pulled on the arm of his younger friend. For a moment, Skiff resisted, his eyes now sending fire at Branwyn. But she stood firm, sending it right back at him, so he relented and turned to leave with the other boys.
"You okay, Cariad?" Jace voiced, his gaze still trained on the three boys.
"Yeah, Dad, I'm okay," she answered.
"How about you, Bo?"
"Yeah; just wasn't expecting it is all." His voice wavered a bit, telling Branwyn that he was more shaken up than he would ever admit. Being his twin gave Branwyn more insight into Bowen than most would ever know.
Bowen shook his head and focused back on the poster in front of him. A young girl stood patiently waiting for him to add his name next to his face. He smiled up at her and asked her to whom he should make out the autograph. Branwyn smiled weakly and laid a hand encouragingly on his shoulder. Then she too smiled at the girl and added her name and a message of thanks to her poster. In a few minutes, everyone would be alright and the incident would be pushed to the back of their minds. All except Branwyn. That was the kind of event she would remember for all of them, just to make sure it never happened again.
---------
Two days later, Branwyn crossed a busy street, looking both ways continuously to make sure she wouldn't get hit. Her messenger bag slung across her chest carried packed lunches and her math book, calculator, paper and pencils. With each step she felt more and more nervous. It had nothing to do with the traffic; even though it was the very definition of cluster-fuck, downtown Manhattan didn't scare her. It was more that she could feel eyes on her. Her brain told her she was being stupid--of course she was being watched, there were dozens of people all around her. But she couldn't shake the feeling. She quickened her pace and breathed a small sigh of relief as she stepped through the doorway of her intended destination. She waved to the security guard--who smiled and waved back--and went directly to a young woman sitting behind a desk, a headset phone on her ear and her fingers typing away at a keyboard. The woman stopped for a moment to look up at her and smiled. "Hey, Branwyn, ready for the show tomorrow?" That show would kick off the band's new tour, and would send them off to Boston.
"Almost; I just have to do a little more for school and then get everyone packed."
"Well, the boys are working hard. You can go on up."
"Thanks, Steph," Branwyn smiled. "Hey, let me know how things work out with that hottie from across the street when I get back."
"Will do, Sweetheart," Stephanie laughed. Then she returned to confirming the band's travel plans as Branwyn moved toward the stairwell and climbed up a flight. Her sneaker-clad feet found their way down the hall and around the corner, where she ran into three doors. The first had a glowing sign above it: Quiet! Recording! The next led her into a small dark room with a wall of glass showing the adjacent room. Behind the window, she saw her father, eyes closed, headphones on, singing into a screened microphone. She helped the door close so it made no sound when it met the door jam again. She was so quiet that neither of the men sitting at the soundboard would have noticed her had her reflection not been visible in the makeshift mirror before them. Her Uncle Ricky spun and threw a quick kiss at her before turning back to the soundboard. She sat down in her designated corner; she had claimed it when she was very little. It was at the far end of the room so there was no chance that any small noise she made would be picked up through the glass or disturb the men while they worked. Cross-legged, she pulled out her math book and supplies and began her homework.
Five problems in, her father exited the recording room, greeted her with a kiss on the head, then made for the soundboard to hear samples of the track they'd just been working on. The men left her alone while she finished her work; they wanted to get as much done on the new album as they could before they left for the tour. By the time Bowen entered, his sister was finished, and his father and uncles were settling on a take of the lyrics. "You know," Branwyn broke the quiet, "people laugh about twins having a telepathic bond, but somehow, Bo, you always know when it's time to eat."
"That's not a connection between our minds, Chwaer, that connection is between our stomachs." Everyone laughed, and he joined his sister on the floor, kissing her on the cheek. She opened her bag and pulled out the lunches she'd packed before she'd left the apartment that morning. Each of the paper bags was personalized because each held something different. Jace's had a roast beef sandwich on wheat bread with honey mustard and a plastic bag of pretzels. He looked a little disappointed when Ricky opened his bag to find chocolate chip cookies with his ham sandwich. But Jace didn't complain; he knew that once they got on the road he'd get plenty of junk food. Mark's bag contained two slices of cold pepperoni pizza and a small bag of plain potato chips. For her brother, Branwyn had packed egg salad on dark rye and some apple slices with a small container of peanut butter for dipping. If he insisted on not eating meat, she was going to make sure he got as much protein as possible. In her own sack she had tuna fish on wheat and a full apple.
Together they sat eating, laughing, enjoying each other's company. Though she was the only girl in the family, Branwyn had never felt alone. Their mother had left before the twins were two years old and at that point, they learned to depend more on each other than their parents. The most alone she'd ever felt was when she'd started her period, but luckily her father had been dating a woman who was more than willing to help. Of course, May hadn't lasted long after Jace refused to put the kids in boarding school, but she'd been nice while she was there. Never before had the kids gone to an institution for classes, and he hadn't been about to make them start. They were still getting their high school diplomas; they were simply considered "absentee students" at the local public high school, and took their classes online. They were both in their senior year and would graduate in June with the rest of the kids. The only thing that made Jace prouder was that on top of school, they were full-fledged members of the band and crew. Eighteen years old and his children would never have to hold down a job unless they wanted to. He'd done his best not to spoil them too much, though it was rare for him to spare expense on their accounts, and he thought that their participation in his own occupation had acclimated them to people well enough that they would never be considered outcasts.
-Loss-
You okay, Cariad?
A blinding flash jolted her awake, and she felt her surroundings. She was in a box of some sort. She couldn't see anything; she could barely move. A couple of hard punches, and the dirt began falling on her. A couple more, and she started digging. The surface seemed miles away, but she did reach it eventually. Pulling herself from the hole, her brain struggled to piece together what was happening. She wasn't tired or out of breath; she didn't know why, but she knew this should be strange. The moon glowed full in the sky, lighting up the two pieces of stone on the ground in front of her. On one, there sat a large black bird. Cocking its head to one side, it looked at her with just as much wonder as her gaze returned, seemingly confused by her presence. You? a voice in her mind asked. Oh well, you'll do. It pecked at the rock beneath its feet. She managed to pull herself over to the stone, and the bird hopped off so she could read it.
"Don't grieve for me, for now I'm free
I follow the plan God laid for me
I saw His face, I heard His call
I took His hand and left it all . . .
I could not stay another day
To laugh, to love, to work or play
Tasks left undone must stay that way
And if my parting has left a void
Then fill it with remembered joy
A friendship shared, a laugh, a kiss . . .
Ah, yes, these things I, too, shall miss
My life's been full, I've savored much
Good times, good friends, a loved one's touch
Perhaps my times seemed all too brief
Don't shorten yours with undue grief
Be not burdened with tears of sorrow
Enjoy the sunshine of the morrow."
Bowen Emrys Roderick
2:16 AM December 9, 2008
to
October 30, 2027
She felt a quick stab of pain in her stomach. She touched the letters of his name and saw a flash--a memory--of his face, smiling, laughing, dark blue eyes sparkling in the sunlight. When she opened her eyes again, she saw nothing but the cold slab of granite where his body now rested. "I don't understand." Her voice cracked, as though she hadn't used it in a while; it sounded foreign to her. The bird hopped a couple of feet to the right, and her gaze followed. It pecked at the other stone, closer to the hole from which she'd just come. She dragged herself over to this and read it as well.
"Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there, I do not sleep
I am the thousands winds that blow
I am the diamond glints on snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grains
I am the gentle autumn's rain
And when you wake in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of gentle birds in circling flight
I am the soft star that shines at night
Do not stand at my grave and cry
I am not there, I did not die."
Branwyn Morrigan Roderick
2:14 AM December 9, 2008
to
October 30, 2027
Another flash showed her a young woman with Bowen, also laughing, the same dark blue eyes shining. But unlike his brown hair, her head carried auburn red locks. Her eyes opened on the bird, its gaze meeting her squarely. Come. It lifted off into the sky, and she jumped to her feet and followed, her muscles pumping as she ran, leaped and dodged in pursuit of the only physical form her mind could fully manifest. Finally, the crow stopped, landing on a concrete block in front of a door. The building looked abandoned, as if it had been wanting attention for some time now, but it also looked as if it had once seen a great deal of traffic. She couldn't say how, but the place seemed familiar, something in the color patterns or the scent in the air. The bird perched on the sign out front and cawed. "Landmine Recording," she read aloud. "What? What am I supposed to do?" Come. She followed it through the door, past a desk, and up a flight of stairs, ending in a hallway containing three doors. Outside one, a sign hung on the ceiling: Qu--t! R--or--ng! She pushed past the other door and into a room with a huge table and some broken speakers. Everything was covered in dust and cobwebs. Faded posters hung on faded walls. A glass mountain range sliced its way across the large table, and beyond it a couple of music stands still stood while one collapsed on top of a chair that had long since fallen on its side. On the desk, a picture frame stuck its hind end in the air. Pieces of broken glass dropped from the face as she flipped it over. Inside she found a group of people--more accurately a girl with a group of man--laughing. None actually looked at the camera, but rather focused on each other. She centered on the two youngest figures; the girl leaned against the boy--Bowen--his arms wrapped around her shoulders, his lips pressed against her right temple. She felt the breeze and the sun of that day, the warmth of her family's laughter, the love of her brother's embrace. "Me."
A slight clatter resounded as the picture slipped from her hands, but she seemed not to hear it. She took a couple of steps forward and touched her fingertips to the table. A flash of light pulled at her, and she saw a man standing, leaning on the table where her hand was now; he sobbed, unable to hold himself properly upright. The other two men from the photograph argued in the background. The brown-haired man picked up a chair and launched it at the glass pane that separated the rooms. Then he turned and stormed out of the room. The other just stood and watched him leave with a pained look on his face. She lifted her hand from the table and looked back at the bird for guidance. Come. It darted out into the hall and through the window opposite the stairwell, and she followed. Together they soared, her strides matching each beat of its wings. They came to rest in front of another building; an ordinary-looking apartment building. She stood looking up at it, her eyes coming to rest on a set of windows near the top. Down the side of the building she found a fire escape. She reached up and pulled down on the retractable ladder. As she reached the third balcony, a flash showed her the redheaded young woman again--Me, Branwyn--crying, holding herself against the cool breeze. The brown-haired man stepped through the window with a blanket and wrapped it and his arms around her. As she stood in the same spot, she wrapped her own arms around herself, closing her eyes. That's what love feels like. She opened them again and climbed in the window to find a room strewn with debris: clothing and broken furniture, a shattered mirror bounced flecks of moonlight on the ceiling and walls. The second her feet hit the floor, she was assaulted from the inside. She saw the redheaded girl pulling on a long-sleeved black shirt, her legs already dressed in black pants and her feet in black Converse Allstars. Techie Blacks her mind told her. Even her fingernails were painted black. A white guitar pick hung around her neck from a low E string--her brother's favorite pick that he'd given her as a birthday present when they turned eighteen. As she realized she was looking in the mirror, the door burst open. Through it flew Bowen. His body slammed into her, throwing her backward and a figure in dark clothes and a ski mask followed through the doorway. Light glinted off the knife in his hand, glowing crimson. Bowen! her mind screamed as she cradled her brother's head. His torso had been ripped open, his ribs separated. Two other figures joined the first, long black coats and ski masks matching his.
"Bran," Bowen managed before passing out. Her gaze jumped from her twin's head in her lap to the trio before her. The one with the knife lunged, but she twisted out of the way, and he only caught the outside of her arm.
Looking at the floor, she was back in the present, finding a black sleeve that had been cut off somewhere around the elbow. She looked down at her arm and found a dark line. A hand on her shoulder pulled her into another flash, flipping her onto her back. The figure with the knife stood over her. She reached for the lamp cord with her other arm, but his knife flew out and sliced at her bicep. Crying out with the pain, she recoiled her arm to her chest. The other two dark figures grabbed at her arms to lift her from the floor. She squirmed, which added to the blood already making them slippery, and the men were sorely disappointed, each getting only a handful of sleeve as they ripped from the garment. The men threw them to the ground and came back after her. They managed to get her onto the bed after knocking over a desk and a dresser in the process. The mirror lay in shards on the floor, crunching with each step as the figure with the knife got closer. She started kicking, flailing, screaming. But he reached up and silenced her with a slice across her chest. It wasn't deep enough to do much but bleed, but it was enough to make her gasp with the pain. She tried to resume her dissuasion, but it was too late. She'd been still long enough for him to get her pants undone and around her ankles. It made it harder to kick, but she still tried, throwing the knife in his hand flying toward the man holding her left arm. It nicked the man's left cheek, but he didn't flinch long enough for her to get free. She went numb as the man on top of her forced something inside her over and over again. He stared right through her. Those eyes. I've seen those eyes before. He crawled off of her and reached for the knife. "Please," she strained. But he only smiled at her.
One more jolt of her quickly weakening left arm pushed the man holding it into the one with the knife. But the act backfired, and the blade slid across her stomach. She gulped and coughed trying to breathe. "Stupid bitch," the leader laughed. Then he pulled what was left of her shirt over her head and stared at her nearly naked body bathed in moonlight. The other two backed off; she could no longer lift her arms to fight. Her head fell to one side. In the dizzy haze, she could see Bowen calling to her, his arms outstretched. Then his chest went red, and she closed her eyes.
She jolted upright from the bed. That was where she'd been lying when her father had found the two of them, his children, his pride, his whole world, bloody and lifeless. He'd been at the studio while they got ready for the concert at home; he was supposed to pick them up. She looked down at herself, propped up on an elbow. She was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved polo shirt and her favorite sneakers. She'd never been much for dressing up, and she supposed her father had taken that into account when laying her to rest. It was just too bad she couldn't stay resting. Not yet.
In the dresser, she found another pair of black pants and switched her jeans for them. Pulling on her sneakers again, she found her shirt lying on the ground--the shirt she'd been wearing that night. It hadn't been moved. Why wouldn't they take it for evidence? Simple. Because there was no case. Modern forensics made it possible to test many things at the scene. The men had all been wearing ski masks and gloves. There were no fingerprints, no unknown hairs, the man had used some sort of an object to rape her, and they were all gone before the twins had been found. There was no DNA, no murder weapon, and no suspects.
But there was her. She knew exactly who'd done this; she would find them and make them pay. She pulled the polo off and pulled the black shirt over her head. She picked up the sleeves off the ground and replaced them on the arms to which they'd once belonged. From a small jar inside the top drawer of the dresser, she pulled a handful of safety pins. Slowly and methodically, she connected the rends in the fabric. In the same drawer, she found an old tube of black lipstick. She pulled it out and painted her lips, pursing them at a shard of the mirror still left in its original stand. Then, as an afterthought, she outlined her eyelids and added two vertical lines falling from each eye, the inner line slightly smaller than the outer--the lines of tears that Bowen deserved, but that she could not shed. Finally she dropped the lipstick back in the drawer and noticed something green glinting up at her. What is that doing there? It was a small pocket knife that had been Bowen's. She rescued it from the drawer and slid it into her pocket.
When she was finished, she turned back to the window. The bird was sitting on the ledge watching her with curiosity. She nodded to it, and it alit. Armed with all the information she needed, the crow flew off into the night.
-War-
The Cave. That night at the concert, one of them had said, "The Cave."
During the war, the country became more concerned with thwarting terrorism and somewhat less concerned with the fighting that continued under the noses of the government. The nation had begun to spiral downward to conditions that had not been seen since the Civil War, most especially New York City. For decades they'd been fairly quiet, only reminding the world of their presence with the occasional fight. But all the while, they had been there brewing beneath the facade of the well-kept industrious metropolis--the Underworld, New York's finest gangs. Though many had migrated to other cities at various points in time, they all knew where home was. Those who were smart knew that they'd always been there, that they'd always been the ones who were really in charge. Now their power was asserted. They'd been given a foothold and had started climbing. There were four main factions, each distinguished by the area they inhabited, the colors they wore, and simply enough, the name to which they swore. The Bloods, one of the most prominent gangs since the mid 1900's, wore red and had taken control of the Bronx. Queens was run by the Crips, another ancient organization who was the sworn enemy of the Bloods and wore blue. Orange was sported by those who called themselves Melds; they had begun to push the Irish out of the streets of Brooklyn and taken over around 2010, and they became very prevalent around 2015. The last ran the streets of Manhattan: the Tanks. Tanks were known to wear green, and were said to be the most dangerous of the four groups. They were the newest on the scene. Until 2019, that area of the city had been run by the Riffs and had been fairly quiet. The leader of the Riffs had been more about the business than the fighting, and was known to strike a deal rather than go to war. But there was dissent within the group, and a man named Damon Engel decided he'd had enough of being considered the weakest gang in New York. He gathered a group of those within the gang who felt the same, and he mutinied. Defeating the Riffs, he declared that the new gang would be called the Tanks, and that the Riffs would be outlawed and hunted down. He hadn't forgotten the business end of things, however, and a new club opened up called the Cave. It quickly turned into an opium den, an acid pad, and a coke kitchen. Drug dealers and addicts met to buy and sell, and it ended up being Damon's base of operations. It was like the fraternity house from hell--the place your mother warned you not to go near. But that was exactly where she was headed. If she couldn't find those men there, she would at least be able to find someone there who knew where they were. She would make sure of it.
The great black bird perched on her shoulder as she crouched atop a building, watching bodies enter and exit the Cave. Muffled techno music could be heard filtering through the door. Finally, she stood up and stepped off the edge of the roof. Five stories to the ground, her feet hit the cement, her knees buckling slightly, but holding her upright. The rook fluttered onto a nearby street sign to wait for her as she headed toward the doorway. Her Converse Allstars whispered along the pavement, her steps deliberate and focused. The music got louder as she neared the entrance. A girl who was entirely too young to be at a place like this stumbled out of the door and almost flung herself into Branwyn. But she stepped to the side and held out an arm, catching the girl before she kissed the ground. The girl looked up at Branwyn, awed and frightened by her makeup. "Go home," Branwyn said simply. "Your mother misses you." The girl, looking very perplexed, found her feet and started off down the alley. A couple more steps, and she was nose to belly button with the bouncer. The oil tanker of a man was not in the habit of being opposed, least of all by a girl one third the size of what he ate for lunch.
"Where do you think you're going?" He added a little more gruffness to his voice, trying to sound ominous.
"I'm looking for someone."
"There's no one in there you need to know."
She turned her face up to look at him. Her deep blue eyes shot rays of ice straight into his core. His face paled, and he swallowed hard. "Back off." She paused slightly in between each word, emphasizing her point. He almost lost his balance as his foot felt behind him for a solid place to stand. She breezed past him easily and shoved the door in front her.
Strobe lights flashed making everything behind the door look like it was moving in slow motion. There was no cover charge simply because it was expected that everyone who entered the door was in business of some kind: guns, drugs, sex. She floated between tables where people portioned out and snorted cocaine. A little farther back were couches where men received sexual favors before providing the women with small bags of a white powdery substance. They then proceeded to cook the powder in a spoon and pull it into needled syringes. Farther still, she found a staircase. Two large men stood on either side, barring entrance to those deemed less than fit to be in the presence of Damon and his current woman. Her eyes were focused on the path before her, and she stopped only because two sweaty, muscular arms tried to sweep her up in a game of Red Rover. Her chin lifted, and a sideways glance was thrown at each of the men. The blood stopped in their veins. Neither was able to move. Like the doors of an old-style saloon, she pushed past their arms and started up the stairs.
At the top, she was greeted by a slough of dirty looks. "How the hell did you get up here?"
"Skiff. Cor. Darry," she recited looking straight at Damon. "Where do I find them?"
"Better question." He rose from his seat and circled her once, looking her over from scuffed sneakers to fiery hair. "Why do you want those whelps when I'm right here?" He held his arms open slightly, inviting her. A small smirk planted itself on his face, and his eyes glinted--or rather, his eye. While the left was a murky brownish green halo around a normal black pupil, the right was glossed over and milky--scar tissue that had formed a cataract. Though many of his followers believed it to have been a battle wound, Damon knew it had really come from his father when he was still a child in school.
"I have some business to finish with them."
"What's with that makeup?" a young blond woman asked from the couch. "It's not Halloween yet, Freak." Damon caught his breath. He didn't like that word.
Spinning to face her, his stare shot knives into her heart. "That's not a very nice thing to say, Erika." He took a couple of steps back to the couch and pulled her to her feet. His fingers trailed up her arm, and his hand caught her throat. The others sitting around tensed but didn't move; no one dared oppose him.
"I'm . . . I'm sorry," she choked out.
"Of course you are." He dropped his hand. "They're always sorry." He spun on his heels back to Branwyn. "Now, you're going to tell me what business it is you have with my boys."
"No, I'm not."
"And why's that?"
"Because it's none of yours."
His laugh was even more sickening than his smile. "Here's the deal, Little Girl; you don't get anything for free in this world--certainly not in my world. So you just tell me what they owe you, I'll get it for you, and then you give me a percentage."
Her left eyebrow jumped toward the ceiling. "You want a percentage?"
"That's how it works."
"Alright." Taking a step forward, she reached for his testicles, locking them in a vice grip and twisting slightly. "This," she started. "This is just a percentage of how much they are going to hurt when I find them." Air was stuck in his lungs, unable to find its way out. His face flushed a bright shade of vermilion and was headed toward purple when she let him go. "Now, where are they?"
"Darry," he coughed. "Darry works at the Circle K on 49th. I don't know about the others; they're just peons, runners."
"Of course you don't." She turned to head back down the stairs, but stopped. Her eyes moved from the floor at her feet to the young girl still standing in disbelief. Her thin frame paled beneath the bright emerald dress she wore. Frightened brown eyes were sunken into her cheeks; bizarre shadows made her face look like a skull, foreshadowing the poor girl's future. "If you happen to see any of them, let them know they started a war."
-Peace-
Darry. The Circle K on 49th.
Fourty-ninth street was practicaly devoid of life. Every so often, a car passed by, but people no longer walked the sidewalks for fear of being attacked. Buildings once full of life were now hollowed out shells, smashed windows revealing their emptiness like portals into black holes. With every step it became more and more evident to Branwyn that this city now belonged to the scum. When did it get this bad? Has it always been like this? The scuff of her footsteps rang back to her when they should have been lost in the din of traffic. Her own breath echoed in her ears where voices should have lived. The calm was eerie, like there was a storm on the way. But the truth was that the storm had already passed through. This was the silence after the bomb has dropped and blown everything to hell.
The door made a soft chime as she opened it and walked inside. She quickly turned to the right and started down one of the aisles before the young man behind the counter could get a look at her face. From across the store, she watched him talking to another young man who stood up at the counter. "Yeah, Dude, Dame's been taking a bigger cut from me lately. Says I make too much now; that I'm getting into too much trouble with the extra money I have." Her mind flashed, and he was gripping her arm, holding her down and laughing.
"That's bullshit, Man."
"You're telling me, Dude. I still think it's all 'cause of that new chick he's fucking." Darry opened a bag of chips and shoved his hand in.
"Whadaya mean?"
"Well, she's always gotta have some new necklace or shoes or shit. Fuckin' pathetic." Branwyn's eye's looked on in disgust as they caught the pieces of saturated potato chip that jumped from his mouth with the "p" of "pathetic." Though he was standing in the blast zone, Darry's companion didn't seem to notice. "All I gotta say is the sex had better be fuckin' worth all the effort he's puttin' in."
"At least he's gettin' some," the other guy commented. "More'n you can say."
"Hey, I just don't want to go through all that relationship shit. I'd be more than willing to just fuck a girl." I'll bet you would. "But they all want more these days." Her gaze moved to the large windows near the door she'd come in and focused on a black form that returned her stare.
Show him what you want.
"Oh, hang on, Dude." There was a succession of FFUP FFUP as he sucked grease and salt from his fingers. When he'd finished, he called out, "You gonna buy somethin', Honey? This is a store not a library." Her eyes dropped to the floor, and she began making her way up to the counter.
"You mean you expect me to give you money for something?"
"That's the idea."
"Hmm," she chuckled. "I'd rather give you something else." As she lifted her head, he got a good look at her makeup and flinched. Her eyes burned into him, and he shrunk back slightly. But he wasn't about to be unmanned in front of his friend.
"Sorry," he said coolly. "It may have been a while, but I don't do freaks."
"No." She shook her head. "But you'll hold one down for someone else."
Nervously, his eyes darted around. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Tell me, Darry, do you help Skiff rape girls often, or was that a one-shot deal?"
Finally coming to rest on her face, his eyes narrowed. How could she know about that? How could she know he was involved? The police never found anything. There wasn't even an investigation because they'd left no evidence behind. They'd been careful; hadn't they? Mounting anxiety forced his breath to shallow and his pulse to quicken. "What do you mean?"
Without warning, she reached out and grabbed his wrist. Pain shot through his arm sending visions to his brain. All he could see was a young red-haired girl laying beneath him, a far away stare in her deep blue eyes. He cried out and pulled away, breaking her grasp on him. There was a THWACK as his head hit the wall behind the counter. His pupils became tiny dots, and his jaw clenched. His knees buckled, causing his body to slump down to the floor. Branwyn vaulted up onto the counter, landing in a squatting position. "Wh-what's it to you anyway?"
"What's the matter, Darry? You don't recognize me?"
His eyes finally saw through her makeup, and a light blinked on his brain."Please," he begged. "Please, I didn't mean . . . It wasn't my idea. We didn't know what he was going to do." The words tumbled from his mouth like a child who's taken one step too far on the edge of a hill; he was unable to stop himself.
She cocked her head to the side. "Funny, I'd have thought that ripping the boy's chest open with a hunting knife would have given you some indication." The flat tone of her voice stopped his heart. His foot reached for something under the counter, and a moment later, he pulled a shotgun up to stare her in the face. She didn't even flinch. The shot rang through the store; the other young man who'd been watching in horror, crouched covering his ears. Darry's eyes were squeezed shut, but slowly opened again as he heard a maniacal giggle that iced his bones. The closed fist in front of her face opened one finger at a time, spilling the shot onto the floor in a hush. One corner of her mouth was pulled upward in a crooked smile.
"Bu-bu-but . . . h-h-how?" His entire body shook, causing his words to stutter.
"Silly boy; you can't kill someone who's already dead."
"N-no, h-how are you . . . ?"
"Seems you guys didn't do as good a job as you thought."
He dropped the shotgun, realizing it was useless. "Wh-what do you want?"
"Aww," she cooed condescendingly. "I want what every girl wants." He turned his head slightly, warily skewing the angle of his gaze. "I want to go to the prom, and shop for shoes, and have my first kiss . . ." As she spoke, she wistfully looked around her, but focused on him again when she trailed off, her face sobering. "But I'll settle for making things even."
"Even?" he gulped.
"The three of you owe me two lives and a soul. What will you give me, Darry?" The young man who had been crouched near the counter now edged his way toward the door. Branwyn had heard it, but had been ignoring it. The chime of the door sounded, telling her it had opened. Like a shot, her hand flew to the display of ballpoint pens next to the cash register and sent one soaring toward him. He hacked and sputtered when it lodged itself in his neck. The rook outside cackled, sending the man stumbling back inside.
"Is that one?" Darry asked, gaining an ounce more courage and standing up to face her.
"No," she said simply. "He'll live, provided you get him to a doctor before he bleeds out." He paled again. "No; what I'm looking for is either your life, or the thing you value most in this world."
"M-my guitar?" He was pulling at straws; he wanted to keep what meager days he had left in this hell hole.
"Try again."
His eyes searched for something to give her. "My car?"
"One more time."
"I-I don't know . . . What?" She jumped down from the counter and looked ominously up at him.
"Tell me where they are."
"Who?"
"Cor and Skiff."
"They're brothers. They live on 14th. Big red brick building; apartment 17." She nodded her understanding. "So are we cool?" Without replying, she threw her fist into the front of the safe that lay under the counter. A large mouth opened and from it, she pulled a kilogram of white powder wrapped in plastic and secured with duct tape. "What are you a smack head?" he asked nervously, silently begging her to put the drugs down. That was his livelihood; his life, if he didn't deliver it like he was supposed to.
"No," she smiled. "But have fun explaining to Damon where this went, and why you let it go." She spun around and started out of the store. When she reached the door she turned to look at him again. "Oh, and I hope you weren't planning on using your testicles ever again." He gulped again as he watched her leave. Just outside, she stopped long enough for the black bird to climb up her arm and onto her shoulder. And the crow disappeared beneath the street lights.
-Truth-
Brothers.
Branwyn perched on the roof of the building that had been home to Landmine Recording--the studio of her father, her uncles and her brother. Breeze gently caressed her hair. The nearly full moon peeked out from behind a cloud; it looked like a scene from a horror movie. The bird sat on the ledge next to her, surveying the same scene below. "You thought it would be Bowen." The rook's head turned to look at her.
Your lights were indistinguishable from each other. I had no way of knowing which I was carrying.
"But you were disappointed when you saw it was me."
I had no feelings on the matter. I was simply surprised. I had figured it would be the boy.
"But I'm older."
That superstition stopped being relevant centuries ago.
"Bring many twins back do you?"
Fair enough, Branwyn.
Her gaze dropped to the sidewalk below. "Dad gave up didn't he?"
You know all you need to know.
"That's okay. You don't have to tell me. I know that's what happened."
Take care not to dwell in the land of the living, Child. It will make leaving it that much harder.
"You mean leaving it again."
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
She spun at the voice. She hadn't expected anyone to be here. Her father had left this place to the rats, but apparently her Uncle Mark hadn't. There he stood before her, anger in his eyes. He obviously didn't recognize her. She froze for a minute, unsure of what he might do. "I said, what do you think you're doing here?" he repeated, slower as if she hadn't heard the first time.
"Thinking."
"Well, this is private property, so I'm afraid you have to go think somewhere else." The disdain in his voice shot needles into her heart--or what she believed was her heart. Did she still have one? Yes, Child. It is how you are here now.
She turned her gaze back to the view of the city. "That's too bad; this is a great spot. 'The mind clears, and colors smear as lights of Heaven touch the Earth.'" Her eyes found him again, but the look on his face was now full-blown rage.
"You think that's funny? Or clever?" She was unfazed by his anger, and regarded him with nothing but sympathy and patience. He wouldn't recognize her through the makeup.
"I think it's something I wrote while standing on this rooftop."
He stared at her another eternal second before the color drained from his face. "What the . . . ?"
"It's me, Uncle Mark." She took a step closer to him, and he recoiled. "I can't tell you exactly how it works," she shrugged. "I don't really know myself."
"But you're . . . you're . . . They put you in the ground. I watched them."
Branwyn nodded. "I'm not alive. But I'm not dead either . . . Somewhere in between I guess." Her attention was stolen by the bird still sitting next to her.
Don't. He won't understand.
She looked at the man again and finished, "All I know is that I'm here to make it right. So Bo and I can rest." His brow furrowed, trying to comprehend what she was saying. Then as his courage found him, he stepped toward her. Not wanting to frighten him, she stayed where she was and let him come to her. Finally, he reached out a hand and touched her cheek.
"God, you're freezing," he exclaimed, but he didn't remove his hand.
"Cold as death," she smiled wryly. All at once, he pulled her into an embrace and held her tightly. If she had breath, he would have taken it from her, not only with surprise but also with the strength of his grip. Just like the flashes from earlier, she was pulled into a memory; though, this was not her own. She was staring at her own body laying nearly naked and lifeless on the bed, Bowen's laying at her feet. For a few moments she thought he might never let go. But he eventually did, and the two sat down to talk more.
"He stopped recording, stopped writing altogether," Mark mentioned. "With the two of you gone it was like he didn't even have a reason to live anymore."
"He didn't . . ." For a second, Branwyn's eyes went wide.
"No," he soothed. "No, he's still alive. He's just not himself anymore. Ricky's still recording but over at a different studio; he's just a producer now. I've mostly been keeping to myself. I come up here about once a week." She looked at him with immense sympathy. Though Ricky was her godfather, she'd always been just as close to Mark. He wasn't just an uncle; he was a big brother, a best friend. The deaths of her brother and herself had rocked the three men to their very cores. Music was their career, but family was their life.
Branwyn, it's time to go. She turned to look at the large black bird. A look heavy with disappointment and a splash of worry crossed her face. It's alright, Child. They're broken, but they're mending slowly. Come now, it's getting late.
She nodded and then turned back to Mark. "You have to go," he guessed.
"Yeah."
"Well," he sighed, "at least we get to say goodbye properly this time." He pulled her into another tight hug, this time transferring a memory of a picnic in the park. Bowen and Ricky stood off to one side tossing a football back and forth. Jace sat idly strumming a guitar, his eyes blankly focused on nothing. Branwyn lay on her stomach chewing on the end of a pen. "Fourteen down is epee," Mark said, from next to her. He mimicked her position, only instead of working on a crossword puzzle, he had a finger in a book, holding his place. She briefly glared at him, then filled in the letters. He nudged her with his shoulder, making her smile in spite of herself. The scene dissipated as he let her go. "Wait here." He took off toward the door that led to the stairway. A few moments later, he returned carrying a guitar--an acoustic Ibanez with a sapphire blue strap--her guitar. "Bo's is still downstairs in the storage room. Ricky wanted to sell them, said they'd only bring up bad memories if your dad kept them, but I couldn't bring myself to do it."
Gingerly accepting the guitar from him, she slid the strap over her shoulder and tightened it, slinging the guitar snugly on her back. She nodded her gratitude and turned to look at the crow. They had work to do.
---------
He pressed the hard plastic balls up against the side of the wooden triangle to make sure there was as little space between them as possible. If there were gaps, they wouldn't fly as straight; the energy wouldn't transfer properly, and he wouldn't get as much separation. Ever so carefully, he slid the rack off the top and spun it between his fingers before hanging it on the underside of the table. Grabbing his cue from it's hanger on the wall, he dusted the top with a blue cube of chalk, making sure to cover every last millimeter. He bounced the stick on its hind end and let it slide up through his loose fist before stopping it near the middle. Using his other hand, he leveled the cue and leaned over, lining up the end with the plain white ball. Small spots of blue scarred its surface where it had been previously abused. with a swift jerk, he sent it sailing toward its colored brethren, who scattered with a CRACK. The bright orange Three ball and the brown striped Twelve both retreated into separate pockets, done with the game before they even started. He heaved a sigh and changed his position to get a better look at the table. The wind whispered through the open window. Cor. He froze, poised over the table, pool cue ready to send the white ball flying again. His eyes shifted nervously, and his ears pricked, listening intently to decide if he'd actually heard what he thought he did.
"Who's there?" he asked the wind.
Cor it breathed again. He stood upright, laying the cue on the table, and turned around.
"Darry, you're an asshole!" he shouted. When no response came, the hair on his arms and neck raised in fear. His stomach dropped to the floor. "Skiff, get your ass out here, you fuckin' prick! It's not funny!" Still no response. "Skiff, we're not four anymore, Dude!"
"No," came a female voice. "No, you're not." He searched frantically now. He stopped at the window. A large black bird sat on the sill, staring at him. His eyes narrowed; surely this crow hadn't been the one speaking. "Because four-year-olds don't kill."
He whirled around, facing what had been behind him, and gave a start. Deep blue-gray eyes pierced him, holding him where he stood. Her hair blazed around her face. His heart followed his stomach as he slowly recognized the girl beneath the makeup. "But . . . but . . . but . . ."
The corner of her mouth curled upward. "Things a motorboat would say," she guessed mischievously, catching him off-guard. She took a step and began circling him. "Excuses a moron would make." He spun with her, never allowing her to leave his line of sight. "What do you think, Cor? Am I close?" She raised her hands in a questioning gesture.
"It's not possible," he exclaimed, dumbfounded.
"Mothers lift cars to get to their trapped children," she mused. "The realm of possibility has little meaning to a woman."
"You're dead." She continued circling him, but no longer made eye contact.
"Funny thing, that. I mean, what is death anyway? Is it really forever? Do we become food for worms? Is there a heaven? A hell? Or . . ." She stopped and faced him. "Is it a rebirth, a new beginning, a gateway to another life?" The rook hopped from the window sill and onto her shoulder. "What do you think will happen when you die, Cor?"
He stood blinking at her, unsure of what he should say.
Her eyes focused on the small scar that marked his cheek. Lifting a hand to his face, she ran her thumb down it. He winced as a shiver went through him. "You did it for him." Her voice was eerily gentle now, her head cocked to one side. "Because he's you're brother."
Slowly, he forced his head to nod.
"I get that. I'd have done anything for my brother." She closed her eyes for a second, straightening her neck. "But Skiff took my brother away from me. And unfortunately for you, I have to return the favor."
A look of horror plastered itself on his face, and he took a step backwards. He didn't get far enough. The bird lifted off her shoulder and dove for his head, forcing him to flail uselessly. Her eyes flashed as her hand closed around the material of his shirt covering his chest. Fear turned to disbelief as he found himself lifting up off the floor. His back slammed against the pool table, knocking the wind out of him and sending the remaining balls fleeing in terror for the safety of the pockets.
She picked up the pool cue from beside him and broke it over her knee. The CRACK jolted him into action. Rolling over, he was able to get his feet on the floor and slide out of her reach. Still dizzy and gasping for breath, he stumbled back a few steps. His legs betrayed him, causing him to trip and land hard on his hind end. Two steps and she was standing over him. She grabbed his collar and heaved him to his feet, throwing him up against the wall. A piece of drywall cracked as his head made a small crater. With the force of a gunshot, she plunged the broken stick into one shoulder, pinning him where he stood. Pain shot through him instantly, and his cries echoed out on the street. She picked up the other piece of the cue and stood before him, spinning it in her hand.
"You . . . you bitch," he managed between labored breaths.
"Thing is, Cor, I'm not naturally a bitch." She placed a finger beneath his chin and lifted it so he was looking her in the eyes. "Men like you make me that way." The broken wood sailed toward his chest, making a sickening SKRELTCH as it buried itself between his ribs and into his heart. For a few seconds, blood continued seething from the wound as it slowly stopped circulating through his body. She pressed her hands on either side of the stick, coating her palms in the red liquid. Then she placed them on the wall, hooking her thumbs and adding pressure, turning her hands into a stamp. As she pulled them away, the blood hung on the wall vaguely in the shape of a bird. The left side of her mouth pulled itself into a wistful smile. Her eyes moved to his face, head hanging forward, breath incredibly labored as his lungs began filling with blood. With a hand on either side of his jaw, she relieved the force of gravity pulling on his neck. His own blood transferred onto his cheeks as she cradled his face. "You deserved a better brother," she whispered, and then pressed her mouth to his, stealing his last breath.
-Justice-
Branwyn sat looking at the pocket knife in her open palm. The emerald colored handle glowed against the pale flesh of her hand. Green had been Bowen's color when they were growing up. It was what he'd dressed in to differentiate him from Branwyn until they were old enough to dress themselves. They'd tried to put Branwyn in pink until that day when she was three and had refused to wear any of her clothes because they were pink. It was her first assertion over those men that were her family. And she'd pretty much controlled them ever since. Bowen had carried the pocket knife as a convenience--simply to open packages, pry up the ends of guitar strings, unscrew the covers of speakers. He wasn't the "courageous hero" type, nor would the blade have done much damage if he'd ever tried to use it.
She flipped open the blade, still silver despite its wear. Her thumb tingled as the sharp edge scraped along the ridges of her fingerprint. She pushed up the sleeve of her right arm, exposing her forearm. she set the blade to her skin and pressed down.
Branwyn, don't.
She didn't look up at the bird; she just sat perched on the pool table watching her own blood run down her arm and drop to the table's felt covering. the rook cawed loudly, trying to get her attention.
Branwyn, you're only hurting yourself.
"That's the idea." Sadness filled her voice even though she was unable to show it in tears. "Maybe I deserve to be hurt."
What has gotten into you, Child?
"I've become a monster." Her eyes moved to Cor pinned up against the wall. "He didn't deserve what I did to him. He was just there because of his brother. I'd have done the same for Bo. It shouldn't have been him; it should have been Darry."
Touch him again.
"What?" Branwyn cocked her head to one side and furrowed her brow at the bird.
Touch him again, Child . . . Remember.
Setting her feet on the ground again, Branwyn approached the young man, his head hanging limply forward. Cautiously, she reached out a hand and laid it on his shoulder. A jolt ran through her, and a flash in her mind showed her an extension of the memory she'd felt back in her bedroom.
She saw the three men out in the hallway with Bowen. She now recognized Darry pushing her brother's shoulder and saying, "We just want to talk to her, Dude."
"I said no," Bowen insisted. "She's getting ready for the concert tonight. Why don't you guys just wait and come see her at the meet and greet."
Skiff was fuming, but unable to do anything. His anger had paralyzed him, teeth clenched and fists balled, one of which held the hunting knife. "Look," Cor spoke for him, "it'll only take a minute. Why don't you just let us in for a minute, and you won't see us ever again."
"What part of no don't you jackasses understand?" Bowen retorted. Cor set his jaw and pulled a breath in through his nose. Then he grabbed the knife from his brother's hand and thrust it into Bowen's chest.
"That part." He laid his left hand on top of his right to assist as he pushed the knife through Bowen's ribs, splitting the boy's chest. Pulling the knife out again, he kicked Bowen's body through the door.
She came out of the flash with a jerk, pulling air into her lungs like she'd been underwater. As she slowed her breathing, her eyes shot blue flames into the dead man. "You." Her voice seethed with hate again.
That's it, Child. Use it. You have to finish this.
"For Bowen," she added with a nod.
---------
She sat on the edge of the pool table with the guitar in her lap. The hush of the room was interrupted only by the light melody she picked out on the strings. Middle finger on the second fret of the low E, forefinger on the first fret of the A, ring finger on the third fret of the D. The notes whispered gently, a lullaby to the forever-sleeping Cor as he made his way to whatever level of hell was reserved for murderers. The black bird sat on the window ledge watching the streets below. After a few moments Branwyn heard, Alright Child. It's time.
The door opened, revealing Skiff clad in a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. He stopped suddenly, surprised by the figure that should not have been perched on the pool table. "What the fuck?"
"Evening, Skiff." Her fingers continued strolling along the strings. "I'm glad you're back."
"Who the hell are you?"
"An old friend," she smiled wistfully. "I need to talk to you about something."
"Where's Cor?" His breath was starting to go shallow, and his pulse sped up. She could feel the fear building on itself in his mind.
"Oh, he's here; he's just over there in fact." She jerked her head backwards, gesturing toward Cor. Skiff's eyes followed the direction of the nod and finally came to rest on his brother, still pinned against the wall.
"Cor! Oh, God, Cor!" He rushed over and lifted his brother's head, trying to wake him up. "Come on, Cor, wake up! Look at me, dammit; I need you!"
"Like I needed my brother." Her words stopped him in confusion. "I've always been strong-willed. But I wouldn't have been nearly as strong if it weren't for him. Bowen used to give me the courage to stand up to people. Because half of the time, I was doing it for him. Cor gave you courage too, didn't he Skiff? He killed Bowen that night, and gave you the strength you needed to come after me." She set the guitar on the table next to her and hopped down. He froze as she took step after step, crossing the room to where he was. His eyes darted back and forth, unable to look at her. He'd only ever killed one person in his life, and that person had had a brother who was killed by Cor. But this couldn't be that person; there was no way that girl had survived that night. "What's the matter, Skiff? You already had me once, and now you don't ever want to see me again?" He swallowed hard. "Was I just a one night stand?"
"This isn't real," he mumbled. "You're just a bad dream. I just need to wake up."
"You took my brother from me, Skiff, so I took yours. Now there's only one thing left that I need, and we'll be even.
"Wake up . . . Wake up." His fists and teeth were clenched hard. He squeezed his eyes shut and banged his fists against the sides of his head. "Just . . . wake . . . up." With one, fast, strong push, she threw him into his brother, the pool cue piercing through his shoulder and chest in almost the exact same positions as they had on Cor. But this wasn't a severe enough punishment.
His breath faltered, and blood oozed from his mouth as he coughed. A painful moan escaped his throat as she undid the button and zipper of his jeans and lowered them to the floor. His boxers joined his pants a second later. "N-no," he managed.
"You didn't just take my life, Skiff. You took my innocence, my virtue, my honor." She moved back over to where her guitar sat on the pool table and pulled the knife from her pocket. She pried up the end of the high E string and unwound it from the tuning knob. Then she dropped the knife and wound the string once around each hand, pulling her fingers into two fists and removing all slack from the wire. In three steps, she was back standing in front of Skiff.
"P-P-Ple-ease."
"Funny," she mused, a sly smile gracing the edge of her mouth. "That's just what I said." She slid the guitar string up underneath his testicles, crossing it over itself just above his penis. And with one swift yank, blood poured from his crotch, the former organ falling to the ground with a SPLAT.
There's my girl.
She took a step back and sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "It's done," she whispered. The rook jumped from the sill to the pool table, and then over onto Branwyn's shoulder.
Let's go, Child.
She nodded and headed down to the street. The images before her started to blur around the edges as though someone had just dropped a cup of water on the painting before her. Soon, she couldn't tell where she was going. But apparently, her feet knew the way. Stumbling and looking quite like a drunk who'd lost a lot of blood, she ambled through the streets, determined to make it back to where she'd come from. She continued her controlled falling for what seemed like an eternity before finally reaching the gate to the cemetery. The soft grass wasn't exactly conducive to aiding with balance, but somehow she made it back to the two slabs of granite that held the names of her brother and herself. The bird sat on Bowen's gravestone watching as Branwyn fell to the ground, her left hand barely touching her brother's name. She was ready now, ready to go home . . . for good this time.