Time is a battlefield.
The stick scrawled delicate lettering into the pale, dry dust, the up curve of the T, the wavy, harsh intersection of the line over the f, the simple, short flick of her hand for the tail of the d.
Silly twit.
She swiped away the letters with the toe of her boot and stood, the brown jacket tied about her waist catching on a loose nail. She grumbled and unhooked the cluster of fabric. How much better was this day about to get? With four college-level classes having been packed into her day, she'd have no time whatsoever left for herself. Damn. Oh, well. The road was a-waiting.
The young woman slung her backpack over one shoulder and sauntered off toward her dormitory. A phantom chill crept up her spine, leaving the young woman feeling desolate and vulnerable. She stopped just in front of the intersection, empty asphalt and a resounding silence that chilled her to the bone.
Maybe I should've asked someone to walk me home after all.
She sped up her pace as an eerie sense of foreboding overcame her senses. Someone was following her.
Shit, no. No, no, not now. Not today.
"Hey. Trysta! That's your name, isn't it?"
Too late.
She whirled around and took a step back defensively.
She recognized this young man from one of her former classes. A troublemaker. With that strikingly dark hair and those deceptive green eyes, his familiarity brought her no sense of relief. She could feel the hackles on the back of her neck rising in stark fear; this was not someone she wanted to be alone in the dark with. She pressed the button on the side of the icy metal pole and pulled her jacket closer to her to conserve warmth.
"Piss off, Dagger. I'm not in the mood." She tried her best to convey bravado in her voice, but still her slight trembling betrayed just how afraid the girl really was.
He approached slowly, steadily, his height advantage making her feel suddenly very small. He kicked a rock out of the way as he lifted her chin with a forefinger, forcing her to look at him.
"You're too hot to be a bitch," he murmured, whisking his finger away and holding his hand out to her. "Let me walk you home."
Every sense screamed out at her in protest. Go! Run! Flee! It's not safe for you!
She swallowed hard, staring at his hand. Her gaze lingered fleetingly on the hand stowed in his jacket, a suspiciously boxy object hidden behind the aged black leather. A jolt of terror electrified Trysta's body, breaking her paralysis. With a gasp she turned and sprinted across the intersection.
It had been empty a moment ago, but that was before her walk signal had expired. A 1995 grey Silverado roared towards her. A glare of headlights caught her utterly by surprise, but there was no turning back now.
The man in the driver's seat had his eyes fixated on his phone, the possibility of a promotion without even a glancing thought of a pedestrian unintentionally jaywalking at 2 in the morning on a Monday night. Not on this road, not on this night. He'd had only 2 shots of whiskey diluted with a glass of ginger beer. The brake fluid was just a little bit too old, the brake line just a little bit too weathered. The perfect recipe for tragic misadventure. He heard a chilling cry- the shriek of a young woman in extreme terror and agony. His foot depressed the brake all the way to the floor and it decelerated jerkily- but too little, too late. The girl hit the bumper of his truck with a resounding thump and rolled to a stop several yards off, where she lay motionless.
Trysta saw in blazing color, and in nothing.
Gray and gold fractals, star dappling and memory intermixed like a galactic assembly of all the things she'd never wanted to see again.
"I'm worried about you going so far from home, Trysta." The older woman's eyes gleamed with something unreadable. "Remember where you come from, mija. Yo te amo mas a todas cosas en el mundo. Promise me you'll be alright?"
"I promise, Mama. I have to go, but I'll be okay. I always am."
She could feel something hot leaking from the vicinity of her stomach; as she touched it lightly with her fingers, they came away slick and wet. She could just barely register the scent of copper, flickering lights and shouting as someone hovered over her.
"Are you sure, big brother? Mama always says I'm too little."
A golden smile crossed his face as he stared down at her.
"Hermana pequena, you're big enough to do anything you want in this world." Reaching down, he hoisted her up on his shoulders and put his hands on her knees to hold her steady in place. "Look, now you can see further than I can."
She buried her hands in his thick black hair.
"Then I will. I'll protect all the mothers, someday, and their babies."
Was it really dawn already? Her vision edged with white as her hearing started to fade out.
"Vete aqui, Tempest. I have something important to tell you."
Piercing blue eyes searched her own for an answer. Dropping her building blocks, she tottered toward her grandmother and held out her tiny arms.
"Nana, Nana!" Her grizzled old face twitched into a toothy smile at the name and she lifted the girl onto her lap.
"Time is a battlefield. Through all the days you are alive, you'll see terrible things and you'll see beautiful things."
The birth of her youngest brother replayed before her in a flash, his raucous cry and the exhausted smile of her mother as they pushed the wailing babe into her arms. Armando.
Trysta had been the second soul living to hold him, even before his own father. She whimpered softly at the burning sensation in her right abdomen.
"You'll see victory, and you'll see defeat."
The memory of tears, at the first F on her report card. The first death in her family, the looks of disappointment and desolation that no attempts at laughter could mediate. She recalled stepping up to the stage, black-clad with that strange gold-laced cap on.
"Tempest Verdugo!"
The executioner.
"You'll see life, and you'll also see death."
She closed her eyes.
"Trysta!"
"Y finalmente, mija, there is no distinction between good and evil, nor of those qualities embodied in human beings. There is only choice- the choice to hurt people, or to help them. To stand by passively as they suffer. Choose wisely, for not a day is promised in this life, and don't run from the misfortunes that become you. Don't ever, ever run."
Only a final thought crossed her mind as she felt herself fading, the pinch of a needle entering the junction of her elbow. She was terrified of needles, but she couldn't care less right now. She felt a dark, deep numbness rising to swallow her whole.
Nana, Mama. Diego, Armando, Papa, Marie. I'm sorry… I never meant for this.
