I threw your keys in the water, I looked back,
They'd frozen halfway down in the ice.
They froze up so quickly, the keys and their owners,
Even after the anger, it all turned silent, and
The everyday turned solitary,
So we came to February.
First we forgot where we'd planted those bulbs last year,
Then we forgot that we'd planted at all,
Then we forgot what plants are altogether,
and I blamed you for my freezing and forgetting and
The nights were long and cold and scary,
Can we live through February?
- Dar Williams, "February"
1.1.1
1.1.2 Prologue
She was dreaming again. In panic, she fought against the heavy blanket of mist that held her prisoner to her nightmare. If only she could wake up, then it would all stop. She just had to stop it before everything turned red. . . .
Her hands were already covered. She washed at the stubborn spots – but they wouldn't wipe off onto her skirt. She repressed a hysterical laugh and resisted the urge to cry "Out damn spot!"
Desperately, she rubbed the skin raw and then drowned the stained flesh in the suddenly appearing sink of water. If she had a way, she would cut her own hands off to remove the damning marks.
And then Max was there. He stared at her hands and then onto the ground where the knife suddenly materialized. And beside the knife, lay the body.
Oh, God, the body. . . .
It was beautiful, laying there, splashed with the ruby glow: the sickening shine of the blood in the sunlight. Still, the same beauty lay there in death as had stood moments before in life.
She opened her mouth to say that she had tried to stop it. She wanted to yell at Max that it wasn't her fault. That she had arrived moments too late to stop it – again. But, as she began to open her mouth to protest her innocence, a hand was there, wrapped tightly to her esophagus.
She felt the hot breath of her attacker against the back of her neck, the unforgiving body pushing against hers. The threat inherent in the closeness was terrifying. She desperately sought out Max's face, expecting him to come to her rescue.
He stood there, damning her with his eyes. He held her there, more her captor than the man behind her as the hate poured out of him. He hated her.
Max hated her.
Then his shoulders slumped. He nodded his head to the man holding her prisoner. He gave his permission to have her executed.
And she tried again to plead her case. But no sound would come out. Her voice failed her as a yank on her hair pulled her head back and she looked into the eyes of the man who held her prisoner. Michael.
So he would be her executioner. She only prayed it would be quick.
Suddenly, everything shifted, and it wasn't Michael anymore. His condemning gaze blurred, and, in his place, Kyle held her captive. The hand on her throat was no longer crushing her esophagus; in place of the hard flesh on her neck, the sharp metalic feeling of a knife pushing against the tender flesh drew her breath back to the back of her throat. The tight line of his mouth was as angry as Max's and Michael's eyes had been. There was no hope here either.
She cried out soundlessly as the world spun once again and she was on her knees. This time, Alex stood over her. Her chest collapsed with the pain. He looked so cold there before her, that she finally cried out. She lifted her hands to plead to him, to caress his cheek, to search out some understanding and forgiveness in his eyes. But she was brought up short by the blood dripping from her fingers.
It pooled in thick drops at her wrists and slithered slowly down her arms. Without warning, the sickeningly sweet smell lay heavily in her nose; the taste of iron flooded past her teeth and onto her tongue.
She woke up retching.
They'd frozen halfway down in the ice.
They froze up so quickly, the keys and their owners,
Even after the anger, it all turned silent, and
The everyday turned solitary,
So we came to February.
First we forgot where we'd planted those bulbs last year,
Then we forgot that we'd planted at all,
Then we forgot what plants are altogether,
and I blamed you for my freezing and forgetting and
The nights were long and cold and scary,
Can we live through February?
- Dar Williams, "February"
1.1.1
1.1.2 Prologue
She was dreaming again. In panic, she fought against the heavy blanket of mist that held her prisoner to her nightmare. If only she could wake up, then it would all stop. She just had to stop it before everything turned red. . . .
Her hands were already covered. She washed at the stubborn spots – but they wouldn't wipe off onto her skirt. She repressed a hysterical laugh and resisted the urge to cry "Out damn spot!"
Desperately, she rubbed the skin raw and then drowned the stained flesh in the suddenly appearing sink of water. If she had a way, she would cut her own hands off to remove the damning marks.
And then Max was there. He stared at her hands and then onto the ground where the knife suddenly materialized. And beside the knife, lay the body.
Oh, God, the body. . . .
It was beautiful, laying there, splashed with the ruby glow: the sickening shine of the blood in the sunlight. Still, the same beauty lay there in death as had stood moments before in life.
She opened her mouth to say that she had tried to stop it. She wanted to yell at Max that it wasn't her fault. That she had arrived moments too late to stop it – again. But, as she began to open her mouth to protest her innocence, a hand was there, wrapped tightly to her esophagus.
She felt the hot breath of her attacker against the back of her neck, the unforgiving body pushing against hers. The threat inherent in the closeness was terrifying. She desperately sought out Max's face, expecting him to come to her rescue.
He stood there, damning her with his eyes. He held her there, more her captor than the man behind her as the hate poured out of him. He hated her.
Max hated her.
Then his shoulders slumped. He nodded his head to the man holding her prisoner. He gave his permission to have her executed.
And she tried again to plead her case. But no sound would come out. Her voice failed her as a yank on her hair pulled her head back and she looked into the eyes of the man who held her prisoner. Michael.
So he would be her executioner. She only prayed it would be quick.
Suddenly, everything shifted, and it wasn't Michael anymore. His condemning gaze blurred, and, in his place, Kyle held her captive. The hand on her throat was no longer crushing her esophagus; in place of the hard flesh on her neck, the sharp metalic feeling of a knife pushing against the tender flesh drew her breath back to the back of her throat. The tight line of his mouth was as angry as Max's and Michael's eyes had been. There was no hope here either.
She cried out soundlessly as the world spun once again and she was on her knees. This time, Alex stood over her. Her chest collapsed with the pain. He looked so cold there before her, that she finally cried out. She lifted her hands to plead to him, to caress his cheek, to search out some understanding and forgiveness in his eyes. But she was brought up short by the blood dripping from her fingers.
It pooled in thick drops at her wrists and slithered slowly down her arms. Without warning, the sickeningly sweet smell lay heavily in her nose; the taste of iron flooded past her teeth and onto her tongue.
She woke up retching.