Warning! Huge Day of Doom spoilers!
A/N: Hope I got Ian not too OOC although I don't think that he'd be Mr. Calm-and-Controlled after his sister's death. Also I was crying, slightly insane and marginally horrified when I wrote this as well as sleep-deprived and majorly guilty, so not hard flames please. Please review!
Quotes: Curtisy of William Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson.
Summary: Ian's home; at least, that's what he's telling himself. In reality, home is as far away as it has always been. And now; alone, haunted and hunted, Ian's past finally catches up.
Catching Snowflakes
Natalie shivered in her red coat. Cold flakes of snow caught her eyes lashes framing amber eyes that sparkled in the shimmering white light. Her hair hung loose below her shoulders, damp from the ice-crystals that were falling from the sky. She held out one gloved hand and watched in fascination as the delicately picturesque, snowflakes melted as soon as they felt the heat emanating from their bodies.
Ian smiled, feeling his cracked lips split in the unfamiliar expression. He couldn't remember the last time he had smiled. It was around the time - Ian cut off his thoughts, no. Ian forced his slipping smile back onto his face, the benign grin catapulted into a full out grin a few seconds later as Natalie hurtled herself towards him. The Kabra's wrapped their arms around each other in an affectionate way that neither of them had ever really had experience with.
It wasn't the Kabra way to hug.
Or hand-hold.
Or touch at all really.
But, as Ian held his younger sister in his arms, he wished never to let go. Natalie began to shift; but her elder brother just pulled her closer towards him, forcing her head uncomfortably to the left on his chest. She felt vitally warm against him, vitally warm and vitally there, which she hadn't been for a while.
No, Ian; he scolded himself, starting to feel worried, was he tipping off his metaphorical trolley? Ian mustn't think about that, he continued to berate himself in third person.
"I love you," he murmured into Natalie's slipping crimson beret. It felt strange to say those words, heck; it felt strange to say anything after his days of silent mourning. As Ian breathed deeply in the scent of icy, jasmine perfume he felt something cold, colder than the snow, made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Natalie shifted again, and this time; although Ian pulled her flush to him, he felt her slithering from his grip. In a desperate panic to keep hold of Natalie, Ian released his grasp, only realising his mistake (as he always did) after his action. Natalie vanished from the visible spectrum and appeared again a few long seconds later, an arms-length away.
"No," Ian muttered, holding out his arms; she would come back. She would come back this time. Natalie wavered, mist and snow beginning to cling to her wispy frame, and Ian prayed for a change of heart. Then she smiled at him, and he knew no change was forthcoming.
"Brother," Natalie's voice seeming so out of place in the desolation of the Kabra gardens. It hummed and harmonised, like a chirping cricket before the song of spring.
"Natalie," Ian fell to his knees, the cold of the snow causing pain, though it came second to the agony in his heart. His little sister took a teasing step towards him, before turning her head to the climbing sun, Ian followed the path of the quickening rise with guilt and dread escalating like a punch-line from an awful joke. Or riding the swell of a crescendo to meet an anti-climactic B minor ending, Ian spared himself a pitying thought. Trauma? - Likely.
"Morning has risen and so I must leave, for now," Natalie said. Turning around, she quoted: "One need not be a chamber to be haunted." Ian shivered, but gave his usual reply.
"Don't go," no reply came and he sighed. "Morning without you is a dwindled dawn." Natalie didn't turn towards him, instead walking towards the Kabra mansion. Ian wanted to follow, but he supressed the urge, if he stayed where he was, maybe he could pretend that she would still be there when he woke.
"But you're part of my imagination!" Ian yelled, blinking away the shunted tears. "Why am I even talking to you? You're – you're dead!" He took a staggered, shuddering breath. Maybe Ian – he cut himself off. Maybe I need to see a physiatrist, he looked at his ethereal sibling, or perhaps Ghost Busters would be more appropriate? Natalie turned around.
"Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind," she stated after a moments deliberation on his newly-found state of awareness. Ian blinked, and Natalie was gone.
"THAT DIDN'T EVEN MAKE SENSE!" Ian shouted at the sky, which gave another wave of snow. The sun rose to roof-height causing the flakes to melt in mid-air which gave Ian two split thoughts, the first: Since when did my dreams consist of weird weather patterns? Oh yeah, Doomsday. And the second: Why aren't I awake? – Which was answered, or blown out of his mind, half a second later.
Ian sat up in bed; he took a deep breath. Calm, Ian; he told himself gently. There-there, Ian. And then: what is it with this bloody third person business? And then he broke down, hugging his pillow to his chest like an injured puppy. (Although usually in the Kabra household, injured poodle puppies were chucked into the lake.)
Three seconds later he had thrown his poodle-puppy-pillow across the room – and out of the window – and had proceeded to shoot a picture of Isabel with his barely concealed gun. His mother's smiling face; littered with darts, knives and grey-ish splodges that Ian didn't recall making, was peppered with Teflon coated bullets. Wiping away the tears, Ian let off another blind shot.
He pulled the trigger again, but the gun was blank. He sighed, groaned and then threw the weapon at his mother's picture for good measure, she still looked far too smiley.
Whoa, Ingrid, calm down. Ian blinked once, tapped his finger on his bed frame and then smashed his head against it.
Ouch, he thought groggily.
And that's going to leave a lovely mark on our forehead, good job Ingrid. The little voice in his head said snarkily.
Well, as you said Bartholomew, our forehead. Ian thought.
My name's not Bartholomew, as you very well know, and if you had paid more attention in religious studies maybe you would notice that you are referring to me as if I were a disciple. Came the annoyed response.
Well, my name's not Ingrid, as you very well know too, Ian tapped his fingers again to a waltzing beat. And I must have paid attention in religious studies, or else how would I have given you that knowledge?
There was a brief pause where 'Bartholomew' thought through that argument, Erm… He started once or twice before admitting defeat and returning to his original point. Anyway, - Ian gave a small smirk – our forehead, if you go destroying my beautiful features then what will I have to work with at the next Cahill gathering?
Well, Bartholomew, I'm not sure if you missed the memo but this is my body and these are my features and I'll bloody well do what I like with them.
I was here first; 'Bartholomew' gave a grumpy huff.
No you weren't, Ian corrected. He sat back, wishing for his pillow to magically appear behind his back as the uncomfortable carvings indented onto his coco-skin, a smug-ish look flickering across his face.
Bartholomew grunted unhappily: yes, I think a psychiatrist would be a very good idea, Ingrid. You seem to have developed split personalities.
"No," Ian said sarcastically but 'Bartholomew' had either vanished; which Ian really hoped was the case, or returned to a small pocket of Ian's mind where he would lurk until Ian really didn't want him around; the more likely option.
Ian reached under his bed, grabbing the neck of one of the vodka bottles that were kept permanently beneath his bed. He pulled the cork and took a pain-relieving swig of the burning liquid. It was disgusting, vile and could quite possibly kill him; but Ian would bare it because it helped him forget.
'Bartholomew' gave a small cough from the back of Ian's mind, I'm sure this isn't what you want to here right now –
Don't say it then, Ian wiped his mouth with his Prada pyjama-sleeve. Or think it, whatever… he was ignored in an annoying manner that made him want to call the police and tell them to 'duck off' – or something of that ilk.
But as you insist on referring to me as if I were a 'holy-Jesus-praising monk', I suppose I should at least act like one.
Ian shook his head; I'm not sure where you got your Bible knowledge from, certain it wasn't from a boy's locker room someplace disgusting? 'Bartholomew' went quiet.
Eh, probably. Ian sighed again, anyway, don't drink that.
Ian took a deifying gulp, the sour-acidic flavour engulfing his body. Ian just wants to forget, he thought, the dreaded third person revealing itself again. Just for a little while.
No offense is intended, I'm a Christian although I can also take these sorts of jokes, if I offended anyone with my Biblic referrences, please tell me and they shall be edited out.