One Could Do Worse Than Be a Swinger of Birches
Prologue
Days of Birth, Days of Death
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A cool breath, inhale, exhale, lungs expanding and contracting, clouds around her glossy pink lips in a tangible misty apparition. Tiny crystalline droplets trickle like little pieces of heaven falling carelessly from the sky, adding to the accumulating pallid blanket wrapping the land in a frigid embrace. Her cheeks ache from the depth of her smile, spreading across her face with such vivacity it has its own gravity. It is perfection and chaos, the ice and snow, crunching beneath her boots, warm fur lining the soles.
What better way to spend a birthday?
Annabelle loves the winter, the bitter chill of the wind and bare lonely trees like skeletons in the white. She loves the desolation and solitude that permeate the hearts of the lost, bringing everyone together in the need for the warmth of another. She loves that her birthday falls in the dead of winter—December 21, the Winter Solstice more often than not. It makes her grateful for all that she has, her mother, her friends, her home.
In this moment, she knows true happiness, pure and innocent.
"Annie!" Sarah Dennison beckons from beside the open car door, forty-four years old and still beautiful even after motherhood. Annabelle skips carelessly towards the awaiting open arms of her mum, eagerly accepting the comforting snuggle. Lips press to her temple lightly, moving in a hoarse whisper, "Happy Birthday, baby."
Then, she remembers.
And the peace of the moment is shattered because she remembers.
Stepping away, the now-seventeen-year-old walks to the passenger side, slipping in without a word. They drive in silence, as always on this day. The roadways are familiar, as are the turns, the stops, the curves and speed bumps. (Where is the happiness now?) A soft song plays on the radio, consuming them with all the words they'll never say.
An anniversary.
He walked out on them today.
Twelve years.
Annabelle doesn't even remember his face, his voice. And she doesn't want to, either. Her mother still loves him, she knows, but Annabelle doesn't remember enough to love him. (Even if she remembered, would it be enough?)
What she does remember are the years afterwards—of weeping through the thin walls, of haunted eyes in the darkness, of pills in mass across the floor, of shallow heartbeats and shrieking sirens…
…of fear.
"Annie…Let's do something different today."
Then again, she also remembers bright smiles and unconditional love, sock-jammie karaoke nights and crazy experimental dinners every Sunday—and then she can't be mad because it's her mom. And Annabelle will do anything to make her happy, even find it in herself to forgive and let live.
"Alright, mama."
A creamy digit clicks to the next station, an uppity channel currently blasting some repetitive pop song that makes perfect nonsense. Annabelle leans back in satisfaction, sinking into the worn-with-good-use leather seats. The dark beige material is worn and frayed, pulling at the seams, but still thoroughly comfortable, kind of like their ragtag team. Deceptively tattered, but ohsobeautiful in its simplicity.
They aren't rich by any stretch of the imagination, nor are they poor, even if sometimes Annabelle has to chip in from her paycheck at Starbucks to make ends meet. (She had one of those not-quite-hipster but blogger-type styles that made her a perfect teen barista.) Home is nothing more than a small two bedroom apartment at the edge of the city, but it's all they need—a roof over their heads and the occasional sappy chick-flick for a rainy day. Sure, things were tough for a while after her mother's break with depression, but they made it past that—alive and healthy and almost, if not completely happy.
Annabelle is content to suffer the goings of the mundane.
"I was thinking maybe…Well, there's that new art museum by the Wood. Sound good?" The Wood is a park in the middle of a concrete jungle, green surrounded by dull, cyclical gray—smaller than Central Park only because their town is nowhere near as large and grand as New York. It's one of her favorite places to simply sit and people watch, observe what makes the woman with a perfect body run harderfasterlonger each day, the man in a black business suit stare at his hands for his entire lunch-break, the little girl with a red ribbon swing higher and higher as if to fly with the crows. She often finds herself there after a particularly rough day at school, mind full of the whispers and cruel laughter of the popular. It's sanctuary, a haven untouched by time and all the plagues it brings.
Annabelle has heard about the museum at her workplace several times, mostly in the context that it will be an unnecessary addition to the city. She thinks quite the opposite—art is one of the greatest contributions the human race has offered the world. With no talent for it herself, she'll gladly spend days contemplating the emotion behind each stroke of the brush, appreciating every inch of the canvas.
So, with this in mind, she tilts her plump pink lips and replies to the person she loves most in the world, "Absolutely."
Only, they never reach the museum.
Annabelle sees the black ice the same time her mother does—too late, too late.
The tires squeal as the brakes try to find some sort of traction on the slick asphalt. She frantically grips the edge of her seat, nails—new French manicure, "For your birthday, sweetie pie."—digging in to keep her grounded. Her mother is screaming and someone else is—she is, screaming, screaming, Idon'twannadieIdon'twannadieIdon'twannadie…
A horn—loud, cantankerous, like at camp when she was little and all the kids thought it was cool to get semis to honk, pumping their arms enthusiastically—sounds in her ears, an ominous battle cry to alert the enemy wearecomingforyou. They impact and the resonance of metal grinding and glass shattering and bones crunching sets all of her senses on red alert, flashing, flashing. Danger, danger. The car tumbles, round and round, which way? Updownupdownupdown.
There is nothing and everything. Whereareyoumommy? Pain, agony, pleasemakeitstop. Oh god, oh god, it hurts. She sees the snow continuing to fall and then the dashboard is coming upon her fast and oh god—
.
.
"…How…she?"
"…fine…time…wakes…"
"Will…okay?"
"…moment…know…"
"…how…?"
"…family…"
"…call…father…Lennox…"
"...sure…Officer…"
.
.
She finds that in this permanent state of nothing—all she has to hold onto is hope. Hope that the nothing isn't permanent. Hope that she will be able to see her mama again. Hope that she might be able to click her heels three times (does she still have heels?), there'snoplacelikehome, and wake up to find it has all been a horrible, terrible nightmare.
Yet, hope is temporary. It dwindles, raises one's spirits only to crush them and bring them to their knees.
She begins to think maybe there's no such thing as a happy ending after all.
.
.
…Beep…
…Beep…
…Beep…
…Be—
…
.
.
Colonel William Lennox is not one who dwells on the past.
As a soldier, he takes life step by step, never looking back so he can live without regrets. His men depend on him and each day they go out, he holds their lives in his hands. His thoughts have to be on the present, the current, for if not, he could jeopardize all of N.E.S.T.'s safety. It's not a question of preference, but of necessity.
Though, there is and always will be an exception; one his mind will not, cannot stop falling back to when off the field.
He thinks of them in the quiet, solitude of the night, when the base has gone to sleep and he just can't seem to find the peace to do so. He thinks of what he's lost, nay what he's willingly given up—and for what? For more bloodshed? For death in some lonely nowhere place?
Years ago he had made a decision: he couldn't risk the lives of his family.
Now, everything seems so dull and gray, so lifeless and desolate. At first, he had comforted himself with occasionally checking in on them, unable to stay too far away. Then, as years passed, he couldn't take it anymore; watching as their lives moved on while his just drifted along the same, tedious current, knowing that he can never leave. What does he have to go back to? Nothing and no one—and he only has himself to blame.
Ironhide had told him not to act so rash, that he would protect them with his life, make sure nothing happened to them. He had told him to not be so eager to rid himself of those he loved the most, "I did the same, Major, and look where I am now." Will had dismissed him in the heat of the moment.
He regrets this.
He regrets leaving them—his beautiful Sarah, and their little Annabelle.
Ironhide had loved Annabelle like she was his own, probably still does if his attitude and aversion to speaking of them is anything to go by. They have not recovered their close friendship even after all these years. Will knows it's his fault; he isn't the only one to have lost something with his hasty actions. Ironhide had only begun to claim his place in a family once more, only for it to be swiftly pulled out from under him.
Will never forgets any of this.
He cannot.
He still loves them more than life itself, and when he finally goes to sleep sometime in the early hours of the morning, his dreams are filled with tinkling laughter and perfection in the form of two stunning blond-haired, blue-eyed girls: those he once called his girls.
Upon waking, he realizes what today is: the 21st, his baby girl's birthday. She's seventeen today and he wonders what Sarah and she will be doing to celebrate, where they're going. Is it snowing there? Annabelle had been fascinated by snow as a child. Does she still enjoy it now?
Is she happy? Are they happy?
He hopes they are and somehow, he knows they will be fine without him, better off even if it kills him inside. He hasn't heard anything about them in nine years; he doesn't expect to.
It comes as a shock when he receives a phone call from a tense social services worker.
Colonel William Lennox is not one who dwells on the past.
However, when the woman tells him his ex-wife is dead and their daughter in critical condition, he breaks down.
He cries, weeps, sobs.
And when he has no tears left to shed, he packs a bag, hops into a military humvee, and drives off without a word.
.
.
Health Record
Name: Lennox, Annabelle Jae
Patient ID: 10810
DOB: 12/21/2006
Height: 167 cm / Weight: 117 Ibs
Current Drug Admin: Anesthesia reduction per hourly bolus
.
.
Deep breath.
Eyes flutter open.
.
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~ \ ~ Prologue End ~ / ~
A/N: I don't even know. Where did this come from? Oh well. Short because it's a prologue. Later chapters will be longer. Please review if you have the chance!
Sincerely, Blondie