The moon was just setting when I saw her for the first time and fell instantly in love. Those bright eyes, so full of sweetness and kindness, the clouds of dark hair falling over her face and constantly being brushed back. I halted mid-step, one paw raised awkwardly as I stared at her jogging along the trail towards me. Luckily the underbrush was thick enough that she passed right by without seeing me - but even though it might have meant my death, I still prayed that her gaze would turn towards me and drink me in as I was drinking her in.
Of course, I was just getting back from watching her mother bleed out into a pile of leaves . . . that did make things more awkward.
Halfway to Omaha, Lydia Martin decided to die.
Her decision was the culmination of many events, all piling up on her until she could barely move, or breathe - all she ever wanted to do these days was scream, the scream building up in her chest and suffocating her.
But she held it in. What was the point of making a fuss? It wouldn't change a thing.
She had walked out of her parents' twentieth divorce conference that morning, protesting a need for water and a chance to clear her head, but really she had fled the building without a backward glance and gotten in the nearest cab, giving an address in Lincoln Park without really thinking about it.
The cabbie spent the trip describing his children's academic achievements to her, but she barely heard a word he said. Everything seemed to echo around her, a confusing mess of sound she didn't have the mental energy to interpret. When he let her off in front of Jackson's shiny-glass apartment building, she paid him without a word and marched into the building on eight-inch stilettos, smoothing down her red curls absently. The doorman bent his head as she swept past, although she thought he saw a hint of apprehension in his muddy-brown eyes.
Jackson's key still fit - somehow he had never gotten around to changing the locks as he'd threatened. She'd pushed open the door, hope - of all things! - swelling inside her as she went inside.
Giggles came from the bedroom. Not a man's giggle.
She was just hesitating on the doorstep like the hired help when Jackson emerged into the living room, dressed only in a pair of black underwear, deep in a tongue war with a scantily-dressed brunette.
Lydia stood frozen. She could hardly breathe.
They didn't notice her for a long moment, but when they did, they broke apart with a curse (Jackson) and a frightened squeal (the brunette).
"Lydia! What are you doing here?" Jackson yelled, the skin reddening under his freckles - nose, cheeks, shoulders, chest - she had often fallen asleep trying to count them.
She opened her mouth, trying to find words to explain. You're the one I always come to for comfort. There's no one else.
Before she could even get a word out, he stalked towards her, eyes dark with rage. "I get that you're deep in the process of ruining your own life, but I told you - I'm not letting you bring me down with you. Give me the key."
Stubborn pride would not allow him to dictate to her, not now or ever. Her lacquered fingernails closed over the key and she stepped back, lifting her chin against the fear that his advance brought into her heart.
"You gave this to me, remember?" she snapped. "It's mine to use whenever I want."
His hands grabbed her by the shoulders and she found herself half-thrown from the room. "Out - get out!" he screamed, his handsome features rendered ugly and frightening by the expression on them.
She turned away before he could see the tears welling into her eyes and started down the hallway, flinching when he slammed the door behind her. She couldn't help checking over her shoulder to be sure that he wasn't following, and then she stepped out of her stilettos and ran.
Right past the taxi driver, who might have yelled something after her, but she was too far gone to listen.
The scream had been almost too much to hold in there.
She had wandered for what must have been hours - shedding her pearl earrings, her hose, the silver bracelet from her wrist - not knowing where she was headed, focused only on the pain that was compressed so deep inside that she barely knew where to look for it.
At some point she got on a bus - she remembered pressing her forehead against the window, hoping to cool its feverish heat. Her cell was buzzing insistently at her, so she stuffed it between the seat cushions and ignored it. When she finally wandered off, she found herself caught in a large knot people, all hurrying somewhere, so she went too.
That was how she found herself on a train, headed to Omaha. She was in a sleeper car, with narrow berths stacked around a swaying corridor. She sank into the nearest available seat and sat staring at her hands.
There was a commotion at the other end of the car, but she paid it no heed. Her mind was replaying the scene with Jackson - his livid skin, his pale, furious eyes. The lipstick smeared on his lips. Like blood . . . she thought, and her stomach lurched. Don't think about that.
There was a voice trying to intrude on her thoughts - she shook it off like a fly.
In spite of her efforts, all she could see was blood. Her blood, spreading around her in a stick pool. The harsh sound of her own breathing as her lungs struggled to draw air in and out. How fragile she had been in that moment - and every moment since.
Fingers snapped in front of her face. She startled, nearly banging her head against the window. She looked up, half-expecting to see those terrible red eyes looking back at her -
But no. It was nothing but a man, a tall gangly man with hair in messy dark spikes and warm brown eyes. His lips were pursed as he looked at her. "Sorry," he said, very loudly and with an over-emphasis on diction, "Can you hear me? That's my seat. Number 23."
Lydia took a deep breath and stood, sliding over to the seat on the other side of the berth. The man promptly sat down, eyeing her with a small half-smile. "Going home, right? Just like me. California. Can you read lips?"
She shook her head slightly - hoping to discourage him, but it didn't seem to do any good.
For a while he rambled on about his job - teaching at the FBI academy, which would have been mildly fascinating if it didn't bring back so many terrible memories of her own interactions with the Bureau. Then he got off on a tangent about public transportation and how tragic it was that nobody used it - "Complaining about all the crowds, as if crowds weren't made up of people just like us!" - which reminded him of an experience he'd had on his latest excursion to Asia, tramping around and sleeping on ice, which sounded extremely unpleasant. He blathered on for at least two hours about how much he loved the mountains, especially the ones in California. Somehow this led to an involved description of his family, from the sheriff dad and nurse mom (step-mom, apparently) to the hoards of foster children that came and went. She stared in fascinated horror as he went on and on and on about the many students he had trained in his years at the Academy.
Outside the window, the sun sank below the horizon.
He helped her set up her bunk, all the while chatting amiably about his favorite foods which he hoped would be served to him during his visit home, and clambered into the overhead bunk, drifting into slumber not long after the lights had dimmed.
Lydia could not sleep.
She could still hear him mumbling in his sleep - something about shoes, she thought.
Everything was worse in the dark and silence. The train rumbled and swayed, and inside her the fear grew and grew. The wheels vibrated against the track, and in the sound she swore she could hear voices. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears and pressed her hands against her ears - but it didn't do any good. It never did.
Someone brushed by her, passing the bunk. She opened her eyes and caught a glimpse of a face that was so familiar, she shot straight up in her bunk, craning her neck around to try and see it again.
"Grandma?" she whispered. Was she finally losing it? Her grandma Lorraine had died years ago . . .
She slid out of bed and padded on bare feet down the aisle, passing bunk after bunk. Everyone was sleeping peacefully - except her. And at the end of the car, she saw a slim figure step out into the gangway. Lydia quickened her pace and followed.
The gangway was dark, but she could still see that there was nobody in there with her when she went inside. The door closed softly behind her, and she stood for a moment, swaying with the movement of the train.
Apart from the door she had just come through, and the one ahead of her leading to the next car, the only way out was a small door set into the accordion side of the gangway. She reached for the handle, thinking to herself, it won't open. It's automatic - they'll keep it locked when the train's in motion.
The handle opened easily under her hand, just as she had known it would. As hard as she would try to convince herself otherwise.
Outside, the wind whipped by, full of voices speaking of fear and pain. Death, death, they said. Scream for yourself.
Yes. This was the best decision she could make. She knew that it was the only way to stop the voices, the scream that threatened to burst out of her chest at any moment. She stared into the darkness as wind whistled in her ears and the landscape flashed by too quickly to be comprehended.
Just outside the door, she saw Lorraine standing, reaching out a hand, a smile on her lips. Ariel, she whispered.
"Yes, I'm coming, Grandma," she whispered, reaching back. She lifted one foot to step out into the dark -
When suddenly she was startled by the feeling of a warm hand closing over her wrist, and then she was yanked back from the door to collide solidly with a person who - judging by the pounding heart close by her ear - was all too alive. She raised her head to see none other than the familiar brown eyes of the man who sat in seat 23. He had left the door open behind him, and faint light spilled through, illuminating the worry on his face.
"What are you thinking? Opening the door while the train is going is really dangerous!" He stood back from her, his chest heaving up and down. "Some kid fell and died last year - you're a grown woman, you should know better."
She stared at him, her heart drumming in her chest. He met her gaze, his eyebrows drawing together.
"Are you mute? Can't you speak?" he asked. "I'm beginning to think you are just rude, honestly -" His lips are moving but she barely hears him, the horror of what almost happened mixed with annoyance at his interference. If he had waited for just one more second . . .
A shadow moves across the light from the door, and Lydia starts back, expecting to see Lorraine again. But it's only the conductor from the other end of the car, peering in with tired eyes, which widen when he sees the two of them standing next to the open door. "How did that -" he gasps, then waves the two of them forward. "Come away from the door, please." He reaches past Lydia and shuts the door firmly, testing the handle to be sure it's locked. "All right, let's see your tickets," he continues in the testy voice of someone who is sure he's being messed with. The dark-haired man fishes around in his pockets, eventually bringing out a rectangular stub, which the conductor inspects suspiciously.
Lydia tilts her head. The voices speaking from the wheels are silent now, but her feeling of dread has only increased. Her throat aches from holding back the scream.
"Hey," the conductor says, right in her face. She starts back from him, then holds her ground, feeling the accordion wall of the gangway shifting only inches from her back. She wondered if it would hold her weight if she were to topple.
The dark-haired man lightly touches her side, and she tenses all over, but it's only to retrieve the ticket she had completely forgotten about from the side pocket of her dress. He hands it out to the conductor wordlessly, and she can feel his speculative eyes considering her. It's irritating - almost like an itch.
The train sways around a curve, and Lydia almost falls into a heap.
"Do you need to sit down?" the brown-eyed man says unexpectedly. "I think she needs to sit down."
The conductor grunts in reply, but he follows the two of them back down the car to seat 23, where Lydia collapses and sits with her head dangling. The conductor sits down across from her, a line between his eyebrows.
"Your ticket was only good to Aurora, which we passed nearly three hours ago," he says sternly. "You're going to need to either get off the train at the next stop, or buy a new ticket."
Lydia knows that they are expecting her to speak, but oh - it's so hard.
"You have money for another ticket?" the dark-haired man says helpfully, settling himself on a empty seat behind the conductor, watching with avid interest.
There is a long moment of silence. The wheels run and run beneath them.
She opens her mouth and speaks stiffly, through her teeth, clenched against the scream building up inside. "Where does the train go?"
The conductor's eyebrows draw down over his eyes. "What?" he says, baffled. Her bunkmate is chewing on his lower lip, arms crossed and leg jiggling up and down.
Lydia isn't in the mood to repeat herself, so instead she closes her eyes and focuses on control.
The dark-haired man let out a little gasp, as of one solving a mystery. He leaned forward, eyes narrowed on Lydia's face. "Last stop? San Francisco? You want a ticket to San Francisco." She meets his eyes and nods shortly. "See - she wants a ticket to San Francisco."
The conductor rolls his eyes - at her, or the man, she doesn't know and doesn't care - types on his electronic gadget, has her swipe her credit card (thank goodness she didn't dump her wallet) and hands her a ticket before standing and returning whence he came.
The dark-haired man sinks into the seat across from her and leans forward, eyes intent, a curious smile on his lips.
"Something must have happened. What is the matter? You can tell me, whatever it is - I'm good at solving problems. You running from someone?"
She doesn't reply, but there is a rumble of something dark and fiery building up in her throat.
"Come on -" He leans forward to meet her gaze, his eyes dark and curious. "I'm with the FBI. You can tell me. Come on!"
With that, she snaps. Anger spreads through her chest and erupts out of her mouth. She sits up straight and meets his eyes and half-yells, "I never asked you to interfere. I don't want your help. Leave me alone! I don't care if you're going to Beacon Hills or Bacon Mills - I don't care about any of it! Please leave me alone!"
She shuts her mouth with a snap and he sits, staring, for a moment. Shame feels like a weight on her chest as she watches the hurt fill his eyes.
"I - I'm sorry. I didn't mean -"
A grin flashes over his face and he settles back into his seat. "Don't worry - nothing bothers me anymore. As soon as I'm done seeing my family, I'm running away to get married!"
Lydia sat back with a sigh, letting his words flow over her like water. It was going to be a long night.