A Tale from Oregon: The Storm that Came to Kill the Butterfly
Chloe leaned against the kitchen bar, wolfing down a bowl of cheerios. She'd poured in more sugar than her teeth could stand this early in the morning, but she had a feeling she'd be needing some crazy energy just to get through the day.
David was outside, balanced on a ladder…she could just see his feet through the glass door leading outside. Briefly, idly, she imagined opening the door and giving the ladder a good push.
It was bad enough that her mother's replacement for her father had taken it upon himself to finish up William's repairs on the house exterior. Which was completely unnecessary and, like so much about David, not his place. Why was he wasting time here when he could go to Blackwell and strut around with that big fat gun on his big fat hip, and those eyes glaring daggers over that stiff mustache so college students could feel small under his military stare?
Step-fuhrer treated Blackwell like his own personal barracks. He tried it here too…but Chloe was never going to be his soldier. Never.
"Slow down, Chloe. You're going to spill." Joyce came in, her voice sharp and tired. She was in her stockings, having just put on her Two Whales uniform. Holding her shoes in one hand she padded over to the coffee maker like it was her savior come again.
Mom sounded even grumpier than usual, as if their daily argument had already happened twice. Even as she considered not doing it, Chloe let her mouth open. "Why's Colonel Mustard knocking up our house?"
"Chloe." Joyce' voice took on Hazard 2 level. Hazard 3 would get her truck tire-locked by a nice bracelet that David (thanks, step-crack) had procured from his compatriots at the police station. "Don't."
The sliding door opened with a gravelly squeak. "I'm taking down our security and surveillance system, Chloe. Don't start with your mother or me this morning, I'm on four hours of sleep."
David came in, carrying a cardboard box with shiny black bits and wires poking out of it. Chloe lifted her eyebrows at the load before shifting her body to a more defensive position, staring directly at him over her almost-empty cereal bowl. "All that? Of course. What is this, your personal Fort Knox?"
Step-creep looked meaningfully over Chloe's shoulder. She knew he was looking at Joyce for cues on what to say and she hated it. She knew he was vicious and stupid…she just wished he'd stop pretending he gave a shit about doing the right thing, or that he thought Joyce could teach him.
She felt her neck grow hot with possessive anger…if only she could block him completely, protect her mother, her home, William's memory…keep it all away from that steely, stupid, outsider's gaze.
David blinked when he wouldn't have otherwise. He set the box on the ground. As Chloe's eyes followed his movements suspiciously, she saw what was now clearly cameras and tripwires tangled together. He held his arms stiffly to his sides, straightening. His gaze travelled briefly to somewhere over her head before it found Joyce once more and stayed there. "I…wanted to make sure no one broke in, or that if they did I'd have proof. So I had some cameras set up inside the house."
Chloe's guts clenched. Her hand latched onto the counter until the knuckles turned white. "In the house? In every room?"
"Pretty much," he replied, as if it wasn't a complete breach of trust, as if he hadn't just ripped another floor out from under her.
"The bathroom?" Chloe hissed, turning bodily to stare at her mother. Did she know? How could she just stand there? "My room?!" she hated how her voice broke, but she was terrified. She was furious. The loft had been her safe space, her sanctuary except when step-douche broke down the door for periodic drug busts. "Have you been watching me? Sleeping, smoking, getting dressed…you pervert!"
To know that all this time, everything she did had been laid bare before him…she wanted to rip the mustache off his face, wanted to blind him with her spoon. Her arms trembled. Her foot moved involuntarily towards him.
Suddenly, Joyce's hand was on her shoulder. Ashamed, Chloe quieted under that touch. Her mother's warmth, forgotten and unused as it was. For a brief moment, she felt protected.
To her satisfaction, David looked a little panicked. Still, infuriatingly, he'd been staring at Joyce all this time. Finally he was able to man-up and look Chloe in the eyes. "Chloe," he said her name as if he knew it. "There was no camera in your room, or the bathroom. I would never do that. Not to you."
"He told me about this last night, Chloe." Joyce removed her hand, leaving Chloe's shoulder cold. "He had one in my room, in the closet…so I'm probably angrier at him than you are." Level 2 Hazard flew over Chloe's head like a spear, and she couldn't help but glow a bit as David flinched unhappily.
Joyce moved to stand between them, coffee cradled in her hands. There were deep shadows under her green eyes. "But he's come to realize we don't need it. He's taking it down, the whole setup, except the ones in the yard. But most importantly, he told us, he didn't try to hide the crime."
"So we're…" Chloe straightened up. "We're just going to let him get away with it?! Are you seriously going to trust him again after what this paranoid peeping tom did to us?"
"Yes, I am." Joyce sounded tired. The coffee didn't seem to be helping. "He could have taken it down without us ever knowing. Worse yet, he could have left it up. He came clean, Chloe, and he…he meant well."
Meant well. Chloe felt nauseous at the simplicity of it, the easy forgiveness Joyce was always offering her insane husband and never giving to her own daughter.
"Whether I meant well or not…" David surprised her. Usually he was happy to let Joyce defend him. "It was…it was a crazy thing to do. It wasn't normal and I realize how…unsafe you must be feeling right now…and that," his voice grew in volume, becoming steadier. "I really am sorry, and let me apologize again to both of you. I swear I'm sorry and nothing like this will ever happen again."
"You bet it won't," Chloe snarled, still hearing her own heart as it pounded in her chest, racing. She was starting to believe him when he said there'd been no camera in her room or the bathrooms. It made it a little easier to breathe. But this was just another bit of unwelcome terror she really didn't need from the step-father she really didn't ask for. "God, if it does I'm gonna…"
"It won't." David interrupted her. Here came that inflexible military manner. "I won't invade your privacy and you won't threaten me with childish revenge. End of story. Chloe, why don't you go pretend to be job-hunting?"
She wanted to spit at him. Claw his eyes out. He just turned and retreated into the garage. Joyce put her shoes on at the door and called out a goodbye. Neither of them answered.
Chloe waited till she heard her mother's car pull out and then left the house herself. She made sure to leave the front door open…let David figure out for himself that the fortress had been left ajar all day while he puttered away in his little workshop. Give his paranoia some real fuel in the form of an actual security threat…not some twisted, cooked up fantasy that the entire world was besieging them.
David follows a stag through the mist, through the shifting walls of whispered worlds. The stag is a real ugly looking animal, with blood-red eyes and one antler snapped apart, leaving only a sharp shard of bone. The rear leg is gnawed and clumped with blood, as if it'd been caught in a trap until recently.
David shot a stag once, before the war. But even that deer looked better in death then this phantom does now. There's a message in there somewhere but David doesn't want to puzzle it out. So he holds his thoughts closer and follows the stag, hunted and crazed as it is, snorting smoke at him as it stalks blindly through the murmuring fog.
Chloe was having a particularly bad day…some of Rachel's missing posters had been up for so long that they were beginning to drop like leaves, like pieces of dead autumn that soaked into the ditches and floated by like trash in a dilapidated city.
Even Frank's memory of their best friend seemed to have faded…he was after Chloe for her loan, finally calling with a hint of real threat. Pay me, bitch.
Also, Joyce was still married to David. Still hadn't tossed step-ass out on his ass. Not yet.
And still, William never came home. Never walked through that door to say, "Hi, kids…I forgot something. Turns out your mother didn't need to be picked up after all. Turns out I didn't need to die."
So that's why even her favorite 'medication' didn't seem to be softening the edge today. Aimless, she wandered into the bathroom. She glanced at herself in the mirror and couldn't care less what she saw.
In a few soft, shadowy blinks, her hands were tugging at the cabinet. It seemed to require no more than a touch before the doors were wide open and she could see…everything in them. She touched the razor.
Skin brushing over a dozen miniscule blades, never pressing hard enough to make flesh split apart and give way. She thought of the scarlet lines dividing her…but no. She didn't need new sharp edges to take away the big one in her life, in her heart. She hadn't reached that stage.
Instead, she picked up the shiny brown plastic of those pill bottles. Fluoxetine. When she first found these months ago she looked it up on her phone and learned they were anti-depressants.
Even high on weed, Chloe was a big enough person to admit to herself that she was feeling pretty friggin depressed.
Don't mix substances. Unless you're a chemist.
She swallowed two and then sat heavily on the toilet, waiting to see if it helped.
It didn't. She realized the two weren't playing nice together when she had to slam back the lid of the toilet and throw up. Rinse, repeat. Her hands were cold and shaking as they clutched the toilet seat. That warm glow from the weed started to simmer away, pushed out by an irritable, bitter feeling.
It seemed like hours before she realized that the pounding noise was coming from the door, not her head.
"Chloe? Chloe can you hurry up?"
David?
"Shit!" Chloe spat out with a thick, numb tongue. "In a minute! What the hell are you doing here?" It was daylight. The sun was up. David should be far away, preferably dead.
"I've been let off for a few days." David voice was a low growl, as if Chloe had pissed him off by just asking the question. Or maybe it was the way she asked him. "Had a disagreement with a teacher. Chloe, are you okay?"
How could he even…anxiety and terror suddenly flared alive inside of her…exactly what fluoxetine was supposed to prevent. All because of those last words, human words that invited sharing and caring and all kinds of vulnerable garbage that Chloe would rather share with a shrink than step-crack. "Wait a minute," she felt too sick to snap. "I'm coming out."
Somehow, she got to her feet and wrenched open the door, even as it seemed miles away from her grasping hands. David was a fuzzy, uniformed blur outlined by jagged white lightning. Chloe looked away and tried to move past him quickly. For some reason, her face pressed up against the wall and David's hands took her by the upper arms. "The hell, Chloe?!"
Chloe panicked. Her legs kicked out. "Let me go, pig!" his fingers dug in harder. Chloe screamed. "Let me GO!"
Both the haze and David's hold on her loosened and backed away. She took a moment to breathe, then spun around. "Don't ever touch m…"
"I won't." David cut her off with an urgency that was surprising. "Never again. But I wasn't gonna let you fall flat on your face. Listen…I won't help you if you don't want it. But if you go lie down for a while I'll get you something to flush your system."
The bed sounded like a good idea…her desert island while the world shifted in waves around her. She had no idea what David would 'bring' her but he'd just promised not to touch her again…that in itself gave her a boost of confidence. "Fine." She grumbled, still trying to understand what the hell was going on while simultaneously kicking herself for toking up so she couldn't even begin to figure it out.
She didn't like baking while David was around. Not because she was afraid of his reaction…it was because it left her vulnerable and weak. This was the simple thing neither of her so-called parents could understand…Chloe didn't feel safe around David. Nobody asked her if he could come into her home and replace William. David came anyway, throwing lassoes of 'fatherhood' and 'authority' and 'step-to-it-soldier' around Chloe's neck.
The simple fact of it was that he was not her father. He never could be.
And he wasn't her commanding officer. The war was back in Afghanistan. If David couldn't let that go than maybe he should have reapplied for another four-year tour, rather than try to bring it all back here into Chloe's broken home.
She was lying on her bed now, hands laced across her belly, trying to wait out the nauseous wave that was pushing her stomach into her throat.
Still, after living under the iron thumb of that dictator for nearly two years (chewing it the whole time) and finally sort-of breaking free…Chloe was grateful that she'd at least learned from David how to use bullshit as a defense mechanism, and to never shut her mouth or knuckle down no matter how hard the pressure on her was, shouting and lying and fighting all the way. Rebel always. Good little soldier, never.
The door opened and David was in the room.
She struggled up defensively, trying not to look like she was panicking as she shifted her back against the wall and leaned against it, watching him approach. "So."
At that moment, her brain decided to have a reboot. The cohesive, complete sentence she'd been about to use simply fell apart, slipping between her fingers like rain before disappearing into the black. It left her head feeling empty.
David stirred the glass in his hands with a spoon. "It's a detox. Dandelion, Milk Thistle…plant crap. Might help dilute the cannabis so it doesn't react so badly with the pills. By the way, missy, next time you take a prescription, you better make sure it's your name written on it."
Chloe groaned as she felt how warm the drink was in her shaking hands. "You don't have anything to get the fluox out?"
"You can't flush antidepressants." David deadpanned. "Try not to spill."
Reluctantly noting he was right, Chloe wrapped both hands tightly around the glass and sipped.
It was thick. The texture made her want to gag. But the taste was okay…like orange and kale and a bit of nothing that worried her. She started pulling it down. The nausea was the first thing to freak out and she had to stop and simply breathe through her nose while she waited for another chance to drink.
Her hands were still shaking. David was still watching her. Twisting a knife in her with his eyes. Weak. Junkie. Shaking. I see you.
"You can leave now." She knew she sounded ungrateful…but dammit. He was freaking her out. "I got this."
More silence.
"You're a wild…wild kid, you know that?" His first word came out choked and messy, like a half-formed cannonball. Like he hadn't known what to say and just did it anyway.
"Woman, thanks." Chloe felt better now that he was struggling…it evened out the playing field. "I'll be nineteen next month…not that you'd remember."
"When I was a kid," his voice had a funny, stilted quality to it, every few words punctuated by harsh breathing. Whatever he was trying to say was stressing him out, and Chloe was curious enough to listen. "I told you I stirred hell. Drinking, shooting up, poaching…vandalism. Fights. One time I fell off a roof and broke both legs…the first thing my father said when he heard was, 'Thank God, that boy's not getting into any trouble for a few months.' Course I proved him wrong."
"I…I have good parents." Something in his eyes softened immensely, becoming almost tender.
Chloe blinked. Sometimes she forgot that David was actually six years younger than Joyce and only thirteen years older than Chloe. The mustache and the attitude made it easy to forget. "Too soft on me maybe, but always good. I've seen my share of nights in the lockup. My father used to come get me in his red pickup and sigh all the way home. Then mama got ahold of me and kicked my ass for misbehaving."
"Every time, he came and got me. It was only when he stopped…when he let me walk home with a hangover and my face all puffed up…then I realized. I was putting a chasm between us."
She felt her shoulders stiffen. She knew what he was implying and was ready to show him just how little she cared about any so-called 'chasm' between her and the man who was doing his best to ruin her life.
David kept talking. "But hey, I never claimed to be a smart guy. I still acted out, still got into fights…still ran from mama's frying pan. But once in a while, in the early morning when all my friends were just getting up for school and I was left shivering on the front steps of the station…my dad would still come get me."
To hear her enemy tell her this story…Chloe felt like she was being given a window to another kid like her. Not David. Not step-douche and his moustache and his surveillance…but a different boy, in trouble, unhappy, fighting the world tooth and claw because he didn't understand it. In order to fully comprehend, she'd have to reconcile the two, make them one. She wasn't sure she dared to.
"I…I'm gonna do that for you, Chloe. Help you, whether you ask for it or not. Not as your father or even your step-father…as a friend. As someone who wants to make sure you and Joyce don't suffer anymore…that the rest of the darkness in the world doesn't take you down."
Like hell. Good luck. Too late. Chloe laughed. Liar. She scoffed with bitter, brittle joy. Then she squeezed her eyes tightly shut as a wave of nausea rolled over her. Casually, her stomach threatened to empty itself and her breath turn poisonous for a moment. The world tipped to the left and then steadied itself again.
When she opened her eyes, David was gone.
A picture of the three of them, tilted in the airless mist that sparkles with red and gold, like a smoking, bleeding sunrise of color. The entire happy family, David had thought. Him and Joyce, smiling at the camera, content…arms sneaking around each other beyond the edges of the frame. He'd thought wrong.
Chloe's there, pulling shadows in with her. Arms crossed, eyes staring purposely away from the camera. Smile decidedly missing. "Sulking", he'd called it. Now he can see what it is. It's hurt. Pain. Longing for escape now that understanding seems impossible. She's staring off into the distance, looking for a way out. She never wanted to be there and they forced her…David forced her. Chloe's not something you can force.
It's too late, of course, but he understands that now.
When Chloe woke up and the world had stopped shifting every time she blinked…well, she decided to forget what David had said. Step-tool seemed to reach the same conclusion. They simply glanced at each other that evening and then, without another word on the previous subject, disagreed (vehemently) about Chloe's clothes having been worn for three days straight. Chloe told him his uniform stunk to high heaven…so why couldn't hers?
Her uniform.
She was thinking about that later when she caught David standing by their rickety, hazardous laundry station. The top-heavy design that was ready to fall on top of and kill someone…all three of them had agreed to get two separate machines once this one was worn out. A dryer and a washer that could stand on their own.
Step-mustache was throwing in a load of clothes. Amidst the large collection of uniform t-shirts and socks and the occasional polo-shirt of muted color she could pick out large pieces of his navy-blue uniform.
He noticed her and frowned, his bushy eyebrows dipping closer to his mustache in irritable warning. "For your information, Chloe, this has nothing to do with your smart mouth last night."
"Yeah, sure," Chloe agreed mockingly. "Mom just noticed I was right about the stench and sent you down here to fix it. Bet you're on the couch until you do."
That got him mad. He stood up so sharply his spine should have cracked. "I'm tired of you talking to me like this, Chloe. Frankly, and I'm sorry to say this, but your mother is her own person, and her relationship to me is not one you get to make fun of and dictate!"
Any other time, Chloe would have had a lot to say about that. But she was experiencing a rare and dangerous sensation at the moment. A curiosity. She swallowed the bitter need to retort and, instead, leaned against the workbench.
David seemed a little off-put by her silence. He finished up loading the laundry, all the while shooting suspicious, subtle glances at her.
"You're always trying to tear me down for my appearance, like I even care about that anymore." Chloe said at last, brushing a tired hand through her blue hair. "I can't talk about you two but you can tell me all the ways I look like a no-good freak. You can tell me what to wear and how to behave. Real nice."
"I can't tell you anything, apparently." David slammed the machine shut with more force than necessary. It gave off a bang, like a fired weapon. Both of their shoulders jumped a fraction of an inch. "But I'm not going to stop telling you what I think because I'm not going to stop caring."
"Quit making it sound like you give a shit."
He poured soap in. Turned the dial. Ignited the engine as the thing started doing a roaring jig across the cement floor. Then he turned around, leaving the empty laundry basket on the floor. "My squad…the first one, anyway. We did what a lot of them did. We got inked." He rolled up the right sleeve of his lemon-green polo shirt.
Chloe straightened up to get a better look. She couldn't help herself.
It was a pretty nice, expensive looking tattoo. Crossed swords, roman numerals…a skull wearing a green beret and smoking a cig, all of it framed by fire. The skull grinned at her with empty black sockets for eyes that seemed full of mischief and danger and, under it all, a disturbing void of wrong.
He barely let her look before he covered it up again. Hid it away. "I don't know about you, but for me, tattoos aren't for remembering what you've been through. Soldiers…we have them to prove we're different, we're ready and willing to go through hell. We've already signed up to change so we can live and die for our country. We belong to the hellraisers."
His hand went down and snatched the laundry basket by the rim. His eyes travelled to Chloe's bare arm, down the beautiful, bright swirl of roses and butterflies and vines…with the yellow skull resting carefully inside. Peeking out of the flowers, just as his was grinning out of the fire. "The problem, I found out, is if you try to leave that life behind, if you try to change again…the ink doesn't change with you."
Max's words come back to him. He can hear the echo of futility and despair and a hundred years of aging in her voice. Can still see her big, doe-like eyes staring at him from the rear-view mirror of his car. "I saw you die, David…God, it was like a terrible dream. So many times…over and over, and I was tied to a chair and I couldn't do anything but scream.
"I tried to help you but I failed so many times. Each time, I felt like I was the one who killed you…like it was a cruel game and you were a helpless victim of someone else's story. I was just there to fail, to watch you die."
"Is...is that what war's like?"
He still remembers his answer. "Not always."
Chloe's birthday came up in a month, just as she'd said it would. Using Joyce as a telephone to soundboard the idea, step-troll put a small disco light in Chloe's room. There was a kind of curtain for her to throw around the glittering globe when she started to 'go blind' as he put it.
The bright colors spattered over everything and when Chloe had her birthday 'wake-n-bake' the next morning, the little lights turned into glowing splashes of paint. Then, after a bit of toking, they began to blur together like a rainbow river rushing across the surface of her eyes.
It wasn't by far the best gift she'd ever gotten…but it was pretty damn strange for David to think of it.
They celebrated her nineteenth birthday much as they'd celebrated her sweet-sixteens. Only this time, Joyce was the only one allowed to hold the knife and Chloe's hair was completely blue, as opposed to a few daring forelocks.
It was a delicious carrot cake with delicate white frosting. It was so good that it struck everyone dumb with the first bite. It was only until Chloe was digging into her second piece that she realized how…quiet it was. David was eating, gazing at his plate as one would thank a friend for being with him in a room full of strangers. Joyce was staring blissfully at Chloe in that unnerving way that meant she was seeing a different girl entirely, from a thousand years ago.
Chloe was uncomfortable in the pleasant silence. She was drowning in the contentment.
"Thanks, Mom…this cake's amazing."
David grunted in agreement. Joyce beamed. "I hope so, Chloe…only the best for my daughter."
Chloe smiled, feeling tiny needle pricks of guilt. But she couldn't let this farce of everything being okay…this lie that everyone was fine…to continue. "Dad used to tell me the story of my birth every year." She turned her head to stare challengingly at David's impossibly square flat-top haircut. "Since you weren't there, David…why don't you tell us a story about yourself? Maybe a funny war story?"
A single gasp from Joyce. The sound, simple and hushed as it was, broke Chloe's heart. Immediately, she regretted ruining an event Joyce dared to hope might have been argument free, for once.
She was sorry, even though it was her own damn birthday.
David merely looked out the window. He turned his head to glance at Joyce and…did Chloe imagine it, or did the corner of his mouth turn up in a smile? "War story? Well, there was your sixteenth birthday…"
The two ladies both stared at him, utterly floored by what was a pretty decent attempt at a joke.
A joke.
Chloe's mouth opened in surprise. She stared at the man across the table.
Getting a little uncomfortable with their perplexed scrutiny, David quickly launched into a real anecdote.
"One of the boys in my squad, Briston…he had a fear of goats. Not a full-blown phobia, mind you. Just an overwhelming dislike for them. He said once that he hated their faces, their smell, their snake-eyes. And this is Afghanistan…there's goats everywhere. One of their primary livestocks. So, we're camped in the middle of nowhere, sheltered by a farmstead. On our way to join the main column…but we've got to stay the night."
"I'm on duty for the hour. Briston's asleep, Fitz and Abassi are asleep…but Ricky has an idea. Ricky always had ideas. He tapped me on the shoulder and I nearly took his head off with my knife. But then he tells me his plan. So, like an idiot, I left my post for twenty, thirty minutes."
"Rebel," Chloe remarked. She wasn't sure why.
"Idiot," David corrected her. But there was no anger in him. "So Ricky and I…asking permission, of course…we lead goat after goat out of the enclosure and tie its halter to a rock. Then we took all those rocks and lined them up in a perfect circle around Briston as he slept. Fenced him in with these sleepy, softly bleating beasts."
David tapped his fork against his plate, his eyes travelling from Chloe to Joyce to the cake as he watched the story happen in his mind. "Early that morning we start tapping the breakfast trays…Briston wakes up. Sees all those snake-eyed devil goats staring down at him and bleating. He freaks out. Screams like a girl. Jumps up and then trips over the goats as he tries to leap out of the trap."
It wasn't hilarious…it was pretty infantile, really. Simple, stupid mischief in a foreign land, far from home. But to see how much David enjoyed it…she saw him smile again as he stared down at the cake, fond memories dancing in his eyes. She'd never seen him smile before. Or joke. Or tell a story.
The whole thing was unprecedented and slightly disorientating. Even worse was the way he stood up, grabbed another piece of cake, and kissed Joyce on the head and then the lips before throwing a casual, normal, 'Happy Birthday, Chloe,' her way before disappearing into his man-cave.
Chloe tapped her fork on the table, remembering the knife David had…the one she sometimes used to cut stubs, although he'd kill her if he knew. She remember the inscription on it.
To my Field Angel. Keep your Wings Up.
He'd shared the tattoo. He'd shared a story. To her horror, Chloe realized she was hungry for more…more of the man David Madsen was…before he became step-tyrant.
After…after everything, Max starts visiting. A lot. More than a busy senior should. An old friend of Chloe's, Joyce tells him. David doesn't like strangers. He just can't find it in himself to care anymore.
Max is kind and quiet. She has a calming aura about her that David finds himself enjoying, mostly when he sees how the visits help Joyce. For some reason, Max is always eager to praise David and bolster him, even though they hardly know each other.
Max mentions how well Blackwell Academy is doing now…she tells Joyce very specifically that there's been a 40% drop in crime rate, from bullying to vandalism to curfew violations. Joyce's eyes light up with warm pride as she shifts closer to David, nestling her head into his shoulder, pulling his arm closer to her.
David's grateful, more than he can ever say. But he's also confused by the way Max's eyes light up in satisfaction…as if they're doing exactly what she wants. As if she's planning this.
Less than a week after her birthday, Chloe tried to scam Nathan. And then that Prescott devil spawn tried to...to drug her. To do whatever he wanted to her.
Sick, terrified, shaking with rage, Chloe made her way to the junkyard. She climbed into the old boat and curled up near the makeshift table. Then, and only then, did she break down. Hugging herself protectively, longing with all her heart to be alone and but also for someone, anyone to be with her…she cried.
Hours later, her head was pounding with enough force to make her eyes squint shut with every blow. Cold, wet evening was showing its head near the mountains. Chloe didn't have the energy to move.
Step-ass showed up. Walked right beneath her boat and called her name.
"Chloe? Chloe, I know you're here!"
A pause. Chloe curled her fist around the table leg and closed her eyes, letting her body shiver uncontrollably as she listened to him get more and more frustrated…or was frantic a better word?
"Chloe, come out. I investigated Nathan's room…I know what happened. That little shit is nowhere near here…please come out."
Silence still. Didn't step-douche understand? Chloe was hurting. She needed time to heal before she fought with him again.
"I used to track your car so I know you hang out here. Took it away the same time as the security system…forgot to tell you."
In a swift, powerful motion, Chloe threw a bottle down at where his voice was coming from. It shattered in a tinkling, sparkling crash. Pieces skittered up against his boots. "Fuck you, pig!" her voice was hoarse from crying.
David held up his hands in the least threatening way possible. She couldn't see his face in the darkness. "You've been through hell today, Chloe. The rain's coming in. I'd rather you came home and shot up or smoked some weed rather than stay out here now. Joyce is waiting. I didn't tell her what happened…not yet. I'll let you do that, if you want."
Why did he make communication sound like a chore? Chloe threw another bottle, this time with less energy. It landed with a bang and fell into two jagged halves. A step closer to being whole than the many pieces of the first one.
Silence. David hadn't moved.
Finally, "Please, Chloe."
The begging, passionate intensity in his voice almost sounded real. The projected need to pull her into his orbit of protection, to get her somewhere safe…was almost palpable. She couldn't trust it.
But she dropped down from the boat anyway. She jammed her hands into her pockets and walked quickly by David without looking at him. They got into the car and began the long, dark drive home.
David turned the radio on, presumably so he wouldn't have to hear her crying. In a twisted, dark little part of herself, Chloe appreciated the gesture. She knew David understood, only too well, how she hated to be vulnerable. Wasn't he the same way? The wounds didn't matter…PTSD, attempted rape, depression, losing a father…to show it to anyone would only invite more of the same.
But Chloe didn't cry. She closed her eyes and let herself fall into the music.
And she didn't turn to her substances that night either. Joyce was waiting, lying in bed with the lights turned off. The same old bed where Chloe used to cuddle with both her parents while fleeing night terrors or simply trying to ignite Christmas morning early.
Chloe climbed into bed with Joyce. On the floor, she left anger, pain, and the wounds her mother had unknowingly inflicted on her. Silent in the dark, she felt safe. She felt protected. She could smell her mother's perfume, and Joyce's hands immediately found hers and held her there.
The only night noise breaking the warm silence was the occasional clash from the garage, where David was working on his car.
He slept on the couch that night. In the morning, Chloe straightened the cushions and put away the extra blanket, and then helped make breakfast with Joyce while David got ready for work. As her step-dork went out the door, Chloe made a point of standing by it and watching him leave. Thanking him with her eyes for letting go, for letting her have a bit of her mother back. For making Chloe the priority.
It'd been so long since she'd felt that. So damn long.
Max's journal scares the hell out of David. At first he only pities her…the adventure she'd created, a fabricated month where Chloe was still alive and Max had power over time itself…a timeline where Max could save her…only for it all to end in futile tragedy.
At first, David thinks Max is a grieving artist. But it's only when he realizes that every page hits him in the face with a powerful sense of déjà vu along with every other paranoia that's ever assailed him, and his forehead…his forehead aches when he reads about that last day…then he begins to feel afraid.
When he asks about it, Max laughs like every breath is pain and pretends it's nothing. It's then that he begins to wonder.
"Those Blackwell brats are always badmouthing me. They've even got graffiti of me in the bathrooms."
"So you've been immortalized in art," Chloe said, half paying attention as she shifted pieces of her mother's old jewelry around on the counter, "Big deal." Joyce had taken the box out of storage and told her to pick a few pieces she wanted and clean them up. A small gift, for no reason.
There'd been a lot of those recently, from both David and Joyce. Part of Chloe loved it. The other part hated the feeling of gratitude and the warm glow in her stomach, the connection binding her to this new family unit. Not that she used the word 'family' in her head.
Subtle little differences in the way they behaved towards each other…like the way David rammed his hands deep into his pockets when their arguments got vicious. There had been a definite shift in step-tool…Chloe couldn't quite put her finger on the 'when'. It seemed to have started when David revealed his paranoid watch-dog system. But that definitely wasn't the cause. That wasn't what began it.
Honestly, Chloe had no idea what started it. But somehow she didn't feel so murderous towards David anymore. It was still fun to insult him...but it felt worse when he turned away and stalked into his garage. He seemed to be experiencing the same troubles. He tried to antagonize her less, bit his tongue more.
All Chloe could do was blame Joyce. She must have gotten through to the step-troll that he was a PTSD-fueled douchebag who was turning his own home into San Quentin.
"Why are they whining? Because I tell them what to do. Privileged elitist hoodlums! Not every rule of safety is covered in the policy. Like looking both ways when you cross the damn street and for the love of God stop hitting each other with schoolbags at the stop sign."
"Come on," Chloe scoffed, "that's virtually harmless compared to what some of them get up to. Like me, for instance."
David pointed at her. Rude. At least it wasn't in her face, like it would have been a year ago. "The fact that you know that proves you could be a hell of a lot better."
He had an empty cup in his hand. Chloe rolled her eyes and reached out for it. Still talking at her, David let her take the thing and put it in the sink. She let him rant for a minute. Finally, seizing an opening, she looked him square in the eyes. "You're riding these harmless punks hard. But what about Nathan Prescott?"
His eyes seemed to flutter. Darken. A thunderstorm that she'd often seen glowering on the horizon, but never the accompanying lightning as it struck the ground. "I've got no proof yet, Chloe. That family has the money to send us all into a dark hole if they wanted to. Believe me…!" he slammed his hand down on the bar. Chloe flinched. She was glad she'd taken the cup away.
David leaned back apologetically, a bit embarrassed by his outburst. He went on, quieter, but losing none of his intensity. "Believe me, Chloe. If I could take that little bastard into a dark alley and break both his knees…I would. I'd let you break his knees. But I'm watching him now, waiting for him to make a mistake. I'm spying on him and his father. He'll never hurt another girl while I'm around to stop him. Especially not you…I won't let him."
Chloe had never heard David talk like this. It had all been grumbling bluster or raging wind before…but this was true. It was true in every clenched muscle in his fists and every trembling breath in his body…the shadowy terror lurking in his eyes. David had killed before, and he'd do it again. For her.
It thrilled her and scared her and made her strangely, blissfully happy, all at once.
Because step-soldier would protect her.
David stands in Chloe's room, ramrod straight and at attention, like a soldier under inspection. Arms rigid at his side, shoulders back, chest out. But his eyes aren't frozen, straight ahead like they should be. They're following the blue butterfly.
The little winged splash of color wanders in through the half-open window and flutters across the room, skimming the American flag before winging back towards the bed.
Like the sentinel beam of a lighthouse, David's brown eyes follow it. He sees the luminous blue wings land softly on the burgundy blanket. "Hello, Chloe." He tries to whisper. Instead he chokes.
When summer began, Joyce received the annual letter from her sister Rachel, which always contained good news, stories no one but Joyce could really appreciate, and a thinly veiled invitation to come spend a week or so with her extended relatives.
This time, Chloe and David both dropped subtle hints that she should go. It took a bit of convincing to make Joyce understand she could actually give herself something, for once. It was probably the fact that her two troublemakers were in agreement and the world had not ended (or maybe it already had, hence the agreement), so she could safely take a small vacation.
Once she left, however, the warm afternoon turned dull and bitter. The sunlight seemed old and the air in the house was stagnant. David went to work and then came home to work on his car. Chloe found money left for her on the counter. Without any communication whatsoever, she knew it was for her breakfast and lunch.
If she was hungry for dinner she had to call David so he could stop by a restaurant on the way home and pick up pizza or Chinese food.
It was so awkward that she usually just pigged out during lunch and then forfeited dinner.
One night, Chloe was padding softly across the landing to get to her room after relieving herself. All the lights in the house were off, and the dark sky outside the window held the faintest violet promise of dawn, a dim fuzz of light that hugged the mountain ridges. The stars were small and faint.
As Chloe reached for her door, she heard a heart-stopping thud that reverberated through the house. She was about to disregard it and go to bed when it escalated into a crash…like an end table had been violently slugged across the room. A dozen little thumping sounds…all coming from Joyce's bedroom.
"Dominguez, Jonas, Gray, sound out!"
It was muttered, as if the soldier was hiding in the dark, unable to know if he was surrounded by enemies or empty terrain…as if any noise could mean his death.
"Sound out, dammit…"
Chloe was by the door now. She listened as David called out for his comrades and spotted enemy lights, muttering all the while…I'm out. I'm out. My knife's gone.
All the while, the rage, the fight was bleeding out of his voice. When it was gone, there was nothing left but paranoia. He was lost. He was freaking out.
Chloe was scared. It only got worse when the thumping noises stopped and David started crying.
But she didn't have a clue what to do, not in this lifetime. David sniffed and cursed and started to get a handle on himself…then it started again, a deep, heaving pain. It wasn't just the panicked hallucinations of being back in Afghanistan…it was as if a dozen other cares and worries were wearing him down, demons with different names blotting out his future.
Suddenly the bed creaked. Heavy footsteps came closer. Chloe instantly backed away until her back hit the railing and David opened the door.
His eyes were red and still wet, even as the grim shadows from his nightmares lingered like smoke in his brown irises. Chloe twisted her hands uncomfortably, trying not to forget which way her bedroom was if she had to bolt.
They stared at each other.
Finally, something in David seemed to break apart and unravel. He sagged against the doorway. "Didn't mean t' wake you." He dragged a bare hand across his face. Chloe tried not to notice how much it was shaking. "Usually…schedule's been upset. Didn't take my pills."
"You…need your fix?" Chloe asked, instantly remembering the shiny brown bottles. Fluoxetine.
David still had the strength to frown at her. "Not a fix. Prescription," he growled hoarsely.
"Whatever." Chloe practically ran to the bathroom, hands quickly wrenching open the cabinet and snatching the medicine. She held it up to the watery white light, reading the dosage carefully. The last thing she needed to see after step-dad crying was step-dad OD'ing.
She dumped the toothbrushes out of their cup and filled it with water from the faucet.
He'd moved out from the door and was holding on to the banister leading downstairs when she came out. With muffled thanks, he took the stuff and quickly swallowed the medication. Droplets spattered down his t-shirt.
A cough to clear his chest. A moment to straighten up. He nodded at her bedroom. "Thank you, Chloe. You can go to bed now. I'll be working downstairs for a bit until it settles."
He didn't want to be vulnerable. Chloe understood that well.
Except… "Let me know if you need anything else."
The shadows in his face seemed to fade away a little, as if a fresh spring breeze had suddenly swept through. David's mouth twitched into a tired smile. "Yes, sir."
Chloe turned and went back to her room before she said another stupid thing, like 'goodnight' or 'don't worry'.
She didn't go to bed. She stayed awake, her face bathed in the whitish glow of her laptop as she read up on PTSD for veterans. The symptoms, the causes. The coping mechanisms.
She didn't like how closely the symptoms mirrored her own life; not just David's. But she did love the videos of people getting help, of them being comforted and understood and made to feel safe, just as David had been trying to do for her in his own clumsy way. It occurred to her that David hadn't been to therapy even though Joyce had suggested it.
William had always been a cat person.
But Step-dork should have a dog.
David has heard of spirit animals. Indian legends…you can't live in Arcadia Bay and not hear about it a little. On one of her visits Max comes to watch him work on his car. And talks. David would prefer Chloe noisily messing up his tools and belittling his projects before slamming the door on her way out.
But still, Max is so small and young looking for her age…and the way she speaks, soft and heavy and urgent…it makes her easy to listen to. She talks, and his hands never stop moving. She looks at the stag-head in his garage and tells him about the spirit animals she's been reading about, and the totem pole outside Blackwell.
"For instance, the stag is slow, but it will strike heavily until its hooves finally stop the terrible owl, bullet-swift in the darkness, with wide eyes that blink like a camera shutter and strip away the layers of your soul…seeing more in the darkness than others do in the light."
"The butterfly is change and joy and rebirth. With a flap of its wings, a butterfly can transform the whole world over. Yet for all its power and beauty, a butterfly is a fragile creature."
"How fortunate, then, that the bright little dictator will often surround itself with a deer or a bear or some other positive protector."
"A deer watches over all things. And when it chases a butterfly it may fly through time, to any moment in the forest it has gazed upon. This is its gift. But remember, a deer also and always has a threefold destiny. A Watcher, a Guardian…and a Victim."
David glances at Max and sees her staring off into the dark corners of his garage. He realizes she isn't reading from a book. She's reading from her journal.
A few days before Joyce was due to come home, Chloe let her dye fade. She even used dye remover in the tub. She wasn't going to keep it that way, wasn't going to give her mother false hope. She stilled cared about Joyce that much.
But she couldn't help but be curious as to how it would affect David.
David was in the kitchen, furtively trying to clean before Joyce came home. Or helplessly slapping the same soapy rag on every surface. It was all the same to her.
Keeping herself out of sight, she carefully came up behind him and ask him to pass her the cereal since his body was 'blocking the cabinet'. She didn't even want cereal. There'd been cereal for breakfast every day since Joyce left.
William wouldn't have stood for that. William had been an amazing chef. David would burn water.
As David turned around and handed her the box his normally small, rage-filled eyes widened. He did a hilarious double-take. "Damn," he muttered.
That was it. Smiling smugly, Chloe pretended not to notice as she retrieved the milk and poured it into the bowl. Still with no intention of eating it, but she needed an excuse to linger.
"Damn," David muttered again. Clueless, he held the dirty rag loosely in his hands. It dripped steadily, splashing brown water on the floor. "Is this…permanent?"
As always, his response wasn't very elegant or even human and it delighted her. "I dunno. Maybe?" she lifted a teasing eyebrow at him.
"I…" he blinked. Noticed the mess he was making on the floor and swore as he threw the wet bundle into the sink. "Aw, hell, missy. You know very well what you're doing. I'm just…I'm just so used to the blue. That's all. Like you were some sort of street-rat fairy, covered in roses and smelling like cannabis."
It was plain weird to hear him talk about her like that. About her appearance, like he noticed, like he had an image of her in his head that he could turn to whenever he was thinking about her.
"Yeah? Better than a used GI Joe with a dated mustache and a haircut that just won't chill."
Worried that the retort had been too rude, Chloe hid her discomfort by sweeping the cereal bowl off the bar and transporting it to the dining table. Sitting heavily in the chair she threw her shoes up and stretched out nonchalantly, rocking back and forth a little.
David came out of the kitchen, his eyes still trying to take in the sight of her. He must have been a little stunned since he didn't immediately yell at Chloe to get her feet off the table. "You…" he hesitated, noticing how her golden hair reflected yellow bars of sunlight at him…how it perfectly framed her elfin face. "You look beau…"
With a shriek and a thump, Chloe's chair tipped over and she fell backwards. Her disobedient feet flew up into the air and her thick head bounced off the floor. She groaned, flushing red. But through the pain and embarrassment she dimly realized, with a start of shock…that David was laughing at her.
A warm, rolling, stupid-sounding southern chuckle that only got louder and louder as her head cleared.
"Oh yeah, my step-daughter almost caved her head in, best joke all year," she fumed.
But as she stood up and rubbed the back of her school, she could see David struggling to stop laughing. On his face was an honest-to-goodness human emotion…sheepish dismay. She'd heard him laugh before but only when he was alone with Joyce in their bedroom, giggling the night away as Chloe shoved her face into a pillow and screamed.
But she'd never been in the full spotlight-glory of it and, like most laughter, it was infectious.
She was better than David, though. She kept it down to a respectable snort.
Joyce is always strong. Joyce always carries him through life, teaches him what to say, how to smile and when to frown…Joyce shouldn't be like this, she shouldn't be heavier than the whole world as she limps towards a hole in the earth, where they'll put her daughter down.
Her only child. Her first and only. David's first and only.
They're followed by a little crowd of Blackwell hoodlums. Blackwell brats. It humbles David and he can feel shame hanging onto him like a tattered skin, like something wrong and ragged. It catches everyone's gaze. He knows it. He failed the children. He failed Joyce. But most…most of all, he failed the little street-fairy, the angry little soldier who wasn't a soldier. Chloe.
Joyce is crying into his suit. He can taste sand in his mouth, hear the drones slicing through the air as shots are fired in the dark. There's a black emptiness roaring inside him. It hollows out his chest and leaves him weak as the mechanism starts to lower Chloe into her grave.
When Joyce came home, Chloe's hair was blue again. But it was good to know she could still change. Maybe she'd go back to blonde, this time keeping the forelocks blue and maybe pulling the purple down, split the territory between them.
She went shopping with David's debit card and bought dinner for Joyce to come home to. An oven lasagna, salad, tomatoes, and ice cream for desert. Plus a dozen energy drinks they didn't need but Chloe really wanted.
David was busy cleaning up when she got home. Their form of hello was to catch each other's eye and maybe move a facial feature...ridiculously comfortable in its simplicity. Chloe stowed the lasagna in the oven and started shredding the lettuce head.
As she looked down, she noticed the ashy black smears and oil stains on the front of her raggedy old shirt. Automobile work was filthy…David had tried to get Chloe into it as a way of bonding when he first invaded her home. It hadn't worked out well…he'd been a little less grumpy back then, but fourteen-year old Chloe wasn't having it.
So she finally agreed to it present-day by walking into his garage and picking up a wrench. "So, what are we doing here?"
David's surprise had been comical. Finally he managed to grumble out some instructions, like a hibernating bear that'd been disturbed and forced to move over.
They spent the time in amicable silence. Until David barkingly criticized her work. Then Chloe told him his classic was a relic that should have been junked. "You know people like to switch the engines out with something new, something that's got power? Ooh, and we could paint it. Put some wicked flames on it."
"I'm not gonna spend a lot of money on something that looks really stupid." David replied shortly.
Chloe shifted her knees on the cardboard she was kneeling on. "Fine," she snapped, "Your car, your project." A split second passed before she fired off again. "We should get a dog."
David looked at her, lifting an eyebrow.
She looked right back at him, unafraid. "A really sweet lab or something…a therapy dog."
David did something weird then. A huff of air and a desperate, tired whine as he shook his head before attacking the engine with loud, clanging ferocity. Chloe could barely hear him over the sound of his wrench hitting metal. "I don't need a damn dog."
It devolved into a fierce argument that lasted longer than usual simply because Chloe firmly felt it was the right thing to do. David should have a dog. Hell, Chloe wouldn't mind having a dog either. Some lovable mutt would never really replace Bongo…but it would be something.
Still, that was their first really bad argument since autumn began.
It did nothing to prepare her for when David discovered she'd stolen one of his guns.
Because sure, yeah, David had promised to protect her. But Chloe would much rather trust the one person who'd never let her down…herself.
She'd been such a stupid idiot. When David asked her in the hallway she just, for some inexplicable reason, immediately fessed up. Step-ass went ballistic. Demanded the gun back. Chloe argued with him, tried to wriggle out…
His fist crashed into the wall. The shockwave seemed to hit her in the arm and she flinched. Her heart sped up and she stared at him, waiting for some sort of attack.
Instead, he pulled away, looking ashamed and sorrowful and pitying all at once. He left, locking himself in the garage.
Chloe left the gun on the shelf nearby.
During dinner the night after David put the gun on the table between their plates. "If you want a gun, you should have asked, Chloe."
She glared at him, a little bit ready to argue but also afraid he'd put a hole in the table.
Joyce continued, glancing knowingly between the two. "If it's for self-defense, I understand." The worry in her mother's brilliant green eyes told a different story, but Joyce forced a smile. Forced herself to trust. "You'll need a safe place to put it, near at hand but protected so that only you can get a hand on it."
"I'll teach you how to use it, in a safe environment. But you'll follow the rules. These aren't toys…people are literally killed with these every day, missy." David stressed.
Like I don't know that, Chloe internally groused as she reached for the gun only for David to quickly snatch it back.
What is happening? she thought as she watched David's profile in the sunlight during their weekly drive to the target range.
She got used to the miniature explosions, the liquid hot peht-peht-POW-peht-peht-peht of bullet fire.
One look at David told her this was taking a toll on him.
He was irritable and close-mouthed. When Chloe's arm bent too far out he quickly pushed it back into place. Finally, he lined his own face with hers to make sure she could see down the sites…and his cheek scratched against hers. He smelled like cheap cologne and cheap beer. Also Joyce's soap. And William's barbecue. And there was a faint, faint smell of the bay itself, of saltwater and brisk ocean wind.
She panicked at the proximity and pulled the trigger before he was ready.
Both the target and David seemed to explode all at once.
Another argument, this one causing several hardened gunmen to stare at them with a hint of fear. The gun was packed up, the car doors were slammed…the drive home slowly melded from a shouting match to sullen silence.
But Chloe knew David was proud of her…she'd been almost dead-center, after all.
Jefferson is sitting in his holding cell. He's calm. Quiet, staring at the wall in bemused surprise at the way his entire enterprise has been torn down so unexpectedly.
There's shouting in the hall. The policeman holding his door starts to close it, but David Madsen is a little quicker. The door swings wide with a bang, much like a gun going off. David throws himself forward, hands reaching for Jefferson's throat.
"You and that little shit, Nathan…you sick fuckers…you murdering bastards!" he gets dragged away. Someone threatens to throw him in a cell.
David doesn't care. He doesn't care what his fists are hitting right now…and it's been like that his entire life. Even in Afghanistan, he never knew who the enemy really was. Terrorists in the dark, a coward guarding your back, the government at home…everyone conspiring to cause death beyond number. But it couldn't have all been for nothing.
Not then, not now.
Once Jefferson can breathe again he smiles at David. That mouth that had spoken so easily to others, that smile that had been so convincing, when all David could do was bark and snarl and send those Blackwell students scurrying…the real predator had been there all along, waiting for the frightened prey with open arms.
No sooner had step-crack given Chloe a gun then he took it back again. Figures.
He confiscated it from her, yanking it out of her waistband as she tried to leave the house.
To be fair, he'd been super-nice all month. Freakishly nice. More of a step-dork than a step-douche.
Chloe tried to look disinterested and innocent. "I'm going to the range. Steven's set up kerosene tanks...invited me to come help him make some hella lovely explosions."
"You're lying," David replied flatly. Chloe tried not to show any surprise but…what the hell? How? She knew she was smarter than him any given day…he couldn't know what she was going to do. There was nothing but paranoia to explain his inadvertent stab at the truth.
Which was why she needed the gun. To help him. To help everyone. To put Nathan Prescott in the ground. "Yeah? You got any proof to back up this accusation?"
David stuck the gun in his own belt. "I've got a lifetime of experience instead." He should have been raging at her. Instead, he just looked tired. Resigned. Gently, as if afraid of spooking her, he put his warm hand on her shoulder and squeezed.
He bent his head down until his eyes were very close to hers, brown and soft. "I know what you want to do…I know what you will do. But you're not going to take this gun and kill anyone in cold blood, no matter how much they deserve it. And they're not going to kill you. I love you and today is a different kind of day. Today you're gonna be just fine."
His arm dropped, releasing her. Furious, Chloe wrenched away from him and left, slamming the front door behind her.
As she reached the street and turned in the direction of her car, she stopped suddenly. Her arms went slack at her side as she remembered what David said.
I love you.
She shook her head and yanked at her hair, not wanting to accept the sentiment nor give it back...or accept the fact that she wouldn't have really minded.
Everything was moving too fast. She needed to pay off Frank. She needed money to help David and Joyce with the bills. Most of all, she needed to topple Nathan. She needed to find proof so step-soldier could go all Rambo on that little bastard's ass. She needed the gun for Frank, but Nathan wasn't a real man. Nathan was a tiny snake. Nathan could fall to blackmail.
She didn't have time to reconcile David and William in her head, or how they could possibly sit together in her heart. She had a war to fight.
Nathan's in the holding cell across from David. Chloe's former step-tool locks his hands together to keep them from shaking. He's sweating, finding it hard to breathe as he stares at the kid…sitting in a miserable lump in the corner.
He hadn't gone after Nathan. Nathan was small fry. Nathan was a monster unborn. Nathan was the apprentice, not the architect of all this death.
He hadn't gone after Nathan because if he let himself so much as touch Nathan, he would destroy him.
But Nathan is beholden to David. Nathan and David have their own Dark Rooms, their own battles going on inside their heads. David helped him, kept him grounded. That paid off, since Nathan confessed to everything. Nathan pointed them to Jefferson.
David only wishes he could have met him before that predator did.
Chloe avoided David in the halls. They'd been playing this game a long time…Chloe would just walk onto Blackwell grounds like she was still a student there. David would give her a glare but say nothing. She'd do what she came to do and then go home.
This time, she felt disappointed when his eyes seemed to spot her but then kept moving. For some strange reason, a part of her wished David would grab her by the arm and drag her off campus. Stop her.
But she gave Nathan the folded message, leaving it in his locker. 'I know what you did. Girl's bathroom.'
Nathan was waiting for her, leaning heavily against the sink. She slammed open the toilet stalls…no irregularities to interfere. No witnesses or innocents to be dragged into this mess. "I hope you checked the perimeter, as my step-dork would say," she was a little worried. Nathan hadn't moved. "Now, let's talk bidness."
A blur of insults. Messy negotiations and threats. Then Nathan pulled his gun. Then he dug the cold barrel into her soft stomach.
He was going to pull the trigger. She saw it in his eyes. Glazed and narrowed blindly at her.
"Nobody would ever even miss your punk-ass, would they!"
With a speed that was terrifying, the bathroom door slammed open and Nathan stepped back with a cry as it hit Chloe in the chest, separating the two of them. Miraculously, the gun didn't go off.
A human shape slammed Nathan into the sink with such force that the porcelain sink cracked and Nathan screeched in agony.
POW.
Whimpering in shock and terror, Nathan struggled to his feet and lurched out the door, leaving his gun on the dirty tile floor.
David kicks the door open at the sound of the gunshot. There's a kid lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood. Nathan Prescott is pacing back and forth and ranting to himself. With a sinking feeling, David pulls out the cuffs and sheathes his gun. It isn't needed anymore.
He takes another look and feels his heart seize up.
It's Chloe. Blue hair and rose tattoos, spattered in sticky scarlet blood.
Angry, sad, scared, brave Chloe.
It's his child.
Chloe dropped to her knees. She pushed David over. The tiles were cold under her fingers as she saw the tiny hole in his uniform. Blood was trickling out, a reddish stain that crawled across his shirt. It was all over her hand and Chloe realized this was David. This was his life-force dripping down her fingers.
She felt sick.
There was a deep, echoing drum somewhere in her head. She heard someone calling for medical help.
David's forehead was lined with pain, but there was an odd sense of relief, of triumph in his face. Chloe felt sheer terror as she looked into his eyes and saw the light in them fading…like he'd already given up. Like he was about to sleep. Forever.
No no no no no.
She threaded her fingers through his terrible, ferocious military hair as a whimper escaped him.
She'd never touched him like this. But David was dying and she didn't know what to do. Her damn stupid tears were making it hard to see. She didn't know why he would do this. But of course she did.
"Samuel says you see the world as I do, and as Jefferson did…because it isn't always easy to take part in life. It's always easier to watch. But owls watch the forest for their prey. The deer watches for danger."
Max puts a hand on his arm. Her eyes have power in them. Power to hold him frozen in time until he listens.
"But he said you don't see people…you see things. And that has to change, David. It can't be for nothing this time. Don't fail, like I did."
David was pale. His breath was shallow and rapid now, a feeble, ragged panting that hurt Chloe.
His blood was a little pool travelling across the ground to the grate. The faucet above their heads was broken and solitary cold drops were flying across the room, spraying Chloe's shoulders.
She could see light in his eyes. She could see it leaving him.
She was never going to hear him yell at her again. Never. The last sounds he made would be those dying, whistling breaths, like a broken thing. A weak thing. David had always been strong, louder and larger than life, more annoying than any super villain, dearer than any superhero.
Only yesterday, he'd told her she could have his car if she promised not to paint flames on it and Chloe…Chloe was just getting used to having someone around, someone trying to make her world a better place (Max, you left me) Someone she could get angry at without breaking them (I'm sorry, Joyce) Someone who hadn't given up on her as a lost cause (You're useless, Chloe).
"Max…do me a favor."
"What, David?" Max sounds like she's crying.
David holds his button over the TV screen, watching the surveillance of the house, watching the blue butterfly as it skims across the wooden mural Chloe and Max made so long ago, in a time when William was still alive. A time without David. A time Chloe was happy.
"Don't leave them alone…don't abandon Chloe. She doesn't make it easy, but she needs someone. She needs to be loved, God knows, she needs love. I could never give her that."
"You do love her," Max replies softly, "and now…now you can go back, and you can make sure she knows that."
"So I just focus on the footage…and I can go back. Cause I'm some kind of damn deer."
"You're not a deer, David. You're a Guardian. You're Chloe's step-dad."
"David…" Chloe choked, "God, David, why?"
In the movies, death was peaceful. Sweetly mournful, crowned by meaningful last words, perfectly paced before a gentle, reluctant closing of the eyes. A deep and powerful moment as the characters were caught up in their own story, their own sorrow.
This was not peaceful. It was messy and painful and unfair. Chloe felt sick as she watched David struggle for breath, as she cradled his head and waited for someone to dare and take him away. Because he was a person...her person, and he deserved life. Just like everyone else torn from this world. He didn't deserve this.
"This isn't happening. No, God…not Chloe."
She wasn't crying so much anymore…shock, maybe. Or perhaps she was just used to losing people.
He was slipping away in her arms and here she was, remembering the weirdest shit. She thought of the detox drink he made, how it glinted like amber and honey or iced tea in the sunlight. A skull with a green beret, clenching a cigarette in its grinning teeth. A twirling disco ball, sending rainbow spatters dancing across the walls. His hand on her shoulder.
A knife with a message on it.
Battlefield Angel...
"Keep your wings up," she whispered, even as his eyes began to drift. She pulled him tightly to herself, rocking him to sleep. David's hand touched hers.
"I never even told Chloe that I…I…"
"I love you too," Chloe cried suddenly. That made him smile and she could see how much it hurt him, blood welling at the corners of his mouth. She didn't know how...she didn't want to...but he needed her. She kissed his bloody hand, fingers twined together. "You're my step-dad and…screw it, David...you made me love you…you win, step-hero."
She saw his eyes flicker. Saw the smile grow. Felt the shock-wave as Fate used all of its strength, hurling itself like a black storm against his heart as it forced David Madsen from the world. But he smiled.
His blood-stained fingers dropped heavily out of her grip.
Another pair of arms encircled Chloe, "Chloe…I'm so sorry…I'm so sorry!"
Chloe knew the voice. More people came. She let them take her step-father away from her as the storm passed, leaving deadly quiet and soft sunlight in its wake.
Outside, near the totem pole, a stag ventured out of the forest and bent its head, grazing.
A blue butterfly streaked by, leaving streaming trails of color. Intrigued, the stag gave chase, bounding away between the trees.
FINIS
Author's Notes: Life is Strange. This game thoroughly, emotionally destroyed me. It was even worse on the 2nd playthrough. "Spanish Sahara" by Foals is the lovely piece that carried me through to the end. Such a sad, depressing, futile, and tragic game. What a wonderfully terrible exploration of one girl's life and the potential hero she might have lived to be if fate had been kinder.
Image credits go to KhemiKyle from Deviantart...she's made lots of great Life is Strange fanart. Go see it! :)
Please review if you like it. Reviews feed the plot bunny and are frequently offered on the altar of my muse, hopefully to entice her away from wherever she goes when she isn't with me (which is 98% of the time)