between the shadow and the soul

xx0xx

"Always winter and never Christmas…"

-C.S. Lewis from "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe."

Snowflakes swirl in the air, and Sophia catches them on the pink tip of her tongue as they step softly down the sidewalk, the smile in her moonstone eyes a sight Carol wants to commit to memory, to paint pale and perfect against her lids so that it is always there, always just a dream away. She giggles, winter's blush on her cheeks, and her small hand burrows in Carol's coat pocket as they near the town square.

White picket fences hug dead lawns, and carols swell and (ho)hum from strangers' lips as they distractedly herd little children along, plastic reindeer with empty eyes playing witness.

Sophia's letter is a feather stone in Carol's damp palm, an iron knot in her throat as they slip into the holiday ranks. She hides her trembling mouth behind the gray fringe of her scarf and the bruises of her husband's love behind shaded lenses.

The crawling line shifts, and Sophia squeezes her hand, her smile faded away, the freckles kissing her cheeks assembled into a more solemn expression. She bites her plump bottom lip, frets silently for a second, before looking up at her.

"Sophia?" Like mist, her daughter's name floats in the chill air between them, and Carol untethers her fingers from Sophia's hand to palm her chin. The crowd presses and recedes behind them, a wave both of winter's wonder and worries.

Sophia's pearly teeth skate across her lip for a second longer before they disappear behind a mumble of words. Her pale fingers bunch in the fleece of her sweater, and the light in her shining eyes fractures and dims.

Carol's brows form a worried vee beneath her unruly cloud of red curls, and her thumb smooths gently over Sophia's petal pout. "Sweetie, what is it?"

"Will Santa still come? I haven't been a very good girl this year. Daddy says."

The hard ridge of Sophia's chin presses painfully into Carol's skin as she dips her head, but it is the turmoil of her own emotions and the haunted hollowness of the little girl's voice that threaten to overwhelm her. Words thicken on her tongue and push against the cage of her teeth, but they float away like ghosts when she opens her mouth, and all she can do is pull her daughter close. She startles when impatient knees bump into them from behind and shepherds Sophia ahead, ignoring the careless call of meant-to-be reassurance (Relax, Kid. You're not the only one on the Naughty List).

The line curls forward, and the gazebo looms, white lights twinkling soft and pretty above a cradle of Christmas poinsettias. Bored teenaged elves in green felt hats offer candy canes, and an elderly woman in a red velvet skirt folds a cup of hot chocolate in Sophia's cold hands with a wink. Her rosy cheeks dimple with her smile.

A quick, questioning glance in Carol's direction, and Sophia lowers her eyes once more, murmurs a polite thanks as steam tickles her nose. Snowflakes catch and sparkle in the sleek softness of her hair, and she leans heavily into Carol's side when the kindly woman speaks.

"I recognize a good girl when I see one."

Carol smiles, and her heart catches in her throat as tears warm her shielded eyes. "Sophia's the best," she agrees. She accepts the cup of cocoa offered to her and takes a slow, grateful sip. "Thank you."

"Sophia? What a pretty name. Much better than Irma. Folks 'round here call me Mrs. Claus."

Sophia's eyes round, and her hand blindly grasps the tattered wool hem of Carol's coat, her fingers flitting over the back of her hand in their excitement. "Mama," she whispers.

"I know." Carol echoes the note of wonder in her daughter's voice. "What do you say?"

Sophia's nose wrinkles but a minute before she scrapes together the right response. "Thank you."

Merry eyes twinkle with truthful joy. "Pleasure's all mine, Sophia. Now. Do you have your list ready for Santa? It looks like you're up."

Sophia nods, and Carol hands the crumpled piece of construction paper over, not surprised at all when it appears that Sophia's feet have grown roots. She leans down and presses a kiss to her pale, cool cheek, gently nudges her forward when the sweet stranger holds out her hand and smiles. "It's going to be okay."

With his bushy brows and bright, hawkish eyes, Santa welcomes Sophia into his warm embrace.

Carol watches. She waits. She feels like a jewelry box ballerina pirouetting in place, freedom just beyond her fingertips.

Ed's Jeep is gone, the cracked pavement of the driveway clear when they return home later that night. The homemade wreath on the front door flaps in the whispering wind as Carol fumbles for her keys, the Horvaths' number a secret brand upon her palm.

When the door finally swings open with a shuddering groan, Sophia shuffles tiredly inside.

Carol stops her with a hand on her bony shoulder when she bends to untie her shoes. "Not yet, Sweetie."

Sophia frowns and her confusion is just as plain now as it was in a sticky booth in the middle of Dale and Irma Horvath's diner. "Mama?"

Carol cradles her dear little face in her chilled, shaking hands, searches her eyes, sweeps her thumbs across the freckles dotting her smooth, fragile skin. "Do you trust me, Sophia?"

Scared tears swell and flood Sophia's large eyes at the serious tone, but she doesn't hesitate to nod her head. "Uh huh."

Carol pulls her arms around her too skinny frame, wraps her up tight in her fierce embrace, and brushes her lips against the soft tangle of sandy hair. "We're going to leave this place. We're going to leave and go on an adventure, just the two of us."

"Just the two of us? Really?" Sophia's voice trembles with hope and tears snake down her flushed cheeks as she lifts her head, stares into Carol's eyes. "Daddy doesn't get to come?"

The lights from the Christmas tree blink and stutter behind her, and the rainbow reflection plays across her daughter's heart-shaped face. Butterflies take flight deep in the pit of her belly, and Carol sniffs, her own tears wetting her lips. "Daddy doesn't get to come. I promise."

"Okay," Sophia says, simple and sweet, and she loosens her arms from Carol's waist, takes a step back, takes two.

Then her eyes shift, and a shadow looms, and Carol feels the icy fingers of fear flit across her skin mere moments before a meaty hand grips her shoulder, hard, and Sophia goes pale. Her heart knocks frantically against her ribs when the stale, whiskey soaked stench of her husband's breath hits her cheek, and he digs his fingers in deeper, like talons trying to pierce muscle.

"Mama?"

Carol forces a smile she doesn't feel, keeps her breaths steady and even. "Sophia, go upstairs." Her little girl's face crumples with worry, and she is too young, too tender for this cruel world they're trapped in, and Carol won't have it, not anymore. "Sophia, please. Turn on your movie, okay?"

The thin coil of Ed's false patience snaps, and he roars out an order that sends their daughter tripping up the steps. "Mind your mama, girl!"

Seconds later, Sophia's door slams shut, and Carol stumbles when Ed viciously shoves her forward, staggers to regain her balance just before she crashes into the wall.

"Little bitch. Needs to learn some manners. What's this I hear about an adventure?" Ed snarls the question around the mouth of his liquor bottle, his eyes glittering blackly with hate. "How come I don't get to come?"

Carol slides free of the wall at her back, keeps a careful distance between them. "Nothing. It's nothing," she shrugs. "She's five, Ed. A trip to the park is an adventure to her." Ed nods, seems to accept her reasoning, but still, Carol doesn't let her guard down, not completely. He swigs down more whiskey, some of it sloppily missing his mouth, and she makes a move to walk past him, her blue eyes downcast. "You must be hungry. There are leftovers in the fridge. Sophia and I ate earlier before we went to see Santa. Let me heat them up for you."

Ed's hand shoots out, shackles her wrist, and he squeezes, hard. "Not so fast. Something about your story ain't adding up. Last I heard Santa didn't pass out personal invitations to the Main Street Diner. That's Old Man Horvath's place. I know all about that do-gooding piece of shit. You sure there ain't nothing you want to tell me about this little adventure of yours?"

He tightens his grip, and Carol cries out, feeling the familiar give of fragile bones. She breathes harshly through her nose, fighting back the pain and the tears that only ever seem to spur him on. "I told you, Ed. It's nothing. Sophia…" Suddenly, he is right there, his hot breath in his face, his heavy body flattening against her as they crash painfully into the archway that leads into the living room. White hot heat shoots up from her spine, and she pushes weakly against his chest, barely registering the shattering of glass as the scuffle causes a picture to fall nearby.

"Don't fucking lie to me, Carol," Ed warns, spittle and spite flying from his mouth. "Don't. You think I don't know what you're up to? I got eyes everywhere. I know what you're planning, and it's not going to work. You've tried this shit before. The only way you're ever leaving out that door is in a body bag, you hear me? You're mine. That little brat upstairs? Mine." Fat, clumsy fingers claw at her coat, yanking it down around her arms, and he shoves her sweater out of the way to get to the button of her jeans. "You want to leave me? It's your lucky night, Baby. I'm feeling generous. Which suit do you think I should wear to the funeral?"

"Ed, please," Carol pleads, biting clear through her lip to hold back a sob as tears burn a hot trail down her cheeks. "Sophia." She flinches when he throws the empty whiskey bottle to the ground at her feet, viciously grabs her by the hair, and drags her away from the wall. "She's just a baby, Ed. Don't do this."

He's rage and hate and all her lost dreams in a pair of punishing hands, a monster wearing her husband's face, and he sneers as he bites down on her lips, laughs as his fist collides with her ribs, and he follows her to the floor. "I think I'll wear the gray one."

Christmas lights flicker and dance across Sophia's worry pinched face as she tiptoes down the stairs in her bare feet. Upstairs, her movie is over, and the pictures loops over and over, the cartoon characters' laughter echoing in the otherwise quiet house. Her nose burns with tears, and her chin wobbles when she steps in something warm and dark. "Ma-ma-mama?"

The front door is open, and a cold sharp wind snaps and twirls the curtains.

Sophia pushes it closed, her hand slip-sliding on the knob. She sniffs and wipes the back of her hand against her nose and cries out again. "Mama? Mama, please." A rasping groan comes from living room, and Sophia hesitates in the archway, her throat tied up in knots. A hand reaches weakly for her, and her cries dissolves into wails when she finally sees the figure on the floor. It's broken and bloody, and it can't be her mama. It can't, it can't, it can't. Her tiny fingers close over the phone, and they shake as they punch the 9, the 1, and the 1 again. She stares at the long curls, dark and matted, and she hiccups into the phone as a woman's voice answers on the other end.

"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"

Sophia's voice is frozen, locked up in her throat like Ariel's, and she sobs as the voice gentles to a low murmur.

"Is anybody there? Talk to me, Sweetie. My name is Sasha. Tell me what's wrong. Tell me your name. Are you hurt? Is anybody there with you? Put your mom on the phone. Let me speak to her."

The voice on the other end falls quiet, and for a while, all Sophia can hear is clicking and her own heart just beating away. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. Then the voice crackles over the line, and it's saying her name, and Sophia curls into a tight tiny ball, hidden away, and whispers as the sounds of sirens grow closer and closer. "You can't talk to my mama."

"Why can't I talk to your mama, Sophia? Did something happen to her? Sophia. Sophia? You still there? Why can't I talk to her? Did somebody hurt her?"

"My daddy did."

"Sophia? Stay with me, Sweetie."

Brakes squeal outside, and car doors slam. Her mama doesn't move. She looks like she is sleeping, and Sophia knows what that means; Grandma had looked like she was sleeping too, when she went to live with the angels. Sophia curls up tighter, pants into the phone as blue lights blink through the windows and footsteps thud on the porch.

"Sophia? Sophia, Sweetie. Everything's going to be okay."

"Preacher says lying's a sin."

"It's not…I'm not…"

"Daddy killed her."

Sorry for this guys.

I sat down to peck away at my other stories, and everything was going good, going fine, and the spoilers for tonight's episode came out and initially they made me so happy (best bday present ever). But then it was the next day, and yeah.

I've been in a sad, shitty mood ever since.

Nothing fluffy will flow off of these fingertips despite my desperate need for it, and this happened.

I hope you guys are having a better TWD weekend than me. I got a plan for this, and if the show continues to piss me off, well then. This story should just flow, lol.

Feedback is love! I think we all need some of that right now.

Thanks for reading!