Author's Note: This story contains some dark subject matter and I can't promise that it won't upset anyone. I can say that what exists will not be explicit, but it is still there. Reading any further is your own choice, but you have been forewarned.
Prologue:
It was a beautiful afternoon.
The sun hung low in the sky, telling clearly of the fast approaching night. The reflection of light off the snow only served to remind the child of how cold it truly was outside, and just how far she had yet to go to get home. She wasn't worried though, not really. Mama had always told her that that was one of her flaws; in not being a child prone to worry, she never appreciated the idea of worry and that which others incurred as a result of her actions.
So directly, she wasn't worried. Not about the lengthening shadows nor the howls that could be heard off in the distance. She was slightly concerned, however, which wasn't the same thing. She had promised Papa that she'd be home before darkness fell, and now she wasn't sure if she'd make it. That caused some distress for the child because she hated lying – especially to Papa.
He'd said, when he had argued on her behalf to her mother, "My little Jasmine cannot be confined indoors all day." Papa had picked her up then, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief as they always did, even as he proceeded to extract the promise from her. "Besides, she will be home before dark. Will you not?"
She'd nodded solemnly, but her own sparkling eyes did little to reassure her mother, who had tossed both hands up in the air in conceded defeat.
Set down upon the floor once more, she'd hugged her father fiercely and with a quick embrace to her mother, she'd run off to get her winter clothing on. It was a consent she had to make to Mama, and Papa had said she must too. So she hadn't argued, although why they thought she might was a mystery. She wasn't a child anymore! She was nine years old… well, eight and a half. That was more than old enough to make such obvious choices by herself.
Still, she wouldn't begrudge them their worry. She loved them both dearly and knew with confidence that they felt the same about her and Raissa. Her sister had been in the study, dutifully pouring over the work that their parents had asked of their eldest child.
She had tried to study diligently too, but the outdoors had beckoned her. The sunlight streaming through the window by the chair had just been too tempting, and she'd never been able to resist the pull. Young as she was, she knew with certainty that she was never meant to be like her sister. Raissa was the epitome of everything a proper lady should be. She excelled in the arts and literature, knew the right time to speak and when to remain silent. She dressed immaculately: her clothing was never ever splotched with mud or stained by grass.
Yes, she really admired her older sister.. but she was never going to be her. Her mother had realized it too, though proper etiquette was still insisted upon when they visited distant friends of the family. Home at the ranch though, on the plains she so loved, she was free to pursue her decidedly very unladylike interests. That was because of Papa.
Mama had made it very clear that Papa was to blame for their wayward daughter. He always laughed in reply; that warmhearted, friendly sound that was so often heard about the place. He'd say, "My Jasmine simply has too much of the wandering spirit within her to be any different." To that, her mother agreed. Their youngest was, in that regard, entirely too much like her father.
The similarities went beyond the desire to roam, though. She looked like Papa, everyone said so. Her eyes were the same general color as Papa's too, only several shades lighter. She had the same hair and warm, infectious laugh. Had the same energy and sense of fun, not to mention the fearless nature that had gotten her into hot water with Mama on several occasions when one of her spontaneous adventures had gone awry.
She got her grace and charm from Mama though, or so Papa said.
The child sighed happily as the house came into view, smiled brightly, in spite of the cold, at the welcoming light that poured forth from the windows.
The fact that Papa wasn't outside doing the evening chores gave her momentary pause, though. She shivered at the deepening cold, and noted with resigned acceptance that the sun had vanished and that Papa probably had the tasks done. She should have been home already. Mama wasn't going to be pleased, not one little bit. And Papa wouldn't intervene this time, not when she'd broken her promise.
Sighing again, this time with a faint unhappiness, she moved easily through the remaining snow and up onto the porch. Soundlessly she glided across the wood planks, a trick she picked up from her games with Papa. Removing her snow-laden boots at the door, not willing to incur Mama's wrath should she track into the house again. Especially since she was already so late. She didn't need to add to whatever punishment was forthcoming.
Removing her coat, she hung it up on the peg outside the door. Knowing that with as much snow as it held, it too would drip unto the floor. She'd shake it out in the morning and then bring it in. Turning the doorknob, she pushed and stopped immediately; small eyes widening in horror as her ears rang from the shattering of so many illusions.
Blood bathed the far wall, dimly she noticed it on the stones of the fireplace as well. There lay her father's discarded body, the dark liquid that pooled around the figure soaked into the expensive wood of the floor. Irrationally she couldn't help but think how upset Mama was going to be at Papa for his prank.
But Papa wouldn't joke like this, and his body was so still. And there was the darker spot on his side, the mark that showed where the bleeding had begun. She squeezed her eyes shut, turning her head. Regretting instantly the moment she opened them, because that was when she saw Mama, dress ripped and sightless eyes staring ahead. Broken and discarded, like some forgotten doll.
All of that registered to her eyes before her ears managed to inform her of anything useful. By then, of course, it was too late. The opening of the door had been silent, as it usually was. But the cold air had entered with her, unseen it had chased away the heat of the fire. More than that, it had told of her presence in the house to the evil that was yet within.
She turned quickly and meant to flee, but strong arms wrapped around her middle and she couldn't get free. All her squirming and kicking was in vain, high pitched shrieks were cut short by the calloused hand that clamped down on her mouth, covering the entire lower portion of her face so that even breathing through her nose was difficult.
The man closed the door, easily dealing with the weight he carried, and turned toward the other stranger in the room.
She really had thought the bad stuff happening couldn't get any worse, but that was until she'd seen and that delusion had crumbled like the rest. There was the second stranger before her, and though his back was to her he'd turned his face marginally; a frightening expression lingered in features there, mixed with some sort of elation. That was when she noticed her sister. The man was pressing down on Raissa with his body, doing something to her. His hand was around her throat, and she was thrashing weakly around.
She was dying. Whatever else was being done to her sister, she knew that Raissa was dying. Her face had darkened and her eyes were wide with terror, but the light from them was fading. There weren't any noises coming from her, no screams.
There were sounds from the man though. He'd turned forward again, and moans came from him as he moved. She didn't know why.
She didn't have time to speculate on it either as the man holding her threw her down forcefully. The sudden impact with the floor left her dazed, and he'd left her there. Confident that the harsh contact her head had made with the wood would keep her immobile for awhile. He'd moved over to the other man then, pulled him away from her sister and bent down in the other man's place.
Jumbled thoughts passed through her mind, bringing with them the remembrance of seeing one of the men's gun belt in the chair. Papa had been teaching her to shoot a rifle, so maybe if she could just get to the weapon…
That was when she realized she couldn't see anymore. Tears ran down her cheeks in rivulets, impaired her vision, making the world mesh together into blurry forms of color. Though she couldn't look anymore, she could hear.
The sound of cloth ripping was terrifying.
She tried to make sense of her surroundings through the fog descending, but the pain in her head made focusing difficult and she couldn't stop crying. Her parents were dead and Raissa…
Well, she didn't know exactly what they were doing to her sister but they were hurting her. Killing her. And as much as she wanted to help Raissa, she couldn't get her body to obey. Each limb felt like a dead weight as weariness from the day's activities overtook every muscle, her chest hurt and when she managed to lift her head slightly, she could feel a stickiness in her hair that told of bleeding.
So she lay there, innocence seeping away forever as the situation embedded itself into her mind. Stealing with it her faith and childhood dreams.
When they'd gotten to her, she couldn't even see the blurry masses of color. Her eyes stung from the salt of tears; face burning from the trails of moisture that had repeatedly trickled down over the soft flesh of her cheeks.
She wasn't even really crying anymore. Her lungs and the muscles of her abdomen had long since fatigued, and she was left making soft panicked noises. Sounds that barely registered to her attackers as the pitiful whines bordered on silence.
The glint of metal didn't even register to tear swollen eyes, but she felt it. Each and every one of the shallow cuts that split flesh on her small body. They weren't killing cuts, no mercy was in their motivation. Even at her age she recognized it for simple human cruelty. They weren't letting her die, not yet. But they weren't scholars, and they understood less about the tolerance levels of a child. When an intense pain had come, it had been the last.
Darkness, merciful and soothing in its nature, claimed her.
