Chapter Two: Reminiscence

Mon-El went straight back home with a very preoccupied mind. He locked himself in his old bedroom and decided not to tell anyone anything about his experience. He walked back and forth, thinking what he had to.

Then as if he had his mind set on an idea, he laid down on the floor and reached for the dusty, worn wooden box underneath his bed.

He sat on the edge of his bed and opened the lids on the box to see his photo collections. They were all here. Every photo he'd taken until he bought a digital camera.

Mon-El picked each one out, looking at them and smiling at the ones that intrigued a memory.

Bobby the school bully trapped himself in the volleyball net in fifth grade and made a memorable scene for all the students whom had suffered at his hands and Mon-El had jumped at the opportunity and grasped the moment so it would never be forgotten.

Some random pictures of sky, trees, dogs, people and he skipped past them to get to the pictures from the cemetery. His heart rate spiked a little as he looked at each of them to spot anything unusual even though he knew he wouldn't find anything. If there were any he would've already notice.

And there was nothing.

Mon-El laughed to himself and mocked his own delusional mind. What was he even thinking? He started collecting the photos and threw them back into the box. He slammed the lids shut and knelt down to put the box back where it was. That was when he saw that one of the photos had fallen down by the leg of the bed. In his hurry he must have pushed it off the bed.

He huffed and picked it up.

Mon-El blinked twice when he saw the instant photo. A black cat sitting proudly in front of the entrance of the cemetery.

He scratched the stubble on his jaw and didn't know what to think. It must be a coincidence. He didn't even remember taking the photo. That cat was just cat and nothing more. No, Mon-El didn't believe in any of that crap about ghost animals or how people believed the dead lived inside animal bodies. They were exactly what they were. Bull shit.

Mon-El didn't even bothered to open the box again to put the stupid picture in it and threw it next to the box under the bed and flopped down on his bed.

He covered his face with his hands and let out an exhausted breath.

The constant sound of horse hoofs pounding against the rocky road and creaking of the wooden coach cabin made it hard for him to hear the sweet melodic ring of her giggles. He delighted to make her laugh like that. To see her dazzling eyes twinkling with joy and her cheeks flushing a beautiful shade of crimson and her voice- He could listen to that sound all day. Only it was a pity that this time she wasn't laughing at his brainless jokes, but at the small bundle in her lap with her head bent forward and her long tresses hiding her brilliant features from his sight. The darkness of night time was another obstacle to his vision.

"Streaky!"

He chuckled at the jet black fluffy kitten that was laying on her thighs and didn't allow her pale, delicate hand away from himself, latching on it with small, soft paws and biting in jest. His minuscule jade irises glistened despite the lack of any source of light. He had found the miserable petite creature deserted and starved on the side of the road a week before and he almost regretted acquainting him with her, as since then the little devil had devoured all her attention.

She rose her head and he finally met her radiating gleeful face. The dim moonlight that had crept inside the cabin momentarily through the dense layers of leaves danced on her eyes. They shone like

"Comets."

Mon-El jostled awake with a pounding heart.

"God dammit!"

He shoved away his blanket and dangled his feet from the edge to sit and gather his bearings. When his breathing returned to normal, he got up and went downstairs in search of some water to sooth his dry throat. Mon-El put a hand on his forehead. Maybe he was getting the flue and was running a fever. Maybe it was just a fever dream and nothing more, but found only cold sweat covering his skin.

The house was in complete silence apart from the tick tack of the pendulum clock sitting in the living room. Mon-El glanced at the antique machine, and judging by the reflection from the slender golden hands, it was well passed two in the morning.

He stood in the kitchen with a glass of water in his hands and tried to think of the dream which was vivid behind his eyelids, unlike most nightmares that would escape the mind the harder you tried to remember them.

Mon-El pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes in frustration. He could still see the youthful, graceful and gorgeous woman of his dream as if he had just met her and her bright azure eyes that were just like…

"No, there is no way in he –"

"Mon-El?"

He jumped out of his skin and the sound of glass breaking in front of his feet resonated loudly.

"Father!"

Mon-El tried to calm his again wrecked nerves as he squinted in the darkness and recognized his father entering the kitchen in his blue striped pajamas.

"Son, what are you doing up so late?"

"N...Nothing. Just thirsty."

Mon-El vaguely pointed at the now shattered pieces of his glass on the floor and moved to fetch the broom. His mother would give him a scold tomorrow for sure.

"You didn't join us for dinner, we were worried."

Mon-El tried to come up with an excuse as he gathered the dangerous, sharp pieces to a corner.

"I was just tired after walking so long in the town."

"Did you go to the cemetery again?"

Mon-El turned around and looked at his father with wide eyes.

"I passed through there on my way"

"Found anything different there?"

He scratched the back of his head and swallowed. "No- not really, I was just looking for good locations to take picture."

His father shook his head in amusement and walked out of the kitchen and the hallway.

"Even after all this time, you still try to defy everyone."

"It's not like what you think."

Mon-El followed him upstairs. He was clearly going back to bed.

"Just try to be more careful son. That place… It doesn't hold pleasant memories. I know you don't believe in these things, but just respect the desolation of the dead."

And he closed the door of their bedroom, leaving Mon-El with a shocked expression behind it. His father had always been the one person who'd never complained about him hanging out at the cemetery. That was until then.

Mon-El went back to his room completely awake. There was no use in trying to sleep now, so instead he turned on his lap top and connected his camera to it.

He scrolled through the photos to reach the last one he took. There it was. The cat sitting possessively on the tombstone and looking threateningly into the lens. Mon-El bit at his lower lip and looked for other details in the photo and the other few he had taken from the damned place.

After two wasted hours, coming up with nothing and managing to only tire himself, Mon-El pushed the lap top away and went back to sleep. Hopefully no weird dreams would wake him up this time.

It was almost noon when Mon-El finally got ready to come out of house after sleeping in. Since he had absolutely nothing to do, he'd decided to ask around for the black cat and casually ask in the conversation if it belonged to anyone. He was extra cautious not to mention where he had seen the cat as well, not to give people another reason to keep their distance from him.

As it happened only Mrs. Lance on Queen Street in Crimsonwood had a tabby cat named Mr. Roger. Mon-El gave up on his pointless quest after that and went to the library to look at the newspaper records. He had already done that years ago, but he needed something to kill the time and more than that, it was because he couldn't stop reliving that encounter and his dream no matter what he did.

He saw the same old librarian lady behind the counter just as always. She didn't seem even a day older.

"Is that you Mon-El?"

She beamed at him from behind her tick glasses and Mon-El returned her smile.

"Yes, it's me Mrs. Teschmacher."

"Look at you all handsome and dashing! Must have been good for you wherever you went."

Mon-El chuckled at her compliment and put his bag on the counter.

"Well the world is sure much bigger than Crimsonwood."

"Yet here you are, just like you were as a child, trying to escape from everyone in town."

Mon-El laughed nervously and cleared his throat.

"Yes, well I was just back in town and was bored a bit."

Mrs. Teschmacher gave him a knowing look.

"Glad to know I'm still not on the list of things that bore you out! Go on! The records are exactly where they were. Nothing new."

Mon-El nodded at her gratefully and walked over to the shelves. No soul was around and he thanked the god for that. No pun intended!

Shuffling through the frail yellow papers, he slowed down when he reached the 19th century. Civil war. Names of the town heroes. Son's that died defending their homes without seeing it ever again and ones that came back with a broken body and their hearts darkened by the foul memories from the battle scenes.

Mon-El found the piece about his ancestor's heroic acts and sacrifice in war. He had seen it before, but decided to read it again to see if he'd forgotten something. It told about the return of Mon-El Gand's lifeless body to Crimsonwood in 1865, right before the war ended. His widow Imra Ardeen and his son Michael and two daughters Elinor and Adeline were mentioned to be present at his funeral where they received his medal of Valor for his services.

Mon-El smiled to himself when he remembered that his father actually had that medal in his drawer and it was their family heirloom. Mon-El still remembered how he used to sneak it out when he was little, just to steal glances at the shiny medal that belonged to his namesake, because in his boyish dreams, it sort of belonged to him.

He also had seen his portrait. It previously was hanged in his grandparents' house and later when they passed away, it was boxed securely in the attic.

Mon-El in fact resembled him. Same grey blue eyes, long nose and dark hair. No wonder they'd had named him after the Great Mon-El Gand.

He finished reading the sad report and turned the pages to go more chronically backward. He looked at any article that had a familiar name written in it. There was the wedding announcement of Mon-El Gand and Imra Ardeen on October 10th 1832.

After flipping through unimportant pages on the growth in potato crop or raise in the atumn showers, he found what he was looking for. There it was just like the first time he had read it. The tragic announcement informing the locals of the sudden and atrocious death of eighteen year old Kara Jane Danvers on 14th February 1829. Valentine's Day no less! Poor girl. Mon-El didn't even know if people celebrated the day back then. Not that he was a fan of the pretentious dumb day that made people go crazy, yet it felt really unfortunate and ominous to die on such a day. Did she have a lover who mourned her?

Mon-El stopped the train of his futile thoughts that made unanswerable questions and refocused on the article. The cause of her death was a bullet to the heart in the midst of an ambush on her coach. How cruel.

Huh. How come he had forgotten about that?

There was no other information on her or the Danvers family, apart from some of their distant cousins. No engagement announcements, no birth congratulations. Nothing. As if her family didn't live here after Kara's death.

Mon-El looked further back into early 1800s to see if he could find anything related. There were some news on the consistent conflict between the Danvers and the Grands. That was interesting. He hadn't notice that before. Maybe the sophisticated vocabulary from the 19th century literature had repulsed him, but now he could more or less follow the contents.

Every now and then the reckless, hot headed young men on both sides would do Duels to prove how faithful they were to their families and lose their lives needlessly, believing they had protected their family honor. People back then were weird he gathered. Just as people were now in another way.

It wasn't clear why they hated each other so much or where exactly had it all begun. Was it their disagreement on the border of their farming lands or the suspicious death of some cattle on Danvers grounds that was believed to be the work of the Gands as an act to reduce their products on the winter market in Crimsonwood.

Mon-El stopped when he reached the early 18th century and put them back to their place. He bid Mrs. Teschmacher goodbye and stepped outside after he promised to pay her a visit again before leaving town.

He starched his limbs after sitting so long and looked around. It was completely dark again. He had lost track of time. Mon-El reached for his smart phone to check the time. It was 20:16. His eyes then lingered on the date under big font numbers of the clock for a bit. It was February 14th.

"Shut up!"