Disclaimer: See previous disclaimers... blah blah blah
A/N: Well I just finished reading a book called the "Minister's Daughter" and I really liked the writing style so I thought I would fool around with my own writing a bit and here's the result. Not much to look at I guess, but I tried to give it a bittersweet feeling. Let me know what you think! Oh and the grammer is probably a bit sucky, and some parts might seem more like a stream of conciousness than anything else. Just as a warning... so no flames or comments on bad grammer because I already know.
Thank You
She stands quietly by the edge of the street, her withered hands folded over one another as she watches the building burn. Flames lick the grey sky, reaching as if to burn heaven itself. There are people rushing about, screaming, coughing, crying as the building starts to crumple like a house of matchsticks. She can see her small window on the fourth floor. The one she used to stare out of for hours, watching the clouds, the children on their way to and from school... She vaguely remembers that she forgot to water her windowsill plants this morning. Not that it matters any now.
The window spits and sputters flames like the mouth of some great demon before crumbling in on itself. The woman sighs.
There's a brief explosion of green on the right side of the building, and out pours smoke, debris, fire, a girl. Her eyes glow like her grandson's green lava lamp, the one she bought for him at a neighbor's garage sale, the one she hasn't seen or heard of since. She still had the thank you card sitting on her nightstand with a signature too neat and elegant for a boy his age. The edges are grey and soft from too much handling.
The woman shakes her head to clear it of the memories that have gathered in her mind like cobwebs. And now when she looks the girl is already rushing towards a worried woman. In her arms something wiggles, coughs, cries and reaches out little hands to cling to its mother. The child is black with soot, and its screams are cut off abruptly as her little lungs contract to push out the bad air. Its mother however is too busy smothering the child in kisses as tears run down her own black cheeks.
The old woman remembers seeing the mother dragged from the building screaming in a state fit to burst, because her burned and blistered fingers had been too swollen to turn the hot handle on her baby's door. She remembers how the mother crumpled to the dirty pavement before the fiery inferno like an old paper bag. And now she watches as the mother, a sopping mess of snot, tears, and relieved laughter, smothers her child's savior in an awkward but desperate hug. The flying girl in her purple outfit smiles and accepts the emotional mess into her arms. Many others before this young mother have been there before.
The old woman's attention is pulled away as another explosion wracks the building. Half of it crumples with a deafening roar of falling cement, wood, and memories. Firemen curse openly, bark orders, and she can see it on their smudged faces and in their red watery eyes that they can do nothing more here. The building, and any unlucky souls caught within it will be ashes in a few hours.
Nearby another mother, who fate has not smiled upon today, weeps softly. Her husband's words and gentle embraces can do nothing to stop the fire or bring back her baby but she hasn't the heart or the will right now to tell the grieving man this. But he knows, and already he is blaming himself for not getting to newly painted room, before the floor collapsed in front of the door. The old woman's face turns as grim as the smoke hovering above her like a beacon of death.
Thena figure emerges from the plume of smoke, slowly, its form hunched over andat first the old womanthinks it's from pain. But no, as the smoke and dust and embers are wiped from the air by an invisible hand, she sees it is another girl, her body bent at the waist and her arms pressing a bundle to her chest protectively. She looks like a fallen angel with her tattered cloak dragging in the soot and her dirty violet hair hanging over her ashen face like some morbid veil. She walks with heavy footsteps as if dragging invisible broken wings, and with the fire raging behind her she looks like one of hell's own angels come to claim the lost souls from this place.
The grungy mess of cloth in her arms does not squirm like her friend's did, nor does it cry out or cough and the old woman fears for a moment that the child is dead. There is a howl from the mother and she rushes towards the girl and grabs the baby from her burned arms as if snatching it from the fire itself. Immediately a small mewling cry is issued from the bundle and the old woman's heart settles within her. But she cannot mistake the fear and the hatred she sees in the mother's eyes as she looks at her child's savior.
This God loving woman, who goes to church every Sunday in her best, and who prays before bed with her wooden rosary beads, cannot find it in herself to thank the girl standing burned and blackened before her. Instead she turns away, resting her crying baby on her shoulder, and walks towards the firemen who are smiling at her with teeth that gleam against their grey, dusty skin. The old woman sees the child's tear stained cheeks, and sees its fat fist reach out towards the girl, but now the mother is turning it around so the firemen can press an oxygen mask to its tiny face.
The old woman watches the girl standing alone by the burning mess, and sees how her clenched hands tremble as she stares at her friend. She sees how the other mother sobs unabashedly while grasping the green-eyed girl's arm and repeating the same words over and over with her chapped and bleeding lips.
Thank you
Thank you…
The dark girl is telling herself that she doesn't care. She is telling herself that the mother of the child she saved is thankful and that when she talks of the fire with others, her face will light up when she tells them of this brave young girl who emerged from the blazing rubble with the little baby clasped safely in her arms. The old woman can see it in her eyes, as she feeds herself these much needed lies.
She can see how the girl stiffens, her mind forcing up instinctive barriers to keep out the hurt. She's different, strange, and creepy. She's the thing that brings a distinctive chill to the air when she enters a room. She's the thing you find watching you from the puddle of shadows sitting in the corner. She's the thing that makes mothers clutch their children closer. This girl is unstable, unpredictable, un-trustable, and unwanted.
The old woman shudders with the forlorn feeling that engulfs her. Perhaps it's her own motherly nature coming out, or maybe she just pities the girl but for some reason or another, her feet shuffle closer to the abomination standing by the fire. The dark girl hears the sound of slippered feet on dirty pavement, each
Ssshhff
Ssshhff
Ssshhff
Coming closer and closer. Her body whirls to face her possible attacker and the old woman feels her breath leave her in a soft gasp. For this girl, whose eyes are like stormy skies, whose face is as cold and smooth as a marble statue, and whose dark hair flies about her in demonic halo, is looming above her in a cocoon of black fire. She is awesome, if not terrifying to behold. But the effect lasts only a few seconds for the girl, realizing that the old woman is not a threat, quickly composes herself.
Her eyes still gleam fiercely, like two amethyst portals into a world of nightmares, and her stance can only be interpreted as intimidating. A pair of grey lips are etched onto her face in a permanent scowl and the old woman wonders if they have ever known a smile. But still, the woman is wise, if not slightly senile and blinded by false optimism. She can still feel the sorrow like a tangible presence that has become this girl's shadow.
She can see how her shoulders must stay strong and rigid to deflect the blows. And she can see that her face must remain that of a statue's if she ever wishes to survive another day in this world. But most of all, the old woman can see what this girl really is.
She is a child.
A pair of frail arms finds their way around the girl and there are lips on her cheek that tremble as they plant a rusty kiss. There is no response from this dark hero. But the old woman knows it is not because she is not kind or good or human, but rather because she does not know what to do.
Thank You
The old woman smiles, smoothes back some violet hair that is hopelessly singed and tangled then shuffles off around the corner. Waiting and watching, just for a moment more.
There is a green boy who runs towards the still figure with anxious feet and heart.
Raven
He's there now, jumping around her, fretting over her, reaching out tentative fingers to touch her but drawing back at the last moment. He was worried. He was scared. He gets angry for a second then softens again and this time gets up the courage to gently touch her arm. The girl meanwhile has been staring beyond him with her mind elsewhere, and now at his touch she jumps, snaps, and strides off with him following in her wake, still preaching his concerns.
The old woman smiles. Although the girl brushes him off, she can see it in her face how it softens to become something human, that this boy is what keeps her going. She doesn't realize it right now, but one day when's he's not there she will. It is his attention, his concern for her, and his words that speak soft nothings when she needs it the most, that makes all the other hurts and scars seem bearable. With her heart resting content at this knowledge the old woman goes.
The building is gone and in its place lays a patch of smoldering dirt, rubble, and garbage. The people watch with somber, hopeless expressions as the firemen kick and dig their way through everything, making sure that all is lost. The families know they should be content with their lives, but now with their loved ones safe in their arms, guilty thoughts fill their heads.
It took me forever to build that crib…
I should have grabbed my laptop…
Why didn't I get my jewelry box…?
They sit like this with hungry looks, and think about whether or not Aunty Clem or Cousin Robert still has that room for rent.
Suddenly there's a shout from one the firemen and their eyes widen in hope. They found something! Soon they're setting down their children, breaking away from their lovers and running over to see if it's theirs; A flock of vultures coming to pick and grab at whatever has managed to survive.
But the fireman is shaking his head as he looks down into the mess of dust and burned bits.
Pour soul…
He mutters, and picks up a blackened thank-you card.
AN: Well now wasn't that just dandy... I thought it would be interesting to explore the fact that Raven probably doesn't get as much thanks as she deserves because of who she is. Eh, I tried anyway. I'm also writing a sort of sequel thingy to the Hickeyone-shot I wrote because a lot of people asked for one.
Reviews are appreciated as always!
-BN