Crimson Midnight
IV. Where do we go in life now?
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Vanessa skimmed through the magazine, her blue orbs trained on the brilliant white gowns. Once in awhile, a certain dress would catch her eye, and she'd merely circle it with her black marker before continuing to leaf through the magazine. Legs crossed, she sighed happily and gazed upward. The clock on the wall was too slow! Or maybe it was her excited mood, steadily slowing down the time. Either way, she couldn't wait for Michael to be home.
Their wedding would be beautiful—her mother would be proud as she gazed at her daughter, adorning a radiant wedding dress, sauntering down the isle, a bouquet of fresh, beautiful flowers in hand. Everyone would be gawking at her. She frowned, however, as the idea of the bulge in her stomach probably making the dress size higher. But her daughter—as the previous doctor's visit had proven—would be very beautiful indeed.
What to name her?
"Catty," she whispered aloud, already feel the stream of sorrow pooling into her body. Catty was a great name. Lively. Animated. Attractive. Unique. Everything that someone named Catty would posses. Vanessa shook her head and smiled sadly, knowing how much her thoughts were morphing into another remising over her lost friend.
Sucking up a large amount of air, she didn't allow the ancient grief to bring down the happiness currently releasing a flood into her body. No, sadness was stress she didn't want her daughter to be born into. She and Michael possessed a healthy relationship consisting of nothing but affection and connection—the ability to speak about one another's problems, emotions, and decisions. Nothing could ruin the potential that their daughter would grow up to have; after all, in a stress-free, well-conversed environment, she—their daughter—wouldn't be even close to depression or emptiness or…
"Why am I striving for perfection?" Vanessa groaned, slumping against the sofa. It was as though she was rooting for only normalcy, and she wondered how she associated normalcy with Catty's disappearance. How was lack of normalcy the cause for Catty's death? Catty was perfectly normal, albeit the rebellious, strange streak—an average teenager. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary killed her (and Vanessa knew she was dead, for the hollow gape in her chest never flared with hope, a signal that her best friend—a girl she loved dearly—was no longer connected her heart).
The front door opened, and Michael entered, his warm smile washing away her sadness. That—Catty, her teenage life, Serena—was the past, this—her fiancé, her unborn daughter—was the present. Jumping up from the plump beige sofa, she leapt into his arms, a grin that reached ear-to-ear plastered onto her face. Golden tresses tumbled down her back. His arms were strong around slender waist.
"I missed you," he murmured lovingly into her ear.
Letting her on the floor, Michael unwound his arms and strode past her. Hanging the keys up and his coat, Vanessa continued staring adoringly after his retreating back; her feet shifting as she swooned. He was a perfect husband for her—a good-paying job, a kind, giving personality, and not to mention being the traits of being the best father in the entire universe.
"Wedding dresses?" Michael questioned, seeing the abandoned magazine. He perched himself down on the sofa and grinned soothingly at her. Nodding eagerly, she complied by sitting down beside him, her fingers lacing with his.
"I was thinking about the name for our daughter. Guess what I thought of—"
"Catty," he intervened, startling her a great deal.
"How'd you know?"
He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand; his dark eyes were alluring, momentarily stunning her. Even after several years together, his handsomeness—those glossy black locks and his surprising revelations—always shocked her.
"Because I know you," he replied softly, "and I know how much you miss her. You're clinging onto her so badly."
She looked down, unintentionally ashamed. "Does that bother you?"
"Of course not," Michael objected, seemingly shocked she would even ask such a question. "You think I should feel angry because you miss Catty? Vanessa, you loved her. She was one of the closest people to your heart." He peppered her lips with his, mumbling tenderly, "If you want to name our daughter after Catty, then… yes, that can be her name."
She recoiled, her eyebrows pinched together; eyes glassy. "How are you so selfless?"
"I do what I do," he answered teasingly.
Smiling, she slipped her arms around his waist and pushed his back against the sofa. Kissing him on the lips and neck, she rested her palms on his chest. Before their session could continue, the phone—on the coffee table beside her—rang shrilly. Moaning in agitation, Vanessa reached over (still on top of Michael—and pressed it to her ear.
"Hello?"
"Is this Vanessa Cleveland?"
She sat up, already anxious by the commanding tone. "… Yes?"
"Your mother, Jane Marie Cleveland, was admitted into Cidars-Sinai Hospital just a few minutes ago. She suffered from a heart attack." A pause occurred—silence that she often saw in dramatic movies when… no, this was not one of those times.
"What…?"
"I'm sorry to inform you, but the heart attack was fatal. Your mother was pronounced dead in the hospital room. We'd like…" The rest of the words vanished as she phone slipped from her numb fingers, and Vanessa could feel her chest tear open. Breathing unevenly, nothing but a shout greeted her as she fell into a dark hole of nothingness.
XXX
"Why are they here again?"
"Because…"
"Jimena!"
"It's my duty! I'm the—"
"Magna Cater! Their mentor, I know, but—!"
"You know, so this conversation is over."
"Jimena… please…"
"Why do you hate them so much?"
"… They remind me of…"
"… Oh…"
The silence is the only thing pressing against her ear then, and Jimena can feel the guilt build in her chest. Collin rests his elbows on the table and presses his forehead against the wood. His breathing is shallow as he works to regain a sense of calmness within the storm raging in his body; his body riddled with depression. Jimena taps the surface of the table, lost in memories. In the living room of their house, four girls—each so happy and blissful—giggle jovially and gossip about the newest heartthrob. A sad smile plays across her face.
That was once them. That was their scene; their happiness; their… naivety and innocence.
"I'm sorry," she finally whispers, turning to her husband. He only lifts his head and nods, the full understanding of her pain swimming through his head. They are both equally depressed by the loss of Serena—despite the fact that it had happened five years ago. In fact, day after day Jimena tries to convince herself that Serena is happy—probably Stanton's bride by now, and a Dark Goddess—, but nothing—not even temporary comforting thoughts—can diminish the empty part of her soul; the missing piece.
She'd give anything to have her best friend back—the one she never had a chance to say goodbye to—, just as Collin would give up anything to be in the presence of his sister. And she can see the grief on his face every time his eyes land on the four new Daughters—Daughters fighting the remaining Followers on earth and those who escaped Nefandus before it permanently sealed shut.
"I have to take care of them," Jimena attempts to explain. "I need to be their mentor."
"The world depends on it, I know," Collin responds acidly. Seeing the conflict piercing her gaze, Collin sighs and stares back at her, shamefaced. "I'm sorry, Jimena… But I hate being reminded of Serena." He bites his bottom lip. "I miss her so much."
"I do, too," she croaks, clutching her head in agony. The Daughters in the other room--despite the distance—sense the turmoil, and their eyes slowly shift to their mentor. Pity engulfs each of them. They know the story—the story of each past Daughter—and each feels the most remorse for Serena (for being forced away from earth) only because Jimena usually speaks most about her.
"She'd be happy for us," Jimena mutters, staring at him. "She wouldn't want us moping over her everyday." Standing up, the chair scraping back, Jimena shakes out her sorrows and turns her attention to the girls. "She'd want me to be the greatest leader… mentor… I could be."
"She'd be pretty disappointed that she managed to render the great Jimena Castillo powerless," Collin finally jokes, despite the coldness clinging to his body; everything—his soul—feels empty, but as his eyes lock with Jimena's… it alls vanishes for awhile, and he's left with pride for the woman he loves: the woman who became someone his sister would appreciate just as much as he did.
"Are you seriously considering flirting with that… that… Follower?!"
Both Jimena and Collin watch as one of the girls—Claire—scorns Sarah, who is blushing madly. Jimena and Collin share a sheepish look.
"He flirted with me first!" Sarah protests.
Jimena comes forth, arms crossed. "What's his name?"
"Steven," Claire hisses.
"Double S," Collin mumbles from the table, grief-stricken.
"Coincidence," Jimena whispers, but feels a smile on her face. Turning to Sarah, she says, "If you feel in your heart that it's the right choice—he's the right choice—, then don't let any of your friends hold you back, no matter how relentless they'll be"—almost killing him, maybe, she thinks; stifling laughter—"and I know it will work out. I have proof."
"Yeah," Sarah snaps proudly at Claire, "Serena's affair worked out."
Claire frowns. "And now she's trapped in some dimension!"
"And happy," Jimena adds.
Claire shuts her mouth then, defeated.
"See," Sarah mutters, folding her arms across one another, "Happy."
"Oh, God," Jimena hears Collin mutter from the other room. She turns, seeing him begin to pound his head against the table; vicious emotions of sorrow twining with each other, an inner battle within his body. Jimena wants to apologize for tormenting him, but she can't help but smile, knowing, despite the depression she'll always have, that Serena is at peace.
No need to suffer forever.
Collin bangs his head again, and she realizes how much he'll never agree with her.
XXX
The clock strikes midnight, and of course, Stanton's—pleaded—promise to her remains fulfilled. The moon shines brightly in the sky, shining down upon Serena as she gazes out the window. Starts illuminate the night sky, painted with misty, dark clouds, and navy and black colors. A light breeze ruffles the crimson curtains and strokes her dark curls. In the mirror to her side, the reflection of her is different then what is was before she made her choice. The girl—the woman—is darkly beautiful: dark emerald eyes; dark tendrils of fine hair; a lustrous, yet dark figure. Her personality was that of dark and light balanced into one; a calm peacefulness; a warm, motherly nature; of course, the occasional sinister streak brought upon by being near so many Followers and Regulators still trapped in Nefandus.
At least they've become less evil, she thinks beamingly.
Thanks to your strict rules, another voice joins her. Smiling, she slowly eases around. Standing near the door, Stanton is situated, a warm glow emitting from him—the same one he most often possesses whenever in her presence. It makes her cocky knowing how she is the only one able to bring him that aura. His arms are folded across his chest as he saunters toward her; they unfold so to slip around her waist and hug her to him.
"They aren't that strict," she protests innocently.
"I'm not sure they take kindly to be forced to use their powers every second to disguise what they naturally are," Stanton jokes warmly. She smirks, already remembering the angered grimaces of the Regulators as they slither about, all appearing as handsome, average men. Nothing grotesque or slimy about them. No mossy skin or oozing flesh. She shivers at the memory.
"I'm a queen," she supplies earnestly, as if the word was the true answer, "I can do what I want."
"None of them enjoy the moon either," Stanton teases, gazing at the silver circle in the sky.
She stares down, unblinking. "I do."
"I know," Stanton whispers against her cheek, "and that's all that matters."
She plays with the gold ring on her finger, embedded with an ancient prayer meant to protect her. Maybe the last incident with owning a ring given by Stanton should make her nervous, but it's most often overridden with knowing how much she is his now. No more battles or other threats challenging their relationship. The Regulators—despite how much they despise Stanton and her—can do nothing. The portal will never open. Even if they were given a chance to overpower Stanton, what use what it do? There's nothing left for them. They're simply prisoners.
"Collin."
Stanton snaps away from her slightly, startled. "What?"
She whirls around, the edge of her skirt twirling, and cocks her head. "His name will be Collin." She indicates to the bump in her stomach. Of course, this is also the cause for her constant blissfulness. The Regulators often stare at it with disgust, most hating Stanton for actually impregnating her. They most certainly couldn't take another one (as they usually spat) telling them what to do and how to do it.
"How sure are you that it will be a boy?"
After several seconds, she smiles mysteriously. "I don't. I just wish."
"After your brother then?" he asks, rubbing her arms soothing. She nods, biting back the tears swelling in her eyes. The simple mention of his name does put a hormonal strain on her body. But even when she wasn't pregnant, Stanton usually found her crying silently in their bed, plagued by thoughts of her brother and of Jimena and of her father. She practiced trying to find a way to telepathically contact them, despite being in different dimensions.
"I miss him so much," she whimpers.
"I know," Stanton whispers, embracing her. "I can read your mind."
"I know," she retorts, sending him a glare. Throwing her hands up, she storms out of the room, leaving him bemused. Hearing the slamming of a door, he sighs, dejected. Her unstable emotions were becoming stressful and… frightening. She had shoved him into a wall already. After several seconds, a woman sauntered in, her smirk knowing. It was one of the maids—servants really, seeing as their home (castle, mansion, whatever it was) was enormous. She was also the only one experienced with pregnancy… and the least likely to attempt to murder his unborn child merely out of spite.
"Don't worry," Katherine—her name is—assures, "It'll pass. She's seven months in."
"And about two months left," he mutters, rubbing his eyes. "She cries a lot."
"Way to be sensitive about it," Katherine mumbles disdainfully.
He stands straighter, eyes narrowed. "It's just stressful," he snaps.
"No need to be childish—"
A short scream shatters their snappish moment. Already, Stanton is skimming through the shadows, faster than light, and in the restroom where Serena is, hunching over on the floor. Her face is buried in her hands, and he can hear low whimpering and crying. Kneeling beside her, his hand winds around her waist. "Serena?" His voice is gentle and caring. "What's…?"
No other word comes out. A small pool of crimson liquid, the odor horrid, floods under her, staining her skirt. From behind, Katherine sighs, her thoughts ringing with horror and pity and a small sense of relief that should make him furious, but he's too busy feeling terrified for his love. The grief emanating from her body is violent and strong.
"Blood," Katherine amends. "She's had a miscarriage."
"Can't you—"
"I can't do anything," she responds dryly, "I'm sorry for that."
Stanton, cursing, attempts to hold Serena, but she doesn't budge. In fact, she removes her hands, revealing bloodshot eyes and a frightened expression. Her words root him to the spot. "I feel… empty."
He feels useless.