Hey y'all! Chapter 11 of Surreal Sights is now officially here!
I do not own and of the Alcolytes, I just own Rhianna and all of the crap stuffed up in her head. Which is plenty, trust me. Enjoy!
I didn't sleep well that night. Actually, I don't think I slept at all. But if you don't sleep, can you dream?
Whether dream or not, the warnings were very real. Obsidian and Diamond were telling me something… what was it? I groaned in annoyance. A warning of some sort, but that wasn't helpful. Wasn't it always a warning?
I swam down deep into my mind, calling out the names of the gypsies. But the ground was gone! I was floating through an empty void of nothingness all alone until Obsidian and Diamond floated up in front of me. We all held hands to float in the air (though, of course, they had two extras hands each). It kind of reminded me of those people skydiving on TV, all holding hand and doing neat tricks. Though, in a way, this was much more dangerous.
Diamond forced me to gaze into her clear, shining eyes. "They're coming." She whispered.
"He's coming." Obsidian corrected.
"All will be torn apart." Diamond murmured.
"In panic." Obsidian screeched.
"Destroyed." Diamond hissed.
"Keep a close eye on your friends. Some will escape with the destruction of another." The both chanted at the same time.
I was hurled violently through a series of images, moving too fast for me to see, until it finally froze on one face. I stared in horror before jerking up in my bed in cold sweat.
My brain slowly processed that someone was knocking on my door.
"'Tis some visitor, I muttered-tapping at my chamber door. Only this and nothing more." I whispered. The door opened before I could call whoever in.
"Piotr." I muttered, almost incoherently. Strange, I thought, I usually don't pay attention to how I speak. Or maybe I'm not really speaking. I mused over that concept for a moment before he shook me sharply.
"Are you okay? I grew concerned." Piotr rumbled with his trademark Russian accent.
"What's there to be concerned about, Homme?" I murmured, "It's only a dream."
"Doing that was you?" He looked genuinely surprised. I nodded absently.
"What did you see? No what I saw, I hope." I looked up at him as I asked the question, feeling smaller than ever. He was huge! What was it the Chief Toad-Mouse said about size…?
"I am not sure." He said uncertainly. "It was not good."
"Didn't think so." I murmured. "Excuse me." I added, slipping out of the room.
"Where are you going?" Piotr asked. I paused a long time before answering.
"Did you know that, in all twelve years since it happened, I've never seen my mother's grave? Or thanked Alexandrine for all of her help?" I glared at the floor. "Or talked to my dad, for that matter. I just have some things to deal with. I'll be back in a week or two. Tell Pyro and Remy, please." He nodded, a dazed expression on his face.
I went over to Remy's room, smiling as I looked under his bed. My search revealed an overstuffed duffel-bag, practically exploding with wads of cash. "You never had any tricks I couldn't see through, Snake Eyes."
Next thing I knew, I was off on a plane to California. My third flight wasn't any better than the others, for there was still a two-year-old who wouldn't shut up and an old drooling man next to me, but they no longer seemed that bothersome.
What, after all this time, would I say to my dad? That was the real problem.
Sorry? I wasn't.
I missed you? I didn't.
I love you? I don't.
And these worries bounded around in my head all the way to the worn front door, where a new terror seized me. Did he even live here anymore?
I remembered my vision of him holding my orb of life in my hands, preparing to crush it… I shook my head sharply. No point in turning back now. Instead I smiled as I imaged Remy's reaction to his lack of spare change.
I stood at the front door for what felt like an hour, though the miniscule sane part of my brain said that it was only a few minutes. Holding my breath, I knocked on the aged wood.
I waited. And waited. Maybe he's not home… I twisted my foot to turn, and the door opened up a creak. An ominous wind tossed around my long, curly brown hair and caused the door to fling open. The inside was dark.
Against all reasonable judgment (but who says I'm known to be reasonable?), I walked into the dim household. The first thing that came to mind was abandonné. Abandoned.
The wallpaper was peeling, the crown was molding ripped off completely in some areas, and the silver doorknob was tarnished. It looked like nobody had lived here for years. Even though I had only been gone a little more than two.
"Hello?" I knew the call was useless, for I could feel the absence of life. The illusions in my head weren't straining out to touch something, and my skin wasn't tingling with power. In some ways, I felt more alone than I ever had.
I was so concentrated in the horrors in front of me that I didn't notice the small chest on the floor until I tripped over it. I bent down and slowly read the engraving on the front:
For my angel, now and always
Rhianna
I looked curiously at the box. It was dusty, battered. And I hadn't been called an angel in a long time. But still… Christopher had obviously left this out for me, in case I returned. But where was he? A chill went through my body as I realized I could very well be an orphan. And that I could just now be figuring that out.
I opened the box, lifting out the dusty contents. There were only three things, though somehow I knew in that moment that I would treasure them forever. The first thing was a children's book, titled Le Petit Prince.
A rush of memories pushed over my head, and I almost fell over. A warm, rich voice carefully reading the simple words out for me, showing me the different letters. I was constantly getting distracted, reaching up over and over to play with soft blonde curls.
"Mommy." I whispered. The second was a letter, but it didn't look nearly as old as my book. It was written in my dad's untidy scrawl, so I put it down. He could wait. The third item couldn't.
It was a picture. A photograph, actually. I recognized my dad, though there were no streaks of gray in his hair, and his face was clean-shaven, and without lines. It was the woman that caught my attention. She had an absolute ton of hair, and despite some of it being pulled back, wild blonde curls still ran down her back and shoulders. She looked tired, but happy. Victoire. A little girl, maybe one year old, was sitting on her lap, a big goofy smile on her face. She was wearing a little pink sundress, with a little book in her hand. Le Petit Prince. That happy little baby was me.
I couldn't even remember the last time I smiled. Surely it hadn't been that long ago? I remembered the photographers on picture day at school always had to force me to grin. But how long ago had I smiled and actually meant it?
I sighed and looked at the letter. Though I could recognize the handwriting, I couldn't see the words in the dank room. With one last glance around at my ruined past, I scurried out of the front door, treasures in tow.
I crashed at a musty motel. I wanted to be conservative with my money, because I still had to make it to Canada and back to New York. Somebody had left a backpack in the dresser, which I quickly claimed. It was empty, but I put the chest in with it's newly-essential contents. I didn't sleep very well for the second night in a row, so I doubted the rest of the motel did, either. Nightmares had a tendency to go into other restive minds.
Next I was off to Montreal, but first I wanted to check something. I looked through the gravestones at the local graveyard, dreading an anticipating that one would say Christopher Carter Lefevre. But none of them did. So, as far as I knew, I wasn't an orphan. Either way you look at it, it was a blow that didn't need to be through about for six-plus hour plane ride.
When I walked up the front of the restaurant, despair filled my soul. That cute little restaurant that had existed not-so-long ago was gone. Replaced by some antique store.
I walked up to a blonde boy who was walking by, and asked, "Pardon, monsieur. Vous savez ce qui s'est passé au restaurant ? Franchement, ça fait longtemps que je ne suis pas venue ici." (Excuse me, do you know what happened to the restaurant? I have not been here in a long time.)
"La propriétaire du magasin est morte, et le magasin des antiques a acheté la propriété." (The shop owner died, and the antique store moved in) the boy said with indifference. I barely managed to choke out a quick 'merci' before I went on.
Alexandrine was dead. Why is it that everything I leave disappears and dies? I thought miserably. After a few more questions, searching around, and a quick walk down the block, I was in front of Alexandrine's grave.
Alexandrine Francine Moreau
Le 27 août, 1979- le 23 mars, 2009
"No matter what life throws at you, if you're not
prepared to fight it you might as well sell your
soul to the devil."
"Alexandrine? If you can hear me, wherever you are, I want you to know I'm sorry. For leaving, for all the trouble I caused in wreaking havoc on customers, lost money, destroying your grandmother's vase. Everything.
"I'm sorry I couldn't bring flowers, too, but I'm a bit short on money right now. Remy's gonna be mad enough as it is. And I don't think you would've liked them, anyways. You were never a fan of girly stuff like that." I sighed. There was too much to say, but I knew I could never get it all out. I was ashamed of not even trying "I'm just so sorry." She hadn't even lived to be thirty years old.
Then there was nothing else to do. I got on the final plane ride back to New York (And luckily the shortest one) with a heavy heart. So much had been lost, and I had only just begun to realize it.
When I walked through the front door of the building, I had a pretty good idea of what to expect. Piotr would be worried because it was his nature, Bucket-head would be furious because I didn't tell him where I was going, Mastermind wouldn't care, Remy would care but pretend not to, and Pyro would be… catching stuff on fire? But that was hardly the case, and my brain refused to register what had apparently happened, though it was right before my eyes.
Every last one of them, even Magneto himself, were collapsed on the floor. Unconscious, or worse.