Author's Note: Hello again! Welcome to the sequel to Witchcraft! If you haven't read Witchcraft there is a little recap imbedded in here to give you the gist, but being the author I'm still going to say you should read that first. I've tried to give myself a head start, but fair warning, I would still expect my usual, glacial update times. As with Witchcraft I've aged the characters significantly from the source material because I just don't think it's appropriate to tell the kind of story I would like to tell with such a young cast. So everyone is above legal consenting age but still very young in the world. Honestly the older I myself get the more I realize anyone under 30 years old (and a fair number over) still counts as a child, so it doesn't feel like much of a stretch for me. The horror in this fic is going to be more physical and less cerebral than Witchcraft, but there will still be some segments of Lovecraftian madness. One thing that will be discussed here that wasn't mentioned in Witchcraft is suicide. Upfront disclaimer: nothing should be taken as a universal statement. I'm speaking strictly from my own experiences with loss and mental illness which are in no way representative of everyone else's. For all instances of mental illness and/or suicidal ideation that impact functionality I strongly advocate professional help. But that isn't for a little. Please enjoy this first chapter and, if you're so inclined, let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!
Sand and sun do not make for an easy timekeeper. Day to night, light to dark, hot to cold, these were easy enough. Obvious enough. But the more sustained passage of time, the turning of the months and seasons, that was much harder to detect in the desert. Things were less dramatic, save for a torrent of uncharacteristic rain, and, lacking the temperature sensitivity of his friends and classmates, Crona found the subtle fluctuations in heat to be less informative. Judging such things by alterations so minor as to be considered negligible seemed absurd to him. Or maybe it was the cyclic nature that seemed absurd… his childhood had taught him stagnation, that time did not pass at all because nothing except his body ever changed. Medusa had no doubt been aware of time, of the phases of the moon and the position of astral bodies that was so important to some forms of magic, but Crona had never been let in on these details. If there were repeating tests or procedures, he had been unable to measure the intervals. So much was different back then.
To him time had not started turning until he'd met Maka deep beneath the Academy. She hadn't quite purified him, but she'd burned away enough of his Madness to make him a person. Or maybe it was better to say she'd released the person that had always been there, imprisoned beneath fear and obedience and a horrible, twisted love. Rebirth had been difficult, jarring, painful and terrifying like he'd never known because for the first time he had wanted to pass through the fear rather than destroy it. Light to dark took on meaning, these were days, small cycles with repeatable events yet filled with diversity. Weeks, months, and now years. One year, one year today.
Crona hadn't been the one to notice this; it hadn't occurred to him to pay attention to the passage of time then and it hardly did now. Maka, on the other hand, seemed proficient with time and its humors. She knew many things before they happened for no other reason than they were scheduled to happen. They did so every year and years are predictable in this manner. Intellectually he understood, it wasn't a difficult concept, still something in his mind was resistant. Medusa had died, but her will remained inside him whether he wanted it there or not. Bright lights of expectation and solitary, starving darkness that accompanied failure, no number of sunrises seemed able to erase that expectation. So it was only through Maka's efforts that he was even aware of this… anniversary. And by her design it would be celebrated, again, whether he wished it or not.
She suspected his reservations, but he'd done and said nothing to confirm or deny her fears. He didn't want to disappoint or upset her, it wasn't her intention to overpower him and he wanted her to be happy. Throwing him a party seemed to be making her happy. It would make him happy too, once he was there, as these sorts of things were always curious and unexpectedly fun. This time, though, Crona wasn't so sure it was appropriate to be celebrating. With the cycles of time came another cycle, secondary but no less important: life and death. For one thing to live something else must die and with time that life too would be snuffed out so a new one could emerge. Every day of celebration is also a day of tragedy, that's an inescapable truth and not a good reason to defer celebration. This, too, Crona understood. It was just this day in particular, well, his rebirth may've been the only good thing that happened. For the first time someone was gentle with him, offered him a friendship that had grown into everything love was supposed to be, so he couldn't be sad that the night had unfolded. But for everyone else…
Fire had consumed Death City, the Kishin had been released, and people had died. Vera's parents had died. That hadn't been real for him until he'd met her, until he'd seen what grief and rage had turned her into, until he'd understood that fear wasn't the only thing that could create monsters. The witch Pendra had used Vera to get to Crona, to take control of him and turn him against the DWMA. Vera had made it easy for her; she had hated Crona with an intensity he'd never experienced. Or maybe it was better to say that she hated his rebirth, the price the rest of the city had paid so he could live. When she'd learned Crona had had no choice in the matter, that he was just another of is mother's victims, Vera had changed her perspective and come to his aid. Exposure to Pendra's magic for such an extended amount of time had left her with a limited ability to astral project. In order to hone in on Crona specifically she'd infected herself with Black Blood, and in so doing both led his friends to him and altered her own existence forever. Again, things had worked out for Crona; he killed Pendra himself and then Maka saved him from his Madness, this time through a device of his own design. Even now it was around his neck, a high purity quarts crystal with an inclusion filled with Maka's blood, constantly bathing him in her Anti-Magic Wavelength. For Vera, things were less ideal.
They had agreed to be allies after everything with Pendra had been put to rest, which was how Crona knew that being a pseudowitch was not easy for her. It wasn't something she'd asked for or desired; in fact the whole thing repulsed her. But what could they do? No, for Vera, just like for Crona, there was no going back. Still, that didn't mean they had to rub her nose in it. And what of everyone else? Vera may've suffered extended punishment from that night, but that in no way meant she was the only one who'd suffered. There were others, how were they supposed to feel? Lighting candles of remembrance in the town square while cheers and music echoed from the Gallows Mansion. Was his life, such as it was, that much more important than all their pain? Who was he to overshadow what had happened? Especially when even now he wasn't brave enough to say anything?
"Uhg, every morning with this shit," whined a familiar, pinched voice as his body boiled out from between Crona's shoulder blades. "It's bad enough that you spend so much time moping around, but do you have to start before the sun's even up?"
"You don't have to wake up with me," Crona admonished, confirming Ragnarok's complaint about the sun with a flick of his gaze out the window. "I'm being quiet and not moving around a lot, you could easily be sleeping."
"Not while you're drinking that shit I can't! It stinks like wet dog!"
Ragnarok pulled at a tuft of Crona's hair with one hammy fist and flailed the other at his teacup. Crona winced, trying ineffectually to bat him away and giving a heavy sigh. Black Hellebore, one of the many finds from Pendra's modest but rich library. The ancient Greeks used it to treat insanity. It was also highly toxic. Now the herb was servicing Crona as yet another stopgap. He'd been drinking a tea made from the leaves and flowers every morning now for maybe two months. A horrible tea who's acrid taste could be covered up with honey, but there was nothing for the way it burnt when he swallowed, the ringing in his ears, or the way it always made him feel like his heart was going to stop. The Black Blood sheltered him from the vast majority of the Hellebore's toxicity; this sort of thing would've killed a regular human very quickly. And despite the unpleasant experience, the dulling of his Madness far outlasted any other effect of the infusion. Not a cure, but it helped quiet impulses so subtle he hadn't realized he'd been suppressing them until they were finally gone. Ragnarok didn't suffer from the Madness, rather, he seemed to enjoy that which he experienced. His hedonistic nature made this, and everything else Crona was trying to make himself normal, difficult.
"Seriously, I know how much you love punishing yourself for whatever, but come on! This shit makes me feel sick, your spells make me feel sick, we haven't killed anyone in ages! I'm dying here!"
"I'm sorry Ragnarok," Crona sighed, picking up the teacup with his long, delicate fingers and shuddering as the liquid touched his lips. "I'll find something better, I promise, but for now all I have is this."
"Psht, I don't want better. If we can't eat human souls, then can't we at least go after the red ones? Come on, Crona, we used to have so much fun before. You never had these problems, I was never starving, it was great. Let's just get back in the field!"
"You know why we can't do that. Don't you remember what happened last time? Even if you don't care about anyone else, I thought you didn't like it when I-"
"I don't! Don't even joke about that! I've been super nice lately, but if you so much as think about doing anything like that again I will put your face through that teapot!"
"Don't threaten me Ragnarok. I don't like it and besides, we both know you can't do such a thing. Not anymore."
"Don't threaten me Ragnarok," he mocked in a high, nasal whine, tugging at Crona's ears and making it difficult but not impossible for him to drink his tea. "Seriously, you think you're all tough now? You think just because you're the one putting me in a dark place that makes you better? Please, I'm in your blood and don't you ever forget it. Now I've just had an idea that combines our interests: let's go witch hunting! It's perfect! We kill them, then I get to eat their souls and you can steal their shit! Come on, you know you want to!"
"Ragnarok be quiet!"
"What's all the commotion?"
Crona started violently, sloshing half of his remaining tea onto the table and jerking his head around. A figure was standing in the hallway that led to their bedrooms and the bathroom, feet and chest bare. His white hair was only slightly more chaotic than usual and he was palming sleep from his crimson eyes. The jaggedly stitched scar across his torso stood out like a shadow in the predawn grey, an eternal reprimand to the Crona who used to be.
"I'm sorry, we didn't mean to be so loud," Crona apologized, setting down his cup abruptly and standing formally.
"It's no big deal," Soul waved him off, gesturing that he should sit again and pulling out a chair of his own. "Healthy, wealthy, and wise, right?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Some saying about early to bed, early to rise. Nothing important. Any way, you didn't wake me up, so don't freak out about it, okay?"
"You heard my plan, right? So whaddya think, lame boy," Ragnarok pressed, leaning against Crona's skull and folding his little arms. "Think the coward and I are ready to get back into the game? You gonna say something?"
"May I ask, if it wasn't Ragnarok and I being noisy, why are you up so early?"
Crona ignored his weapon partner and went back to drinking his tea, giving Soul a sideways look with storm cloud eyes.
"Cool guys like me get up early all the time," he deflected, folding his arms and leaning back so that the chair tilted onto two legs.
"I suppose, I don't know too many cool guys," Crona mused, wincing has he drank.
"Are you kidding? You don't know any," grumbled Ragnarok, eliciting barely perceptible irritation from Soul.
"Still," he continued, again ignoring his partner. "You're usually still asleep when Maka goes to get you for class."
"Got me there," Soul chuckled, narrowing his gaze just a little. "Tell you what, I've got no way of knowing if you're always out here at the butt crack of dawn, but I'm guessing this isn't your usual M.O. either. So I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
"Show you my… what," Crona asked with a frown, looking directly at him and cocking his head.
"It's just another saying," he laughed again, shaking his head and meeting Crona's inquisitive stare. "I meant I'll tell you what I'm doing out of bed if you tell me why you're up and about."
"I wish you'd just say what you mean the first time. It's very confusing."
"Doing my best bud. Any way, I'm up because I… had some crazy dreams."
"Vera," he said, not so much a question as a request for confirmation.
"I don't know anymore," Soul sighed, shaking his head and letting the chair fall back onto all four feet so he could lean on the table top. "I know she doesn't mean to and that she can't control it…"
"It's the Black Blood. For her, you're its source and she's drawn back to that."
"I thought it was my charming personality and stunning good looks."
"Those too. They're why she has such a hard time controlling her astral self."
"I was kidding."
"I wasn't. She really likes you, Soul, you've made her feel safe and that isn't something a person can just… walk away from."
"Oh now you've done it. Initiate dumb cow worship in 3…2…" Ragnarok moaned, getting increasingly bored with the conversation.
"We, uh, had another fight," Soul confessed, getting up and moving to one of the cabinets.
He pulled out a jar of candy, removed a single lollipop, then, setting the jar on the countertop, he handed the treat to Ragnarok rapper and all and sat back down. The weapon accepted it greedily, stashing the rapper in Crona's hair and inhaling the candy, satisfied for the next five minutes at least.
"I tried to invite her to your party, she called me an insensitive prick, you know how it goes."
"I don't know how it goes, but I think I know how Vera feels-"
"Yeah, me too! I just didn't want her to be alone so I thought maybe we could do a dual party-memorial thing. It's stupid, I know, but I didn't think it was name calling and getting slapped stupid."
"No, I don't think it's stupid," Crona murmured just above a whisper, refilling his cup from the pot and staring into the dark amber liquid with a small smile. "I think it's kind. Vera's not a kind person though, I understand why she misinterpreted your intentions."
"She's a peach," Soul said with an eye roll. "Well that's me. What about you?"
"Me? I guess I can't sleep because… I'm also conflicted about this party. This one year, to me, has been longer than all my time with Lady Medusa and it has been filled with so much. Being a person is… it's very complicated."
"If you don't want a party just tell Maka," Soul chastised with a sigh. "Sure she'll get all huffy for a little but then she'll be over it and we can just get on with year number two. It doesn't have to be a big deal if you don't want."
"But it's not just about me," Crona insisted. "Something must be done, something to remember and acknowledge what happened and that it had consequences. Good consequences and bad consequences. I just don't know what that something should be."
"How long have you been worrying about this? Sheesh, you should've just opened with that. If it bothers you so much then have the party, but give a speech."
"A speech? Me," Crona squeaked, choking on his tea and severely regretting it. "In front of people?"
"That's usually how speeches work," Soul said, back to chuckling. "Look, you can do it from behind a curtain or something, but trust me, you'll feel better if you do something about it yourself."
"But- but what would I say?"
"Whatever you want. You think all the consequences should be acknowledged so acknowledge them. Tell people why you think they should be celebrating or why you think they should be reflecting or whatever, just monologue a bit. It'll either make you feel better or it'll blow up in your face, either way it's better than moping around at o'dark thirty."
"I guess…" Crona trailed off, chewing the inside of his cheek and frowning again. "I guess I do owe it to everyone to say something, even if it's just "thank you." You're right about that much, at least."
"One of these days you're going to have to explain to me why everyone's always so shocked when they admit I'm right about something."
"Oh, no, I'm not shocked at all! I didn't mean-"
"Relax, I'm just kidding. But I do have a serious question: you think Maka'll get on our case if we have one breakfast now and then another when she gets up?"
"Breakfast," Ragnarok repeated, coming to life again and expelling the lollipop stick. "You cook and clean up, and the cow will never have to know about breakfast number one."
"Awesome," Soul shot back, almost playful. "Just so you know though, if she suspects anything I'm saying it was your idea."
"So you gonna knock or what," yawned Ragnarok loudly, nestling into Crona's hair.
"I'm getting ready to," Crona grumbled back, though his fingers dug deeper into the flesh of his upper arm rather than making any sort of move towards the door.
"Let's make a bet: I wager… 50 pieces of candy that you dragged us all the way out here but now that you actually have to talk to a girl you've remembered you don't have any balls and now we're going to go home!"
"No Ragnarok," he said, unable to stop himself from smiling when the weapon used the word "home" to describe Maka and Soul's apartment. "You're going to lose that bet and I don't want any of your candy. I'm just getting ready."
For a moment longer he rubbed his free fingers across his palm, eyes skimming over the door and the building into which it led. The panels were weathered wood, unfinished and rough but still holding, somewhat bleached by the desert sun, and the glass in the large display window to his right was warped, painfully thin in some places and thick in others. Optically this created a distortion of whatever sat in the window, exaggerating some spots while others remained untouched. Above the doorframe a sign hung out into the street, perhaps the only indication of the interiors radical alterations. Crona had never been here before the undertaking, or even known to recognize the discrete existence of this place from the rest of the street, but he'd been told this used to be a tailor's shop. Mannequins had sat in the window and the words protruding from the doorframe had reflected this purpose in simple terms: "Aven Alterations." Now someone had crossed out "Alterations" and scrawled "Histories" above it with black paint and a fine brush. It looked sloppy, but Crona understood the hesitation. He appreciated that simply coming back here, let alone changing anything about it, was the real undertaking.
Letting out a puff of air through his nose, Crona made a fist and rapped gently against the wood. Nothing answered. No sounds indicated that he'd been heard nor did a face appear in the window to investigate. Tentatively he tried a second time, feeling increasingly exposed out on the street even though no one was around. Again, nothing. On the third try Ragnarok's impatience won out and he took very direct action. One fist rammed the wood so hard the boards scraped against each other with a terrible squeak and the other groped around for the doorknob, giving it a good twist and letting them in without consent. Crona gasped, but someone else beat him to the scolding.
"When you're order is ready I will fucking tell you! Tsubaki, control your meister!"
"I-I'm sorry, if this is a bad time I can-" Crona blubbered, hugging himself tightly and reaching for the door again.
"Hmm," the voice inquired, popping an almost perfectly square face with disheveled black hair and strikingly amber eyes into the open from behind a bookshelf. "Oh Crona. Sorry, didn't mean to bite. I thought you were Black Star back to pester me."
"Why would-"
"Dropped off a manifesto, "Reason's Why I'm the Biggest Star," fucking last week to ask for a biography written and seems incapable of understanding that writing a biography takes more then ten minutes. So he's been by every morning since to see if I'm done yet. Done yet- I haven't even had time for any research! I'm not just going to write a monument to his glory like some god damn fan girl; history is serious business and if I'm getting paid to do a job it's going to be done well or so help me! Why are you just standing there? What are you some kind of vampire? Do you need my permission to come in? Close the door behind you and keep your bloody weapon's paws off my primary sources."
"I'll keep my own paws to myself if you've got candy," taunted Ragnarok, swiveling to look the girl in the eye and licking his teeth meaningfully as Crona did as instructed. "I just lost a bet and am out 50 pieces."
"Ragnarok," chastised Crona, flushing. "He'll be fine, I promise. So Vera, um, how are you… otherwise?"
"If I say fine will you leave? I'm busy."
"I'm sorry- I'll come back later, if that's alright-"
"No, Crona, stop. I'm sorry, again, I'm not really that busy. Just… sit there and we can talk while I put these away. Ragnarok, I have candy for you but you have to be good until you leave to earn some."
"Don't patronize me you stupid mule!"
"My shop, my rules, and your voice is irritating so zip it. Now, aside from being chronically annoyed, I can't complain. I'm not pulling in the sort of business I need, so these boxes are all historical fiction, which is degrading, but the grant Lord Death gave me won't last forever and a girl's gotta eat. Why the sudden interest?"
"What do you mean sudden," Crona asked, frowning at her and twisting his fingers in his lap. "I've wanted you to be well for a long time now, because we're friends-"
"Allies, Crona," she cut him off, sliding her narrow gaze to him with a painful sharpness.
From this angle, he could see the residue of her experiences with Pendra and the Black Blood, an opalescent sheen to the amber of her eyes, pale and ethereal. Her right hand hovered by the box of books and for just a second his eyes flicked to the black mark that stood out like a cut across her palm. The place where she'd drawn Soul's Black Blood through his scar and into her own body, binding herself to Crona as penance for what she'd gotten him into. There was now an intimacy between the three of them that was unbreakable. For Crona and Soul this manifested as a close friendship bordering on siblings. Vera… had found no such equilibrium. Noticing his gaze, she sort of snarled at him, then turned her attention back to the box, unloading it onto the nearest shelf with perhaps excessive amounts of zeal.
"Soul put you up to this little visit," she surmised, not looking at him at all any more.
"He didn't put me up to anything," Crona huffed, raising his chin and pouting his lips. "Though he would have cause after last night."
"I didn't do a damn thing last night. Not that that's any of your business."
"Would you even know if you had?"
It was a sharper barb than he'd meant, yet there was no arguing with the result. Vera froze with her arm extended, tightening her grip on the book spine as her own arched forward. Then she set the book gently on the shelf, slowly, letting her fingers linger on it as she dropped her head. Black hair that was too short to be held back by her shoulders fell around her face, obscuring it. Crona took the opening, moving forward softly now.
"We worry about you, Soul more than me, and he just didn't want you to be alone today. That's all he meant, he wasn't trying to make you angry. His was a serious question, as was mine. When he has nightmares he can't tell who they're coming from. Can you?"
"Sometimes," she sighed, speaking to the books. "He shouldn't have to walk on egg shells around me, I hate that he feels that way and I hate that he's right. It's getting harder to control; sometimes it's just me and my dreams, sometimes I know he's dreaming but I can go somewhere else, and sometimes… they're my nightmares in his head. Last night I barely slept and when I did I dreamed of fire and the squealing sounds of charred wood just before it collapses. I wanted to get away from it."
"You're getting stronger faster than you can learn control," Crona observed, nodding a little. "That's the nature of the Black Blood, because it doesn't want to be controlled. I wish you would come back and work with me again; I thought we were making progress before… If we kept going, we could find ways to help you focus your astral self and it would provide very helpful data on the Black Blood."
"It's my life's purpose to supply you with data," she mocked, letting her head roll back to stare dejectedly at the ceiling.
"Don't joke."
"Fine. If you want an answer now, though, it's going to be "I'll think about it." That's the best I can do."
"What about," he pressed after a beat, licking his lips and shifting his weight, wondering if it was worth pushing his luck. "Tonight's party?"
"Seriously," she griped, rolling her head to the side to stare at him directly, at least for the second before her hair fell across her face. Vera moved away from the bookshelf and combed her locks back with her fingers, pulling out a chair at the table with Crona and settling next to him. "You too?"
"I know you don't like the idea of having a party," started Crona, twisting in the chair to face her and bringing his hands up to his chest nervously, pressing one pointer finger into the other and allowing them to engage in their own little battle. "And I don't like it either. I don't think there's a reason for anyone besides me to be happy today."
"You got that right," grumbled Vera, putting one elbow on the table and resting her chin in her hand. "And you're not the only one. A lot of people are pissed about your party. Maybe you came out on top, but for most people this is the anniversary of one of the greatest tragedies in Death City history. Throwing a gala at the Gallows Mansion comes off as more than a little callous."
"That's why," Crona's voice was rushed now and he leaned towards her, wide eyes earnest. "That's why I've decided we should acknowledge that. At the party. Soul said I should give a speech and tell everyone that's how I feel. I wanted to ask for- for your help. I wan to say the right thing."
"The right thing," she repeated, flicking her eyes over to Crona again before returning them forwards. "And you're asking me?"
"My other friends are either happy to have saved me or angry that the Kishin escaped," he explained in a tone that suggested he wasn't sure what there was to explain. "But you suffered, you endured loss. What would you want to hear from me, if you didn't know me?"
"Nothing," Vera spat with a brief sneer. "For the me before I knew you, and for a lot of other people in this city, there's nothing you can say that will absolve you. But for the rest… I guess an apology on behalf of everyone involved. And an acknowledgment that you've been given more leniency than… than you deserve. That's not how it is, I know how hard you've been working and fighting to be here, but from the outside that is how it looks. Show some gratitude."
"Gratitude… yes, I can understand that," Crona mused, nodding slowly.
Vera smiled softly, looking sideways at him but also through him, back in time to someone else who had once sat at this table with her, preaching gratitude. To the girl who hadn't listened until it was too late. One year ago. Heat pricked her eyes and she stood sharply, allowing her chair to make a clatter. Crona visibly jumped, bringing wild blue eyes up to her, though she refused to meet them. Her black hair hung between them, insulating her features.
"Sorry to boot you, but I have a lot of work that needs doing before noon," she said professionally, moving back to her boxes and pulling out an entry. "Put this on the stand in the window for me on your way out?"
"S-sure," mumbled Crona, accepting the book and the invitation to leave with only the barest traces of reluctance; this was always how it was with Vera, conversational one moment then estranged the next.
"Bitch what about my candy!"
Ragnarok was less understanding, flailing a tiny fist at her and straining away from Crona's back as the meister did as instructed, again. Vera didn't look at him, or make any move that might've betrayed her face to either of the pair. She did, however, answer.
"There's a piece above the door. Surprised you didn't sniff it out already, actually."
"I want 50!"
"You get one."
"Vera," Crona interjected, setting the book in its display and then lingering in the entrance. "About tonight… will you come?"
"If I feel like it. Now get! And if you see any of your buddies you just tell them to stay away. I've got too much to deal with today to add their bull shit, especially Black Star."
"Alright, I will. In any event, take care. I-I hope to see you."
"Yeah," she called, sticking one hand around the bookcase to wave at him absently while the other shuffled around on the shelf, making a show.
She kept the pretense going for a minute or two after she heard the front door close behind Crona, flailing around in case he got a wild hair to watch through the window. Then the wind dropped out of her sails and her hands settled onto the wood, making a soft spot for her forehead. Something awful was building in her chest, like a monster with its fingers around her throat spitting acid into her eyes. They burned and she choked, whimpering, willing herself to hold it together. But she couldn't, not anymore, not today. Abruptly she straitened, flushed and panting through her nose, and moved stiffly to the back of the shop. To a door tucked in an intentionally dark corner, invisible if you didn't know it was there, to the almost untouched room past it. Against the far wall someone had stacked bolts of fabric from floor to ceiling such that retrieving one would've been difficult if not impossible. The left wall head a series of tables that folded outwards, littered with spools of thread, pin cushions, scraps of cloth, tape measures, chalk, thimbles, scissors, a thousand little things Vera used to be ashamed to know how to name, and an old sewing machine. Center right was a gathering of mannequins displaying pieces of clothing in various stages of completion, posed like some kind of conference was in session. One mannequin stood apart, one garment had been special. The room's one chair was next to it because he had been working on the hem that day. No, not working on, he'd finished the hem; he'd said so that night as she'd headed out.
Vera closed the door behind her, flipping on the one overhead light, and the second the latch clicked the sob broke free. Gasping, spraying saliva and letting the tears course down her face, she staggered to the chair, desperate to find a place to unload her sorrow. Her fingers found the back but she didn't sit or move it, crumpling instead onto the floor and pressing her palms to the seat. There was a headlamp there and she curled one fist around it, squeezing so hard it hurt as she continued to weep.
"Daddy," she whimpered quietly between convulsive sobs. "I'm sorry, Daddy, I'm trying. It hurts to remember."
Time is irrelevant in the case of grief. One year, one day, one instant, it doesn't matter. In the end there's only pain, sometimes masquerading as rage, steeped in sorrow and regret. Bodies, in this way, are easier because they at least heal predictably. All Vera knew was that by the time she'd finished leaking everywhere her hands were wet with tears and mucus and her head was pounding. She folded an arm across the seat and rested her head on it, peering through her hair at the special mannequin.
"I know what you'd say," she whispered, blinking swollen amber eyes and smiling just a little. "You'd tell me I should be grateful too. Then you'd let me decide what to do, even if I made the wrong decision. Even if I… You never had to tell me to be brave before, why start now, right?"
