Sorry for the delay. Yesterday was a long night.
(Year: 2010)
Carmen sat on a metal folding chair in the middle of her brother Michael's living room. The whole room had been decked out in blue and white balloons and streamers for the occasion. Though she was technically the guest of honor, she had come by several hours before the party to help set up tables and decorations before guests arrived. She hated to put out her brother or his fiancée, whom she didn't yet know well enough to feel she could impose.
At Carmen's feet now sat an impressive pile of gifts wrapped in various shades and patterns of blue. On her lap, really just the edges of her knees now, the only space that wasn't occupied by her fast-growing belly, she balanced a paper plate with a slice of cake and a fancy pasta salad one of the guests had brought over.
Surrounding her was a circle of assorted chairs, a couple of recliners that were permanent fixtures in the room as well as folding chairs set out special, some empty, but most occupied by friends and fellow employees at the ice cream bar where she worked. Even her boss, a middle-aged man who lived at least forty minutes away, had made the trip.
True, the father of her child wasn't here, but they had that sort of dynamic. An on-again-off-again sort of thing. She was sure they would be reconciled within the week—she knew he'd make a great dad, he just needed some responsibility—but anyhow, they were broken up at the moment. She hadn't even invited him.
Her brother Jordan, his wife Daisy, and Carmen's three-year-old niece had come, though after a quick hug and hello the toddler had been settled upstairs with a DVD so she would not disturb the proceedings. Her future sister-in-law, Sandy, who barely knew her, had not only attended but offered to host and prepared several dishes for the day.
In fact, there was only one notable absence. Her mother.
Carmen had told herself not to expect her. Most of the time, Mother ignored her pregnancy altogether, referring to it only when necessary and only as her "condition." When she did address it head-on, rare as it was, it was to sneer about how her daughter "had gotten herself knocked up by a lowlife who couldn't even be bothered to marry her first and who would split before anyone could say 'boo,' mark her words." Truly, there was no reason to believe she would be here, though Michael had personally asked her to come. (Carmen had thought she might hear it better coming from him.)
She knew all this. But a tiny part of her had thought…
Sandy stood up to let people know they would start opening gifts in five minutes. Carmen took that time to carry her plate to the buffet in the next room for a refill. A couple of people tried to stop her, offered to get it themselves, but she waved them back to their conversations. She was big, perhaps, and her center of balance may have adjusted over these past few months, but she was perfectly capable of this.
Michael joined her as she stood motionless with the salad tongs hanging limply in her grasp. "Baby brain?" he teased behind her, making her jump.
She painted a smile on her face. "Thank you for doing this. It's all so wonderful. And Sandy's ziti is delicious!"
Michael studied her face. Her smile stretched wider. "What's wrong, Car?" he asked softly, touching a hand to her elbow.
She shifted away, ostensibly to reach into the salad bowl. "Nothing!" she chirped. "I'm great!"
He said nothing, raising his brows expectantly. With a sigh, the false cheer whooshed right out of her. "She's not coming, is she?" she mumbled, staring determinedly at her plate. What was she doing? She didn't even like salad.
"There's still time," Michael said, but the reassurance was hollow, they both knew.
"No, no, it's better this way," she insisted, blinking quickly when her eyes began to water of their own volition. Wasn't she so much better off if Mother didn't attend a party meant to celebrate this beautiful baby that Mother believed was a mistake?
And so what if he was a mistake? He was a beautiful one. He would be Carmen's saving grace, she was sure of it. She would cherish every moment with him. Forget Mother, forget her vitriol about Carmen dropping out of college, wasting all that money and five semesters' worth of time with no degree to show for it. Already she loved her son more than she had ever loved anything. This baby was all she would ever need again.
[Thursday, November 21, 2019]
Steam rose from the shower head, fogging up the bathroom. As water ran from the faucet, Chris stood bent over the sink. He cupped his hands below the stream of water, splashing it over his face. When he looked up, a pair of hollow eyes blinked back at him, like headlights sunken into his face. He traced the lines of dirt that streaked across his nose and cheeks. With his torn gray hoodie discarded in front of the toilet—it likely wasn't salvageable—his chest was exposed. The wounds he had sustained were still visible, though pink with fresh scar tissue from the healing well. Gingerly, Chris pressed two fingers against a round scar, the exact shape of a midsize fireball. Shuddering, he dropped his hand.
He could still feel that fireball racing toward him, the heat of it. Could still smell the sharp tang of the iron bars. Could still taste the blood that sprayed across his lips. When he closed his eyes to block out the memory, there was the face of the witch he had murdered, her silver hair, her hazel eyes, as if painted on the backs of his eyelids. The wide-eyed terror. Worse, the hope when he knelt beside her, when he reassured her that all would be well. The empty stare in her dead face.
Chris blinked his eyes open to his own shadowed reflection, staring at it for several minutes more until the mirror fogged up from the running shower. When he couldn't see himself at all, he stepped away from the sink, shook his head, and slipped into the shower. Hot water sprayed his face; he turned toward it, closing his eyes to the onslaught. The roar of water filled his ears, drowned out every thought, washed away the haunting face of a silver-haired witch.
When he returned to his room, he found a steaming tray of food waiting on the table beside his bed. After throwing on a pair of pajamas, feeling more himself for the clean face and fresh clothes, he sat down at the edge of his mattress, surprised to hear his stomach growl in anticipation. He had thought he might never feel hungry again. Sliding back against the headboard, he eased the tray onto his lap. It wasn't much—some leftover chicken and rice, a small bundle of grapes—whatever Piper could cobble together in the twenty minutes he'd been in the shower. The fridge had slowly emptied over the past few days with no one to restock it, but Chris didn't mind. Every bite tasted like a homemade feast.
He was half-asleep, dozing while still propped up against the headboard, when Piper returned to the room. She removed the tray from Chris's lap and set it back on the table, then gently coaxed him to lie down so she could draw the covers over his shoulders. He burrowed under the blanket without opening his eyes. Barely touching him, Piper let her fingers coast over his forehead, brush wet bangs away from his eyes. She lingered there for several moments before leaning over to carefully lay a kiss on his cheek.
"Goodnight, sweetheart," she whispered. Chris mumbled an incoherent reply.
He was cold and could not see. Everywhere he turned was pitch black. Laughter tinkled in from somewhere. "Poor whitelighter…" Chris spun around, but the voice came from everywhere. "Let me kiss it better," the voice pouted, echoing loudly in the abyss. Then another voice, high and gasping, "Please! Please!" He felt a hand reach out to grope his chest, where the majority of the scars had been made. Hands, far too many hands, grabbed and petted and pinched and scraped. Everywhere the hands touched, his skin burst open again, searing with pain. Chris tried to struggle but found he couldn't move, tried to scream but couldn't breathe.
He jerked awake with a gasp, heart racing, sheets drenched in sweat. He fought to extricate himself from the tangled blanket, growling until he finally broke free with a tug that landed him on the floor. Rolling to his knees, he reached up to flick on the lamp by his head. The shadows retreated.
With the dim light, Chris finally felt his heartbeat slow. A little more calmly, he climbed back into bed. The minutes ticked away as he lay there in the light, feeling claustrophobic. It was some time later before he finally fell back asleep.
The next morning Chris awoke long before the sun with the desperate feeling of filth and blood clinging to him again. He stumbled his way into the shower, discarding his pajamas on the toilet seat. This time, the water couldn't cleanse that high-pitched voice from his mind—"Please, please!"—or the feeling of hot droplets of blood splattering his face. Though he scrubbed with soap until his arms burned and his skin was raw, and again with the towel as he dried off, he couldn't erase the memories. He climbed out of the shower as dirty as he had entered it.
With his eyes squeezed shut, he gripped the rim of the sink until his knuckles turned white. "Enough," he whispered, gritting his teeth, "Enough." He couldn't undo his actions, could not bring back the woman he had killed, but he could spare himself the trauma of remembering, at least for a little while. Until he had time to process.
He looked up into his reflection with grim determination. "With these memories burned in my mind / Peace eludes me in the night / Remove these thoughts so I may find / Peace again without a fight."
A glow spread over the boy, rising from his feet. As it rolled up his legs to his torso, his head, the scars on his chest and arms twinkled and faded away. Chris's furrowed brow smoothed out. The emotions roiling inside him until this point became muffled, muted, as if he recalled them from a dream. For the first time since he had arrived home, he inhaled a deep, calm breath.
"That's much better," he murmured with a sigh. Pulling his pajamas back over his still-damp body, he exited the bathroom.
By the time he returned to his bedroom, light streamed through his window. Prue was there waiting for him. As soon as he entered, she jumped up from his bed. "You're back!" she cried, half a sob, and bowled into him. Stumbling back against the wall, Chris tried to catch her weight as best he could. Her arms went around him and clung to his neck as if he would disappear.
As gently as he could, Chris pried her hands apart. "I'm okay, Prue, really," he assured. He patted her back as she burrowed her face into his damp shirt. She said something that got swallowed by the fabric. "What?"
Pulling away, eyes shiny with unshed tears, she repeated, "I'm sorry for annoying you all the time."
Meeting her gaze, he squeezed her shoulder. "It's not your fault. You can't help it." He grinned, inviting her to share the joke. Shakily, she returned the smile.
Piper's voice floated up from the kitchen. "Prue, are you up yet?"
Prue jumped backward, looking guilty. "I'm not supposed to be in here," she admitted. "Mom said not to bother you."
"That's okay, you didn't," Chris assured. "I'm glad you came." Prue smiled shyly again, scuffing her foot into the carpet. She shrugged her goodbye and slipped out of the room before Piper could come after her. With a sigh, Chris crawled back under the covers. His pillow welcomed him back.
He was somewhere between waking and sleep when he heard the door creak open. He squinted up to see a form towering over him. "Wyatt?" he guessed.
The figure jumped. "You're awake?" Chris grunted in affirmation. "How are you feeling?"
Sliding up into a sitting position, Chris let the blanket settle into his lap. With a shrug, he said, "A bit foggy. The demon gave me a gnarly potion. Most of my memory is pretty hazy." If he thought hard, he could sort of recall his experience, as if through thin strands remaining from a story someone else had told him.
"Chris, your head is always 'pretty hazy,'" Wyatt quipped, but his expression belied his concern.
Chris shared a lopsided grin. "Yeah, yeah."
"Wyatt!" Leo called from the hallway. "You're going to miss your bus if you don't hurry up." A pause. "You're not in Chris's room, are you?"
"Uh… no!" Wyatt winked at Chris. He murmured, "I'm really glad you're okay," before orbing out, forcing Chris to shield his eyes against the glare. The orbs dissipated just as the door inched open and Leo peered inside.
"Hey, Dad," Chris mumbled sleepily.
"You rest, buddy," Leo whispered as he eased the door shut again. Chris found his body heartily agreeing with the advice; shortly after, he fell back asleep.
He awoke suddenly many hours later. "Shoot! Jake!" he cried, jolting up in bed. Without even standing, he orbed to his charge's bedroom. School had ended at least an hour earlier. The boy was sitting on his knees on top of his bed, playing with a handful of action figures. He dropped them when his angel materialized in front of him.
"Chris?" he said, crawling to the foot of his bed. "You're here. I thought…" He looked embarrassed, his cheeks flushed red, and he mumbled while admitting, "I thought you forgot about me."
Chris bit the inside of his cheek hard. Kneeling in front of the bed, he forced himself to meet the boy's earnest gaze. He rested a hand on Jake's shoulder. "I could never forget about you," he said, his voice slow and deliberate so Jake wouldn't miss a word. "Never."
"So then how come…" Nibbling on his lip, Jake trailed off.
But Chris knew what he wanted to ask. Why did you abandon me this whole week? Up until that point, Chris had been so careful to make sure he visited with frequency, believing that reliability was the key to continued trust. And it had been working. His absence had been a clear blow to the boy's confidence in their relationship. Who knew how long it would take to rebuild what had taken a mere week to tear down? He knew he wouldn't be starting from scratch, but it had been so long since they had taken any steps backward. He hated to see it occur now.
"I wanted to visit, Jake, I really did," he insisted, searching his mind for an explanation that was both justifiable and something he could share without scaring Jake. He should have taken a moment before coming here to brainstorm what he would say. "I was just… uhm, sick. Like, crazy sick. With high fever and everything."
Jake's brow furrowed. "Angels get sick?"
Chris barked out a laugh. "We sure do. Just like normal people. But I'm feeling loads better now. And guess what. You're the first person I came to see."
When Chris climbed to his feet, Jake eyed him up and down. The boy began to smile, then giggle. "Chris, what are you wearing?"
Chris stared down at himself, pajama pants, a ratty old t-shirt. He wiggled his bare toes into the carpet, exhaling with a chuckle of his own. "I did say I came as soon as I was feeling better, didn't I?" he quipped, playfully poking Jake in the stomach.
A knock at the door made Chris spin around. The boy's laughter stuttered to a halt in an instant as the door creaked open. "Jake? Who are you talking…" Jake's mother froze with one hand on the doorknob. She narrowed her eyes at Chris as Jake shrank back against the bed. "Who is this?" she asked sharply.
Chris's hands had balled into fists; his gaze had hardened. But after a few seconds of staring down this woman who looked equal parts frightened and protective, he realized he was looking at a sober version of Jake's mother, a woman stumbling on a stranger in her son's bedroom. His expression relaxed slightly.
"I'm a friend. My name's Chris." Reluctantly, he stabbed his hand forward, but she didn't shake it. "We have this 'Big Brothers' program with the elementary school," he continued. It was a fabrication he had concocted long ago in case he ever ran into her. The excuse leapt easily to his lips now. "Jake is my partner. I was just stopping by for a quick visit." Patiently, he wiggled his fingers. After a moment, looking a bit out of her depth, she accepted his hand. Her palm was cool to the touch.
"Oh," she mumbled, "I never heard about… well, that's a really nice…"
She seemed not to know what to say. Or where to look, either, from the way her eyes darted everywhere but to the teenager three feet in front of her. Finally, her gaze landed on his bare feet. She frowned but didn't mention the oddity. Perhaps, given her history, she didn't feel qualified to challenge someone on appropriate behavior. Perhaps, attributing his attire to poverty or misfortune, it was courtesy that led to her silence.
Instead of bringing up his lack of clothes and footwear, she said, cheeks growing red, "I'm not always the most… attentive… with the school. I work a lot." Chris said nothing to the obvious fib. He felt no obligation to give her reassurance that he would play along with her ruse.
She chanced a glance up to meet his gaze but, at his impassive stare, quickly cast her eyes back to the floor. She realized suddenly that she was still shaking his hand and released it, her arm dropping limply to her side. "But what I mean" she fumbled, sounding flustered, "is, I mean—that sounds like a lovely program. It's nice of you to volunteer."
"Jake's an awesome kid," he replied. Though it was a compliment to the boy, the statement sounded more like an indictment against his mother. Or was she imagining the accusatory note in this young man's tone? Mortified, she wondered how much he knew about her, how much Jake had told him.
"Yes. He's—yes." She fiddled with a button on her shirt just to give her hands something to do. "What—what did you say your name was?"
"It's Chris," he said flatly.
"Right. I'm Carmen." She twined her fingers together, then pulled them back apart, all without making eye contact. "It's just, well, I was about to call Jake out for a snack."
Behind Chris, Jake shuffled off his bed, looking half afraid and half bewildered, as if the offer were unusual. "Okay, Mommy," he said softly. "Thank you." He sidled past Chris, leaning in as Chris drew a warm hand briefly across the back of his neck. He stopped in front of his mother, taking a quick backward glance.
"Right," Chris said, reluctant to let the boy go but seeing no alternative. "Well, I was about to head out anyway." Carmen led him to the front door with Jake trailing behind. Chris turned, knelt before the boy, and tugged him into a quick hug. "I'll see you tomorrow, Jake," he said, nodding meaningfully.
That Jake replied, "Uh-huh, I know," with such casual confidence melted some of Chris's earlier concern. The boy still trusted him. They wouldn't have to start over.
Chris walked out the door, well attuned to the pajamas he wore and the stares cast his way as he strode down the sidewalk. As soon as he could, he found himself a tree with a wide trunk and a thick canopy of leaves that would obscure him from view. Ducking behind it, he orbed home.
He spent only a few minutes there, long enough to change into some real clothes and stuff his sockless feet into a pair of sneakers, before orbing to his next destination. This one would be a bit more difficult to face, or at the very least less comfortable. He materialized in the empty stairwell of an old apartment building, took a moment to sense for his target more precisely, then trekked up two flights to the fourth floor. After what happened yesterday, he thought it best not to barge right in. He found the door with a wooden plaque labeled "Gowell" and, with a bracing sigh, rang the doorbell.
After a minute, the door swung inward. Fear leapt across the woman's face. "Chris." Instinctively, she took a stumbling step backward.
Though the door crept open without her hand to brace it, Chris made no move to enter. "I come in peace," he said quickly. He held up both hands to show he had no weapons, though he wasn't sure how much reassurance that would offer. Last time, he had taken the knife from within her apartment.
After a long, silent moment, and with seeming reluctance, Marcy motioned him inside. He eased across the threshold with reservation, watching to make certain he didn't get closer than she felt comfortable with. After standing across from each other, motionless, for a couple seconds, she felt safe enough to turn her back to him to lead him into the kitchen. He had been in this very room only yesterday, yet it looked only vaguely familiar, as if his visit had been years earlier.
"Are you…" She paused, unsure how to phrase her question.
"I'm me again," he offered into the lingering silence, "if that's what you wanted to ask."
She seemed to sag a bit in her skin. "That's… good," she said at last. "How are you feeling?"
"Tired," he admitted with a shrug. "I slept most of the day." He stopped, looking around uncomfortably. The kitchen was well-kept, small and neat, with a dish rack filled with one plate and cup from a set and a couple of utensils and nothing dirty in the sink. One chair had been pulled out from beneath the table. There were papers spread across the tabletop and a mug of coffee sitting beside an uncapped red pen. In a corner of the room, on the floor beside the fridge, a protection crystal winked out at him. He recognized it as one of theirs. Paige must have set up wards when she brought Marcy back after the attack.
Chris stuffed his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched. "I actually came to… to apologize," he said awkwardly. "For trying to, you know, kill you and all."
"That—I know that wasn't really you," Marcy said quietly. "Really, don't worry about it." He could tell that, though the words were difficult for her to say, she wanted to mean them. That had to matter at least a bit. After a beat, she pulled out a second chair from the table. "Would you like to sit?"
"Thanks, uh…" Chris laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry, this is really weird. Being in my teacher's apartment, I mean. No offense." Still, he accepted the invitation, though he sat at the edge of the seat.
She sat across from him and tried to force a smile. "Can I… ask…?"
"Anything," he assured. Answering her questions was the least he could do.
Lacing her fingers together on the table, she asked, "How did it feel? To be possessed, I mean."
Chris stared at his own hands as he answered. "I wasn't really possessed." He shrugged, wanting to be transparent but struggling to find the right way to explain. "It's… more complicated." And it was. But it was more than just the complexities of morality-shifting that made this conversation difficult to have. "To be honest, it's all pretty foggy," he admitted. "It mostly just feels like I had a really bad nightmare."
"I guess that's good," she said. When he looked up with a frown, she clarified, "I only mean, good that you won't really remember whatever they must have done to you while you were… you know. I doubt they were kind."
"I guess," he said noncommittally.
As the conversation had progressed, Chris had slid further onto his chair; his shoulders, tense when he arrived, had loosened. The longer she spent with him, the better she could begin to see the school-hating secret witch to which she had grown accustomed. It made her smile again, more genuinely this time. Starting to feel more comfortable, she met his eyes. Her fingers twiddled with the marking pen in front of her. Lightly, she remarked, "Dare I ask if your parents know you're here?"
Chris gave a painful, too-wide smile and ran a hand through his hair. "You can ask…" he said, trailing off. When she chuckled, he added, "They're not at the letting-me-out-of-their-sight stage just yet. It's fine. I'll be back before they notice I'm gone."
"Chris," she sighed, half in laughter. Truly, what else would she have expected?
"Really," he insisted, "They'll be none the—" He jerked suddenly as something soft brushed against his calf. A thick, brown tail curled around his leg, attached to the striped body of an aged tabby cat. "Oh," Chris said, leaning down to scratch the animal between the ears, "you have a familiar." The cat purred loudly, rubbing its full body along Chris's leg. It peered up at him with vivid green eyes.
"I'm sorry?" Marcy said blankly.
Chris looked up at her, his fingers still rubbing the animal's head. "Oh, I guess—I just assumed you knew."
"Knew what? I own a cat, if that's what you mean." She got up to retrieve a can of cat meat from the pantry beside the fridge. Usually, when her pet got touchy-feely, she was signaling that she wanted dinner. Marcy retrieved the food bowl from the floor beside the trash can and set it on the counter as she began to crank the can open. Hearing the rattle of the can opener as it sank into the lid, the cat slunk away from Chris and hopped up onto the counter.
"Ginny, down, you know better than that," Marcy chastised. The cat only lifted a paw to gently bat her hand back to its task, meowing insistently.
"A familiar," Chris repeated from the table, twisting in his chair to watch her while she worked. He rested one arm on the table, the other on the back of his chair. "You know, like a witch's guide. They steer new witches, help them learn the ropes and stuff like that. My mom used to have one a million years ago."
Marcy drained the excess liquid into the sink and poured the rest of the can into the food bowl, leaving the empty container next to the faucet. She set the bowl back on the floor and watched Ginny leap down beside it and tuck in with gusto. "I've been a witch my whole life," she pointed out, rinsing the can opener and returning to her seat.
Chris shrugged. "From what you told me you don't practice much. And you don't always have full control over your powers. Sometimes that's enough to draw a familiar to you."
A soft voice jangled in Chris's head, drawing his attention away. Chris, honey, are you awake? Piper was knocking at his bedroom door. "Aaand busted," he muttered.
Marcy glanced over. "What?"
"Nothing," Chris said quickly, pushing back his chair to stand. "I gotta go. Like I said, I'm sorry about—well, yesterday."
"I know," she replied, her eyes kind. "Chris—be careful."
Chris quirked her half a grin. "What fun would that be?" he quipped and then orbed back to his room.
His bedside lamp was still lit from when he'd woken in the middle of the night. Piper was still knocking quietly at the door. Only seconds after he toed off his sneakers and nestled under the covers, she edged the door open to tiptoe inside. "I brought you a snack, sweetie." She set something down on his bedside table.
Chris rolled over to face her, pretending to yawn and blink himself awake. "Thanks, Mom."
She rested a hand on top of his head, and he found himself leaning into the pressure. He felt the contact more acutely than he should have. It seemed silly for him to feel so needy for her touch after his ordeal, like a clingy child who lost track of his parent, but he couldn't help it. He did try, however, not to let it show.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Fine. Good." He smiled. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but ready for school next week." He struggled to move into a sitting position without removing the blanket from his shoulders so his mother wouldn't realize he was fully dressed underneath it.
Reluctant, Piper said, "It's a bit soon."
"It's been six days," he pointed out, raising an eyebrow.
"You know that's not really true," she protested, folding her arms. Chris sighed at the loss of contact when she released him.
He shrank under the unimpressed look she gave him. "Okay, fine, since I've been back," he conceded, "But there's still the whole weekend to get through. I'll already be behind enough." He paused, gazing up at his mother with wide green eyes. "Please, Mom. I really do feel fine."
Piper sighed and dropped her arms to her sides. "All right, Monday," she relented. "If you continue to take it easy tomorrow and Sunday."
"I will," he promised.
Chris followed Piper's instructions to the letter without complaint. Whatever time not spent napping, he spent fawned over in the kitchen while she plied him with food. His cousins briefly came over on Saturday, but Piper didn't let them stay for more than a couple hours. Chris still tired out quickly and needed frequent breaks throughout the day. When they first came, he tried to apologize for ruining Lea's birthday, but—in an uncharacteristically sentimental display—she dismissed him by throwing her arms around his neck and grunting, "Shut up, idiot."
On Sunday, to Chris's surprise, his parents let him invite Dwight to the house. He'd been worried that his best friend would be angry about the radio silence, but it turned out an emergency hospitalization for an inflamed appendix (as he had settled on) was apparently a suitable excuse to ignore calls. Concerned for his friend's recovery, Dwight didn't stay long either, but Chris enjoyed the time without his family watching hawk-like his every move. He left as soon as Chris's eyelids began to droop.
Almost before he could blink, Chris was waking up Monday morning to get ready for school. He spent most of the day thanking people for their well wishes and answering their questions ("no surgery, just a round of IV antibiotics"—he wouldn't have been able to explain the lack of a scar). Ms. Gowell seemed surprised, albeit relieved, to see him. "Glad to see you're… feeling better," she said when she reached his name at attendance. All in all, he got through the day with minimal difficulty. The biggest complication he faced was how behind he had gotten in just one week. He left at the end of the day with piles of photocopied notes and promises of more in email to come.
Piper and Leo hovered over him when he returned, pressing him with questions, demanding reassurance that school had gone smoothly, and just generally worrying over him. He insisted he was fine, though when he went upstairs after dinner he collapsed face-down on his bed and, fully clothed, fell asleep right there for the rest of the night.
One bedroom over, his little sister was not so lucky. She slept fitfully at first. Some time after midnight she was assaulted in her dreams by a gruesome scene. It started off innocently, as dreams do, with her watching a shadowed figure flip calmly through the Book of Shadows in the attic. She couldn't see the person's face, but somehow she knew, perhaps through dreamer's intuition, that it was Chris. In a playpen across the room stood a chubby-cheeked toddler.
The flipping of pages was the only sound, but a sense of wrongness crept over the back of Prue's neck, raising the hair on her arms. Chris looked up, looked directly at Prue as if he could see her and yet still his face remained cast in shadow. He frowned. "Hello?" His voice sounded strange, not quite his own.
Suddenly, a flash, and her brother was dashing across the floor. An icy whisper floated to Prue's ears. "Don't make me sacrifice you both." Another flash of white light. When Prue's vision cleared, there Chris lay, curled up on the floor as blood pooled around his knees, an athame embedded in his abdomen.
"Chris!" Prue cried.
"Dad," Chris groaned, voice weak.
The flashes came more quickly now, a cascade, making Prue's head spin. Their father kneeling before Chris, trying and failing to heal his wound. Dad and Aunt Paige helping Chris stand, supporting him in his effort to get across the room. Chris, fitful and unconscious on a mattress, murmuring incoherently while Dad stood by. Dad, gently caressing Chris's hair as Chris's body faded away to nothing.
With a jolt, Prue sat up in bed, gasping for breath. Drenched in sweat, she swallowed down a scream and hugged her knees to her chest as tears swept down her cheeks. She couldn't stop shaking. Over and over she replayed the scenes she had witnessed. Over and over, sitting there in the dark, she watched her brother die.
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