When she opened her eyes for the first time, she looked out on the orange-tinted fields in the depths of summer and the waves of gold that flickered in the coarse grass when the light caught it just right in the gentle breeze. It was her first sense of smallness, her first sense of anything.
Next, she took in the shack she was born in. Compared to the endless fields it was desperately smaller and significantly less scary, the walls filled with its three windows and one door and many diagrams painted in yellow on the dark wood. She lay on a on a table of sorts, one that was cold to the touch and made hard, echoing sounds as she sat up and dangled her glinting legs over the edge of it.
Then, a strangely shaped object fell out of the small hole in her chest and landed loudly on the floor, making her jump. Molla knew it instantly as a key and upon picking it up and turning it over in her hands, she felt the weight of it in her hands and somewhere deep inside of her. It was her key. No one else's. To lose it, she thought, could only lead to terrible things. She wound herself up fully to see how it felt and admired the royal blue light that spilled from a glass tube directly underneath the keyhole.
And finally after placing the key in a small compartment she discovered in her left forearm, her eyes fell on the other table placed end to end with her own. Upon it lay a metal being quite similar to herself. Its face-plate was engraved with flowing animals and ivies that crept down its neck to adorn her brassy shoulders. From what she could figure, this being was only slightly shorter than herself and more sturdy as if to weather the endless world outside the shack a little better. Another key waited, the tube below it dark.
Without further pause, Molla wound the key as far as she could. Life began to whir in her companion's body and a soft yellow glow flickered in the tube, weakly at first then growing stronger with each turn until it rivaled Molla's own. When it could move no further, Molla took the key and stood back.
Her companion's black crystalline eyes opened after a moment and immediately fell on the key in Molla's hands, its face plate contorting slightly into a mask of fear and anger. Realizing what she'd done, Molla held the key out for it her hand shaking slightly.
"I-I'm sorry," she said, jumping slightly at the sound of her own voice.
Her companion my snatched the key out of Molla's hands and tucked it away out of reach and out of sight.
"I'm really sorry."
Her companion seemed to realize that Molla meant no harm and smiled slightly in return.
Layla Mayweather dabbed at herself daintily with her handkerchief, cursing this unusual muggy weather silently. The Mayweather gardens seemed not to mind it as much as she did however, for they were as verdant and perfumed as they could possibly be. They flourished to the point that the team of horticulturists and gardeners her father spent a small fortune on every year could not find a thing to do other than to sculpt topiaries out of hedges with such detail that Layla’s mother, usually so unflappable, would sometimes leap away from one if she caught it out of the corner of her eye. Layla was the only one who was truly fond of the topiaries. She sat in the steamy shade of a giant pouncing cat, thankful at least that the sun was out of her eyes and the fact that her brother Nolan would never come too close to the cat.
“Come on, Nolan,” she called as they started another match. “Use that foil-thingy of yours and parry or something, you know, like you used to!”
“Ugh, shut up! You’re distracting me!” he shouted back. Cromley forced him back a few steps into a rose bush and had Nolan fighting not only him but the thorns that tore at his fencing uniform.
Normally, Nolan would have placed Cromley into a similar position as much as five times before Cromley even made a point off of him. Cromley himself often said that Nolan had promise for being so young, which was no end of joy and pride for the boy. Layla could swear that it was all he could talk about when his little friends came around and he carried his foil around like a security blanket. There were trees up and down the lane to the estate that bore the slashes of his blows, not to mention the occasional welt on Layla’s arms or neck if she should prod a nerve at the wrong time. But today, Cromley seemed to think that Nolan was ready for the next level. He was a blur compared to what he had been lessons before. He didn’t even bother to work Nolan into the speed either. It was as if it were Nolan’s first lesson all over again.
It serves him right, she thought and nursed a fresh welt in the crook of her neck and shoulder. She flinched as Nolan ripped off his mask and threw it into the cat topiary, only an arm’s length away from Layla.
“Damn you, Cromley!” he shouted. His blond hair was a sweaty tangle and his mismatched eyes were burning with embarrassment and frustration. “And damn you too, Layla, you mouthy bi—“
“Nolan!” Layla chided, settling back further on her blanket and deeper into the protection of the cat. “Such language for a boy your age! No wonder Master Cromley beat you so thoroughly today if you should get angry so easily.”
“Shut up!” he snarled. His face was a horrid splotchy pink as well. Layla got to him in that rare way she relished, though she could not belittle Cromley’s hand in such a feat, for he had done most of the work.
“She has something of a point, Master Mayweather,” said Cromley, finally. Layla resisted a deep sigh as he took off his own mask to speak freely. He was a handsome man only a few years of out of university, with short copper hair and eyes like the horizon on a smoky evening. To think that a man could be so calm and ferocious at the same time made Layla melt faster than any wretched sun could manage. “By getting so flustered you became blind to my openings. You at the very least had the tools to postpone your losses and if they had been well-executed like I know you’re capable of, you could have made a score.” He turned to Layla. “Well spotted, Miss.”
Layla giggled coyly and played at hiding behind her book.
Nolan, however, was disgusted with the both of them. Disgusted at Cromley for reminding him that he still had so far to go, and at Layla for being so shameless. He started ripping off his uniform piece by piece as he stalked – as forbidding as a storm cloud – up to the main house.
“Master Mayweather? Does this mean you wish to end early today?” Cromley asked,
Nolan didn’t answer.
“You should take that as a yes, Master Cromley,” said Layla, making a show of going back to her book. “Persist and you may find yourself a student short.”
Cromley peeled off his gloves, his hands large and spindly against the grip of his foil. “Perhaps, more than a student short if luck is against me… would that be water in that jug, Miss?”
“Yes it would,” said Layla. She patted the blanket a proper distance away from her. “Come and cool off. The heat must be even more wretched in those suits.”
“Thank you.”
He sat beside her wary of how close he came, knowing that getting too close to the daughter of blue blood could ruin him far more thoroughly than the ire of an angry son. Layla knew this also, for as little as daughters meant to family fortunes compared to sons, they were still protected as if they were hens in a henhouse. She poured him a drink in the glass she had been using and grinned as he stared at it with the tiniest bit of fear. Nevertheless he drank from the opposite lip where Layla’s lipstick left faint smudges.
“I hope your brother doesn’t lose his temper with you the way he did today,” Cromley said.
Layla’s hand went to the welt. “He has no temper to speak of when it comes to me. It is his burden to be an angry person though he never used to be like that. He used be a good and calm little boy.”
“Perhaps he is just getting to that age….” Cromley’s eyes were predictably trained on the place where Layla’s fingers rested, perhaps on the wound, perhaps on the area surrounding it, but nonetheless where she wanted. “He didn’t do that, did he?”
Demurely, she let her palm fall over it as if to hide it. “I… had touched a nerve in him. One I should know not to…”
“He still shouldn’t hurt his sister, or any girl.” Despite himself, he edged closer. “May I?”
Ha.
Layla watched his outstretched hand warily before nodding and lowering her hand. Almost immediately his hands took up the spot, gentle, calloused, and cool against the heat of her welt. It was as if he were stopping a leak in her skin, preventing anymore energy from seeping out uselessly into the air. He lingered and she didn’t mind it in the least. A chill passed through her despite the heat.
“How cruel of him,” Cromley said eventually.
Layla ran her fingers along the length of his foil, biting her lip to stop from protesting his hand leaving her flesh. Damn propriety. “Lucas, perhaps you can show me how to use this?” The pad of her thumb coasted softly over the point and Cromley’s Adam’s apple bobbed violently. “Maybe knowing how would protect me… or at least intrigue men in other cases.”
“It would intrigue indeed,” Cromley said. He tried glancing away from the course of her hands and shifted his position a bit. This made Layla smile. He may not have been a teenager like so many other of her male peers were, but men tended to act like teenagers regardless of their age when pretty girls played with words and their swords. “Perhaps, if I should find an advantageous time to t-teach you.”
“Don’t you have a spare hour now?” asked Layla. “We are even in the perfect spot. No one will come to scold us for this lesson of sword-wielding.”
Cromley went redder than he had been when he first took off his mask. His hand caught her wandering one, drawing it away from the foil. The way his hand smoothed over hers only sharpened her hope that this would be different than with other boys. He had a dexterity and gentleness about him that they didn’t and he was definitely more experienced… there couldn’t be a woman on this planet that could resist him for a moment. He was so close that Layla couldn’t breathe without the scent of him in her nose and all she would need to do is lean forward a little to claim his lips with hers.
“Layla—“
“LAYLA! MOTHER WANTS TO SEE YOU!” shouted Nolan.
Cromley leapt away from her as if scalded and Layla groaned.
“LAYLA!”
“Coming,” she called. She stood and over the back of an elephantine rose bush she could see Nolan glaring at her from the veranda. Little brat. She turned back to Cromley. “You may finish the water if you’d like, Master Cromley.”
Cromley nodded and drank some more, this time not bothering to check for lipstick smudges. “It was a pleasure getting to know you a little better, Miss.”
“Same. Maybe you can teach me another day.”
Cromley did not answer, which was just as well, for Nolan was calling her once more. Yelling like a street urchin more like. At times it was truly an embarrassment to be related to him. And frustrating as all hell too, now that she was being ripped back from the precipice of what might have been the most exciting tryst in her eighteen-year-old life.
Layla walked back up to the house, barely acknowledging the servant rushed to get the door for her or any of those who crisscrossed her path through the halls. She worked to get the tightness out of her belly and the inappropriate heat out of her cheeks. Her mother could tell strange things like that apart from the usual proper masses that oft passed under her nose and such a talent made Layla so unbelievably uncomfortable. She had to stop at a mirror in a hallway close to her mother’s study just to make sure she did not have any sort of lewd detail hanging on to her. The things her mother would say if she saw them…!
She finally came to a large decorative wooden door and put her hand on the brass knob when her parents’ mousy secretary looked up from what looked to be her mother’s schedule.
“Miss, I hope you’re ready for what you might find in there,” she said, her lips tight around the words.
“Why, Guin? Has mother gotten a letter from father about yet another extension on the field?”
“Ah, no I’m afraid, just some company. Though, if I understand correctly, an extension letter would probably be more favourable.”
Layla glanced at the door, wavering a little. “What sort of company?”
“The ominous sort. One of the few I don’t know the purpose of the visit. Your mother snatched the letter out of my hand before I could even read the name.” Guin sniffed. “Most bizarre for her. Just as well. I didn’t even recognize the seal.”
“That’s quite helpful of you.”
“Just steel yourself, Miss. They looked unsavoury.”
Guin sniffed once again and continued to rifle through piles of letters and invitations and jotted down dates and times, her face a bit pink around the nose. Layla swallowed, squared her shoulders, straightened her dress one last time, and opened the door.
In her parent’s study there were two ornate ironwood desks placed side by side in front of a floor-to-ceiling window that gave Layla vertigo to stare out of sometimes. The walls were made up entirely of shelves filled to bursting with books collected over the many, many Mayweather generations. Two men sat in chairs in front of her mother’s desk, a father and grown son looking important in their three-piece suits. Her mother however was gazing out the window, deep in thought.
Upon realising that Layla had come into the study, the father and son stood up and bowed their heads at her. Layla recognised the son almost immediately. Roland Machiaf was a boy she had often spent her time with before he graduated and he was probably what she would have considered to be her first boyfriend if it hadn’t ended so badly.
Layla’s mother looked her over before giving her a smile. “Thank you for joining us, Layla.”
“My pleasure,” said Layla. Roland offered his chair to her, but she politely declined and instead sat in her father’s chair. “May I ask what this meeting is about?”
“We actually haven’t yet begun, so I’ll let our guests enlighten us both.” Her tone was light, but Layla knew that she was far from ignorant to what was going on, given what Guin said about the letter.
Both Mayweather women looked expectantly at the Machiaf men, who shared a brief glance before Roland’s father stood up once more. He looked rather sickly as if he had just barely gotten over a vicious fever. He was also elderly, so much so that if Layla didn’t know better she would have guessed that Mr Machiaf was Roland’s grandfather.
“As you know, the Machiaf have been beset with horrible luck as of late regarding our family line. My own father died a month ago, as did my only brother, God rest their souls. Horrible luck really, that they should both perish on the roads between their home and Zor. Thieves, or rogues from what I understand, shaper rogues. I have also been victim to sickness, which my physician has called strange and even now prepares tests for me to ensure that I haven’t been poisoned. Surely those same beasts are out for my blood next… but because of these threats, I’ve come to the conclusion that I must pass on the mantle to Roland.”
“Of course, before your land finds itself without a Lord. It’s an understandable conclusion to draw, Jonas,” said Layla’s mother. “Chances are that if it is indeed a multiple assassination attempt, whoever is responsible might leave Roland alone until they are more intimate with his agenda, or the perhaps switch might hold them off long enough for the guard flush them out of the woodwork.” This she said more for Layla then for anything else, for Layla was not strong in the murky ways of politics.
“Yes exactly, Juliet,” said Lord Machiaf.
“It might not be so simple though, if shapers are involved,” Juliet replied. “They do not share the same roads of logic that we travel. Such manoeuvres might only encourage them to take more drastic steps.”
“It is only one part of our protection plan against those rotten beasts. Forgive me, but aside from this part which I have come to speak with you about, I’m loathe to divulge what my advisers and captains have been plotting.”
“I understand, Jonas.”
“Anyhow, the Lordal laws are very strict in Mavel, which is where the Mayweathers come into this. It is my understanding that Roland and Layla were an item at some point, if I’m not mistaken?”
Roland nodded silently, but Layla didn’t answer at all and instead glanced out of the window when Roland’s eyes passed over her.
“That was what Layla told me at the time, yes,” replied Juliet. Layla shot her a glare out of the corner of her eye. When her mother was in the right mood, Layla told her everything, including everything about Roland, the reasons behind their break up, and why Layla would prefer to pretend that nothing ever happened between her and that boy. But given the situation, she wasn’t entirely sure that she could blame her mother for being truthful.
“Then perhaps there is a useful bond there. See, those who thought up the laws of the seat concluded that if a man were to take it up he would have to be kind-hearted, just, and level-headed… and back then, such attributes were viewed to have been strongest in husbands and fathers. Thus with that logic, they made it so that the only way I may pass on the title freely to Roland is that he must be married before or within a hundred days after the Ceremony of Lords.”
“So you want them to marry,” said Juliet, unsurprised.
“Yes, precisely. But the union of two strong families will be a convenient blessing, of course, as will the heirs that come from it and strengthen the bond.”
Layla blanched, her fears confirmed. Her mother hid behind her usual mask of thoughtfulness. Only Layla’s practised eyes could see that her mother’s brain was working quickly behind her gaze. Like any mother sympathetic to her daughter’s plights, Juliet was determined to keep the Machiaf name separated from Layla’s.
“Regretfully, Jonas, I will have to decline your offer, as tempting as it might be,” she said slowly, standing now to her full height, all five-and-a-quarter feet of it.
“Juliet, why? It is a blessing, is it not? I’m sure your husband would leap at this if he were here.”
“I apologise, but you are wrong. My husband wishes for Layla to go off and become educated before she becomes distracted by wifely duties. If a wife is educated and confident in her ability to support her husband’s matters…” She motioned to herself and the study as an example. “… then that is the true blessing to the family that the young woman marries into, so is his thought anyhow. I happen to agree.”
Jonas did not seem to agree. Layla was suddenly very happy that she was not Elena and Darya Machiaf, who didn’t know how to write more than their own names, and this was allowed only because they needed to sign their marriage licence with their future husbands someday.
“It is my experience that educated women tear families apart,” he said. He uttered ‘educated women’ as if it were a particularly nasty swear or the name of a devil. It may as well been with the way some preachers carried on during the rituals. “The exception, in this case you, only proves the rule. If Layla is sent off to college, I would not expect any marriage propositions for a long, long time.”
“That is just as well. My husband and I think that she should not be married for a long, long time anyhow.”
“You are being foolish.”
Both Layla and Roland looked between the two with the same kind of sick glee one might have watching a man bet his entire estate on a lame dog at the races. They each had their own idea of who would win, of course, and for different reasons, however Jonas was known for underestimating his enemies (or else he would have lost his title as Lord of Mavel years ago if Lordships were subject to elections like most modern political offices were nowadays).
“We have our reasons, Jonas; if they are foolish then only time will tell. Hopefully by having an education, Layla can fix and maintain her own course if we are wrong, but she cannot do that unless she has the freedom to test the waters by herself and what better place than a university in the capitol of Zor?”
“Zor University?” Jonas said, his glasses slipping down his nose. “She’s going to Zor University?”
“Yes, they have been co-ed since my time.”
“And they have accepted her?”
“Yes! Isn’t it wonderful?”
“Which of the admissions board did she sleep with to get that honour? My own son wasn’t even accepted!”
“Perhaps it is because he still cannot tell a horse’s head from its ass.” Juliet Mayweather’s face went cold and hard and she closed the distance between her and Jonas without hesitating. Her practiced grace was suddenly sinister as if she need only to wish it and Jonas would fall lifeless at her feet. Layla didn’t doubt for a minute that this could happen, for Jonas certainly looked ready to be toppled by a light breeze. Her mother went on, as even as she ever was. “But if you ever again imply that my daughter would sleep her way through life, I will have you and your son deposited in our labyrinth and seal the only safe exit.”
There was a long moment of silence between the two of them, during which Layla’s mother seemed to tower over Jonas, until finally, defeated and embarrassed, Jonas looked away and put some distance between himself and Juliet. Satisfied, Juliet returned to her desk and her now cold tea and had a triumphant sip.
“If you would be so kind,” she said. “Leave these grounds immediately, and don’t ever make another request to this family ever again, do you understand?”
“You will surely regret this decision,” said Jonas. He ushered Roland out of the door, lingering a moment to see if his final sting landed.
Juliet waved him off. “Good luck finding a wife, Roland.”
Once the door slammed shut behind them, Layla rushed to her mother’s side and kissed her cheek. “Oh, mum, that was absolutely dazzling!”
“I don’t know, dear. Dealing with your father has left me rusty with men like Jonas Machiaf.”
“Regardless, thank you for saving me from such a horrible boy. I know he doesn’t look it, but he is so very repugnant in most ways you can possibly think up.”
Juliet patted Layla’s wrist and nodded. “If even half of what you’ve said about him is true—not that I doubt you—then I don’t want him anywhere near you. I don’t want anyone from his immediate family near you.”
“Because he gets it somewhere,” supplied Layla.
“Right, though I think we found that particular font of wisdom right here in this study. How unfortunate. Though, I’m sure Mary and Ella can get any of their residues out of the chairs and rugs. Things like that can fester in a place like dry rot or black mould and render the place completely worthless.”
“I should probably bathe then, to wash all that horrid potential away. Mould begets mould, and I’d hate for you to be completely swamped with fighting off future wife seekers... though you really are good at it,” Layla said, giving her mother a charming smile.
“Oh, if you were a boy, Layla, I wouldn’t have to fight them off,” said Juliet. “I wouldn’t have to worry as much as I do.”
As the smile slid off of her face, Layla found herself unable to reply. Instead, she swallowed the large knot that formed in her throat and felt it get stuck in the vicinity of her heart, which beat up against the knot painfully, almost how she imagined stabbed felt like. It was a long moment before she could manage any words. “Yes, life as a boy…”
It was easy to match the wistfulness in her mother’s voice.
As swiftly as they had unfocused, Juliet’s eyes set on Layla once more. “Go and have a bath. Maybe it will cool you off from being out in that heat, not that the house is much better.”
Layla nodded. “I’ll see you at dinner then.”
She left and as she moved to close the door as softly as she could, she couldn’t help but think that all behind this door should be called the Lingering Study, for she slowed imperceptibly to catch a glimpse at her mother’s expression. Yet again she seemed to be lost in that mind of hers, perhaps imagining life with Leopold the boy instead of Layla the girl, and all the opportunities stretched out before his feet before he could even walk. But when there wasn’t even a crack to peer into, Layla straightened and let out a sigh.
Thankfully, Guin remained trained on her work, cross-referencing one of her parents’ new acquaintances to remember their connections a little more quickly. Layla navigated the halls as if in a troubled dream, stopping only to send a maid to fetch a new outfit and send another ahead of her to ready a bath. The maids seemed a bit perturbed by they way she requested: more kindly than usual and with more detail. They questioned her briefly, fearing that she was coming down with a dreadful summer cold, but swished dutifully away when Layla offered no answer. Perhaps it was divine sympathy that kept Nolan at bay and her father away on some business, for she knew that if she saw either of them she would cry.
It was with great relief that she finally shut herself in the solitude of the bath, barely missing the hem of a maid's skirt when she slammed the doors closed in the process. She wrapped herself in the aromatic clouds of steam, breathing in the stuffiness easily, and slipped into the water.
Prompt #5, 1015 words in 75 minutes, "AMR: Charlie's POV"
Note: Not editing. Not tonight. Too much writer's fatigue holy shit. WOw. SOrry for the mess.
~*~*~
Charlie remembers the beatings his mother gave him. The were usually short occasions, as fleeting as a shooting star and far less lucky, but nevertheless left lingering stars behind his eyes and tails of fire deep into his muscles.
He also remembers the last beating, the one after the long gap of pain free existence where Charlie actually felt some semblance of worth. But he supposed his self-worth wormed deep inside his mother's poor heart, souring the rotted apple of it. She beat him long that time, frothing at the mouth. It was so long that his father, greeting them in his usual cheerful manner upon returning home from work, saw.
Blood. He remembers a lot of that but nothing else.
"Now, now, Charlie," Dr Bumby says in his even voice. "Soon the tears will be but a memory, and the memory long gone."
And he sends the boy on his way.
Charlie, with his all rubbed raw and a gap in his mind, searches for Alice inside the big house. The other children leave him be for once, only bothering to glance him over where they once would ridicule him for his tears. He's not sure how to feel about this. It makes him dark inside like a imprint in the dust where a trinket used to stand. There's too much space now and everything's all uneven and topsy-turvy...
He waits in Alice's room for her to return from her errand. Fetching the stupid pills, as always, when he needed to talk to her. She always had a way to calm him down it seemed, and she always knew what to say to banish what was ever on his mind. Whether it be that salvation bitch on High Street or that Ollie's bullying or his nightmares, just being near Alice... She was the sister he never had.
He needs her.
It's dark outside when he awakes in her bed. His eyes are crusty with half spilled tears and sleep, but he stands and looks around for her again to no avail. He sees a light under the do to Dr Bumby's office and a deep voice that he doesn't recognize, but as he listens he hears Dr Bumby address him as Officer and Charlie stiffens in the dark.
Was Alice in trouble?
The floorboards behind the office door creak suddenly and Charlie dashes to the boys room and dives between the cold sheets of his bed. If Dr Bumby saw or heard him, he gave no indication. Charlie lays in his bed for the rest of the night, his tired brain wracking themselves in worry for her knowing all to well the dangers that lurked in the city of London behind the walls of Houndsditch. Murderers and perverts ruled the nights and even decent men found wolves in themselves under the cover of night. The stories he heard from the older children were horrid, and so consumed with worry that he forgot that he used to sneer at some of them for how outrageous they were.
Morning came seemingly over the course of eternity. Over a sparse breakfast, Dr Bumby told Charlie and the other children to keep their eyes peeled for her if the could and to find the nearest authority they could.
"Why?" Charlie asked. "Can't we just bring her home if she's lost?"
Dr Bumby looked at him for a moment. "No, I'm afraid she might be dangerous and I'm making sure that none of you are harmed if that's that case."
Charlie opened his mouth to defend her, but let it go, slumping in his chair.
No one found her.
Neither did they find her the next day or the day after that.
Charlie couldn't sleep. His nightmares ate their own tails in loops of his past and the dangers Alice faced on the streets. The bags deepened beneath his eyes and it wasn't long before Dr Bumby invited him to his office for another session.
Charlie listens to him listlessly, and lets his voice pull him under and his fingers pluck at the depths of his mind. Like fish his memories swim and Dr Bumby scoops the slippery little things one by one until Charlie surfaces again. Now there's only the phantom pain from the beatings, his mother's face a blur, his worry for Alice lessened.
And it continues on.
The more sessions Charlie attends in such a short time, the less he hurts. He doesn't feel happy at all--he can't even say what it might feel like anymore, but as long as he doesn't hurt he doesn't care.
One crisp morning, Dr Bumby leaves for the new station down the street, assuring the children that he'd be back in at most a half an hour with a new girl to help around. Charlie notices that Dr Bumby looks at him and he shrugs slightly in reply, not sure of his meaning.
A half an hour passes and sees no return.
A whole hour passes and Ollie dismounts from the window shaking his head.
Charlie can't quite bring himself to care as much as the others do. He sits against the wall opposite the front door, draws his knees up to his chest, and rests his head upon them. Sleep beckons to him softly, the way it does to emptiness and loneliness and he nearly follows.
The door opens suddenly and violently bouncing off the wall with a bang. Charlie looks up, blinking in the bright light spilling in...
It's Alice, her clothes and person dirty, with a light spatter of red reaching up her apron. She smiles at him, and so gently does everything come spilling back inside of him that the excess spills from his eyes as he remembers.
Charlie remembers the beatings. He remembers his mother's rage and his father's rage. He remembers the blood. And as he rushes to her and into her arms he remembers Alice, the sister he never had.
Note: This was a hard one and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't borrowing a little inspiration from Stephen King.
~*~*~
The fog rolls in off the sea around 2:30 in the afternoon, as thick as a blanket and as cool as night. She watched it reach up the beach from her spot at the cafe her crossword puzzle forgotten in her hand. She hasn't seen the fog come in so late in a long time, maybe thirty years now. The sun usually burns everything off pretty quickly before ten.
The screams and laughter from the children are oddly muffled. The bells from the buoy silenced completely. Even the streets have taken on a odd hush despite how clogged they've become since she's taken her seat at the cafe.
It isn't long before the fog billows straight up into the streets and pressing eagerly against the buildings.
The children are completely silent. Locals and tourists alike stop in the streets to gaze beach-ward. The only sound that can be heard is the waves splashing upon the sand.
But she hears a low sound. No, she feels it... buzzing in the pit of her lungs and in the marrow of her bones.
