They bloomed on the horizon, first one, then two, then a garden of toxic unfurling petals that wilted slowly. The men watched in horror, not one knowing what this meant.
Peter knew.
The radio had crackled to life only moments before urging all seafaring vessles to STAY ON THE WATER. YOU ARE SAFE ON THE WATER. We aren't safe anywhere, he thinks, and it's his first bitter thought.
The waves don't come until much later, shockwaves at the shore that relax into hard and heavy jolts of the boat any sailor could withstand easily. They come the same time the sickness does. Every man and woman on the ship begins to feel ill. Cough. Choke. They cling to Peter for answers, they claw at him with their eyes, YOU'RE THE CAPTAIN, YOU HAVE TO SAVE US, YOU HAVE TO TAKE US HOME.
The ones who don't make it are thrown overboard. As Peter's ship glides back to land, it leaves a trail of corpses in his wake, and the ones who live may as well be dead. They all rot away as Peter sails them along the River Styx to the underworld. On land, he's sure, it would have been worse, and everyone would have been terrified to watch their friends, loved ones turn to zombies, but on this boat they are unified in their transformation.
By the time they reach land, half the crew is gone and Peter's finger has swollen around his wedding band to swallow it. It's not the first time he's lost his crew, but he prays feverently that it will be the last.
How many had children. Wives. Husbands. How many of them are gone now. The port they pull into is in ruins. EVERYTHING is in ruins. His crew praise his name and thank him for taking him home but there's no pride in coming back to the apocalypse you helped to usher in. I DID THIS. I KILLED THEM.
The only thing that gives him comfort are the knowledge that he won't have to have another medal weigh down his chest, and the thought of tiny hands grasping at his legs to be picked up.
LUCY.
With no transport, it takes him days to get home. Dangerous days, and life out at sea has not made him fit for this wasteland. He doesn't know how to take a life if the sea won't take it for him. He is not the soldier he needs to be, but he is the father he needs to be, and the memory of black hair and the high-pitched お父さん and tiny features tucked into the crook of his neck brings him home.
Empty home.
He calls her name. LUCY.
There's no answer. LUCY.
When he tries again, different. DUSTIN.
There is no answer. LUCY.
Lucy.
There she is. Tucked into bed, all that's left of her. Nothing but skin and bone. Nothing but a shell. LUCY.
And there is DUSTIN sitting by the windowsill. There is the DEMON ushering her soul outside into the wastes. There is the MONSTER that was supposed to be a KNIGHT. He reeks of JET and ALCOHOL, of the DAMP of basements and SIN, SIN CRAWLING ACROSS HIS BACK.
YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO WATCH HER.
Fist connects to bone and in the red haze of rage, Peter is relieved that Lucy's eyes are shut so that she doesn't have to see the blood being shed.
YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO KEEP HER SAFE.
He doesn't fight back, he lays down and takes every hit because he knows that Peter won't follow through, even when calloused hands wrap around his neck he knows that Peter won't follow through but he WANTS TO, God above he WANTS TO.
YOU KILLED HER.
Steel grip loosens to nothing, Peter's hands cover his face, crawling back into the corner of the room, away from the memory of his daughter, away from the monster of his brother, away from himself.
My secret is:
it always hurts
ghost tendrils creeping,
climbing my bones
in pinpricks and cudgel blows,
whispers and drowning waves
beneath the smiling surface
My secret is:
I’m always afraid
but you’re the one running, flinching
hurtling on, high speed
in sight, but out of reach
I’m left stock-still
on wrong feet
My secret is:
I hide nothing,
display every emotion,
layer joy and sorrow on my sleeves
open up my chest for inspection
Only the brightest colors
show up against yours
My secret is:
I want no space between us;
you ask for galaxies
And yet (and yet, and yet)
our orbits collide,
comets trailing fire
to shelter or shatter frozen cores
My secret? You are not
the only one left lonely
You are just the only one
insisting
on distance
(Wrote this one a while back during the Multifandom Poetry Fest but never posted it...it wasn't for one of the prompts, just written as a counterpoint to one of the other poems I wrote.)
