“Tray, what are you doing home?”
Trace glanced over at his sister, taking in the mussed braids and her pajama clad body. The fourteen year old had grown up fast, and it broke his heart. It also made him angry- not with little Xai. He could never be truly mad at his sister. No, he was pissed at the situation, at the streets, at everything that was pressuring the fourteen year old to think of herself as a woman. He was even more pissed at what a friend from the old ‘Hood had warned him about. Little Xai was attracting attention- one of the gangs wanted her. They wanted her to be one of their ‘ladies’. It was what they called the girls who put out for whomever in the gang they ended up under. Trace was going to be damned if his little sister got sucked into the streets. Not on his watch, not when he could stop it. But he hadn’t expected to encounter her when he’d snuck into the house to lift his Uncle’s piece.
“Xai, I just came to pick up something.”
“Liar.”
Trace blinked at the profanity, but also at the terror etched on his sister’s face. That was when he knew- she already belonged to them. They hadn’t marked her, she was still too young to be properly used as one of the ladies. The girls who would put out for the gang, lie for the gang, and ultimately die for them. No, she wasn’t being used, but she was being indoctrinated. And they both knew that she was helpless. It was the cycle of their culture, and even their mother would not intervene. Belonging to a crew guaranteed that someone would be around to watch Xai’s back constantly, that she would belong. Having a baby of the gang wasn’t shameful here. It shocked Trace how unaccustomed he’d become to his own culture. Xai was helpless, and they both knew it. Even worse, Trace realized, Xai knew full well why her brother had returned. He was leaving her just as helpless as the jerks that he was saving her from. Without a word, Trace walked over to her, wrapping one arm around his sister’s slim form and pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“What about Elliot? What about me, and mama? Tray, you ain’t gotta be no hero! You trippin’!”
“I can’t expect you to understand, but if I can’t take care of someone in my life, I can’t take care of anyone.”
She couldn’t argue with it, and she knew better than to try. Her brother tucked the piece into his jeans, kissed her cheek, and left the house. Xai couldn’t help him, but she’d take care of him when it was over. The girl raced to her room, yanked on the warmest clothing she had, and chased her brother down the streets, shadowing him as only a child of the streets could. He was a fool, and she watched him walk right into the club where the crew was waiting to chill, and began to yell. Xai couldn’t watch, and she covered her face with her hands. But she could still hear what was happening.
---------
“What the heck, man?” Trace held the gun steady, the barrel aimed right at the man who ran the crew. No one moved, no one breathed. Trace’s rep had never quite left the ‘Hood, and no one wanted to tangle over the man’s sister. But no one could just let him walk away with her, either. The first hit took him in the shoulder, and instinctively Trace pulled the trigger. He missed killing his target by a few inches, though the bullet caught the thug square in the chest. Trace’s own shoulder was bleeding, but as Aidan Hawthorne had taught, boxing was fifty percent mental. Trace pivoted, and a powerful blow knocked the other man back. They thought they were tough, and they might have been, but Trace was trained. He still knew that he stood no chance. He was too outnumbered.
---------
Xai wasn’t sure how long the beating and shooting lasted, but when there was silence, she peeked from behind her hands to see something be dragged out the back. Xai slipped through the front door, and around to the broken body of her brother. He was losing so much blood. There was a gunshot wound in his shoulder, and two in his chest. One more in his leg. His face was beyond recognition, and the rest of him was red, black, and blue.
“T-Tray?” She was clinging to his hand, staring at the torn knuckles. She could see his chest rise and fall, and fumbled for his phone. She hit the number one speed dial, and was surprised by the male voice that answered.
-------------
“Hello?”
“H-Hi…..I-I don’t know you.”
There was a long pause at the other end, as Aidan Hawthorne tried to ascertain just who had called him. The number belonged to Trace….
“LeXaibriar?”
“Y-Yes….p-please come. It’s Trace they hurt him, and…and it’s all my fault.”
Aidan glanced at the blonde who was seated at the table across from him. Julie Beauchere, his close friend and co-coach, was already flipping her phone open, and began dialing as Aidan coaxed answers about location and her brother’s condition from Xai. As soon as the call was made, Julie and Aidan were in Julie’s car, heading for the girl.
----------------
The ambulance arrived before Trace’s teacher, and Xai refused to be parted from her brother. She clung to his hand, as his eyes flickered open to stare in her direction.
“Tray….why? Why did you have to do this?!”
“….love you.”
The little girl shook her head.
“Don’t start talkin’ goodbyes, Trace. You….you can’t.”
“Love you. Love Ellie…”
The paramedic swore and shoved Xai onto the bench, wrenching her hand from Trace’s.
Trace Cooper coded at 3:17 a.m. Six days after Christmas.
--------------
There were two adults waiting for Xai as she clambored out of the ambulance. It was the male who caught her easily as she stumbled out, and he held her gently. Like she remembered her father having done when she was very young.
“Mister Hawthorne?”
Those kind eyes watched her with so much mutual pain and compassion, that the teen lost it. Sobs ripped at her chest, and clung for dear life to the man who reminded her so much of what Trace would have been like all grown up. Aidan, for his part, held the girl tight, lifting her easily into his arms, and allowing her to weep onto his shoulder.
“Aidan, take her to your place. I’ll call her mother- the woman told me that Trace had this coming. We can’t send her back into the lion’s den tonight.”
“Why not with you?”
“You were closer to her brother. Besides, she might talk to you.”
Aidan nodded, stroking her hair slowly. Trace had been like a son to him; there was no reason he couldn’t treat the boy’s sister like a daughter. He’d tuck her into bed with Vivianna, and allow the sweet and soothing nature of a child to calm her. He could sit in the chair, and watch them sleep, and have his own private moment of intense grief.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Trace your footsteps in the sand.
“Hey, Lee what’s this?”
Lina glanced over at the young woman in the passenger seat; she was a curvy brunette, with an oval face and bright green eyes. The two had met in college, and had been roommates there. Sarah, the girl was called, was a musician and played in one of New York’s premiere symphonies. She was lively and spunky, and the opposite of Lina in nearly every regard- including her opinion of men. Lina preferred the hands off approach; she welcomed friends, but wasn’t entirely certain she wanted a romance. Sarah always spent her holidays with Lina (and they enjoyed Lina’s new apartment). The pair of them generally swapped music, as they shared tastes. Lina’s was more broad- as a suddenly-prominent music critic, Lina seemed to acquire all sorts of varying types.
“It’s a celtic band. They’ve been pretty popular lately.”
“Are they any good?”
“I enjoy listening to them.”
Sarah seemed to consider this, opening the case and popping the cd into Lina’s stereo. As the first song started, a husky and slightly accented voice filled the car. Lina’s lips twitched as she suppressed smiling at the familiar voice. It was at just that moment she remembered why she’d not really wanted Sarah to open the case.
“OHMYSWEETJESUS.” The southerner’s roots were revealed as her drawled voice squeaked out the expletive. “You got an autograph with a phone number. From the hot blonde!” Sarah flipped through the pages, trying to figure out which songs he seemed to sing. When she realized he sang the first one, she lifted one hand to find herself. “Jesus, Lee. Tell me you’ve called him.”
“On occasion.” Lina didn’t want to tell her friend that Keith had a habit of calling her first thing every morning- his time. That meant he was generally the last person she spoke to. It was a testament of how deep their new friendship ran- her speech impediment was much more pronounced late at night, and she tended not to speak with anyone when she found the words difficult to get out. The Irishman would simply wait in adoring silence while she struggled to speak. He never judged or grew impatient. Lina couldn’t tell her friend that either. If Sarah knew that Keith was pursuing her quiet friend, word would get out. Lina had a very, very, very good reason for not wanting anyone to know she was being pursued. Her father. She really needed to call her Uncle Christian. He was good for chatting about things, and she knew he’d understand her emotional confusion over the rather persistent musician.
“Seriously, Lee. He’s hot- I’d do him! Ohmylord. You’d have gorgeous children.” Sarah laughed as Lina looked quite panicked. She knew how her friend felt on the subject. Lina was too scared to get involved with a relationship. The girl really had her insecurities. “C’mon. Dating him isn’t like you’d have to make a lifetime commitment! Just enjoy his affection.”
Lina had been thinking that herself, honestly. Still, she wasn’t entirely certain.
------------
Reuben Hughes wasn’t entirely comfortable with Lina living away from home. He was well-aware that his darling was now twenty-five. Entirely aware. It occasionally made him feel old, when he ran his fingers through that spun-gold hair, and thought about how it used to be short and curled in adorable ways around his fingers. Instead of smothering her with his affection, Reuben spent every Sunday evening with his daughter, and they made dinner together. Just the two of them. He really did adore the girl- she was his little angel. Naturally, fatherhood had changed his life; Lina’s birth had done more than that. He’d been changed even more, had fallen in love with his little girl. His princess.
He might have spoiled her more than necessary, but somehow she’d turned out alright. Sweet and darling, with a smile that could brighten a room. It was also a smile that could keep him up at night. He knew how men thought. He didn’t want any of those thoughts surrounding his daughter. In any way. Reuben shook his head to clear such thoughts, as he took the elevator up to the fourth floor, where Lina lived. It was a lovely building, and a gorgeous two-bedroom apartment. Roo had seen to that- a beautiful view, and lots of light. Most importantly, it wasn’t very far from home, and on a lovely day he could walk over to see her, or vice versa. Reuben paused by her door, and knocked lightly. He was early, so he’d not be surprised if she wasn’t quite home yet. Sarah had been for a visit, and that was always interesting; poor Dawson was always glad to see the flirt go back home, he was certain. Reuben crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall to wait. He had a spare key and could go in, but that would inevitably startle Lina. He’d be patient.
Or at least, he was until someone else knocked on the door. With his eyes closed still, he shook his head.
“She’s not home.”
“Oh, I can wait.” The masculine voice had Reuben’s eyes flashing open, and the image of a young (and attractive, he grudgingly admitted) man holding flowers outside of his daughter’s apartment had him instantly in a black mood. He stared blankly at the lad, mistrusting everything from the mop of blond hair, the accent, the grin and the lean body. Of course, he mistrusted any male interested in his little Lina.
“Those flowers had better be for me.” The blond looked confused for a few minutes, and then arched an eyebrow. Roo doubted that the boy had any idea how close he was coming to incurring bodily harm. Reuben’s hands ached to pitch the boy out the nearest window, and pretend to Lina that no one had ever been there. Fortunately, it seemed that the young man figured out a few things.
“You know Miss Hughes?”
“Quite well.”
There was a long pause.
“Are you her father?”
“Yes.”
“Well, damn.”
Suddenly there was an understanding of sorts. The blond knew that Reuben was a rather pissed-off father who was grateful to have been around when a strange man descended on his child’s doorstep.
“I’m Keith.”
“Keith?” There was a definite smirk on Roo’s face, as he eyed the blond from across no-man’s land.
---------------------------------------
Lina had dropped Sarah off, but her words lingered in Lina’s head. Call him. Lina was tempted to, she’d admit, because the sound of his voice always had her unwinding. Making her decision, she dialed his number, and was disappointed when it rolled to voice mail. Rather than shut the phone, she dialed another number, and smiled at the greeting on the other end of the phone.
“Uncle Chris, do you have a few minutes to talk?”
As usual, Christian Hearst helped things to make sense for her. She was enjoying their conversation until the elevator doors opened.
“…..let me call you back later.”
Her father and Keith were standing in the hall. Together. It was like a nightmare. Lina closed her eyes and prayed that she hadn’t been noticed, that the doors could shut and she could get back in her car and drive to her Uncle Christian’s apartment. Sadly, a familiar hand stopped the doors, and the attached arm wrapped around her shoulders. Lina smiled up at her father weakly.
“Hello, Daddy. I see you’ve met Keith?” His face was unreadable.
“Why yes, I have.”
Monday, June 29, 2009
Hanging by a Moment
There were keys rattling in her apartment door, but Juliet couldn’t be bothered to see who was coming in for a visit. It could have been either of her brothers, her father, Dimitri…any one of the people she really had no desire to see at the moment. They all looked at her with sympathetic eyes, or eyes that judged her husband for actions that Juliet had no proof had been committed. She stood in her bedroom, hating the cramped one-room flat that she’d been able to procure on short notice, using her married name to purchase. Juliet Travers was a name far-less thought of than Juliet Morhan.
The red-headed beauty certainly didn’t look like a supermodel this morning, nor did she look like the world-class dancer and choreographer that she was. Her face was pale, and her eyes were tired. She’d been sick all night and into the morning, and she’d missed the gentle hands that usually held her hair back, the tired smile that would accompany her husband’s actions as he tucked her back into bed. She missed him, and it was hard to remember that she had been the one to walk out that door, not the other way around. She stood before the mirror, braiding her wet red hair, clad only in her panties and a bra. It took her so much time to get ready anymore, mostly because she didn’t want to. She could tell, now, that her visitor was in her living room. There was the sound of keys hitting the table- that rule out her father, for which she was grateful. She closed her eyes, and leaned against the dresser, wishing that she could just remain silent until whoever it was left.
She knew it was in vain, and she repressed a groan as there was a knock on her bedroom door.
“Jujubean?” The voice gave him away immediately. Only Dimitri spoke with such a thick, unfettered Russian accent. Juliet didn’t have the heart to turn him away; she’d have given her father the cold shoulder. Everytime he came around, he wanted to move her back to England, so that she could recover from her marriage in peace and be far away from Kayden. If he had his way, Kay would never see her again, no matter how many times Juliet informed him that this was all on her. Kay was the innocent party this time and Juliet had run away entirely on her own. Had Theo walked through the door, she would have screamed at him until he left, though that would have been hours in the making. Theo was used to her wrath, and he took it willingly. It was a release for her, and he understood it. But Dimitri….she couldn’t turn her best friend away. He knew her far too well, and he knew what would really be going through her head. Of all the men in her life, Dimitri hated Kay the most; he’d been the one she had run to on the worst night of her life.
“Go away, Dimi. I’m not dressed.” It was half-hearted, and the Russian knew it. The door opened, and Dimitri set a box down on her bed, before taking the braid from her hands and finishing it for her.
“You can’t hide in here forever.”
“I’m practically naked.”
“I’m gay, so stop fussing. What’s really wrong, Juliet?”
She glanced up in the mirror, meeting his gaze in the reflective glass. Juliet was surprised that she didn’t see any hatred or condemnation there, only concern. If she spoke, she was certain she would make that concern go away. Instead, she slipped past him, opening the box on her bed. There was a photo album on top, and Juliet was surprised that the Russian had taken it for her; but then, Dimitri knew her better than anyone. She set it to the side, and pulled her favourite, most comfortable jeans from the box, sliding her legs into them. Then she grabbed the first shirt she touched, tugging it on; her motions freezing when she caught sight of it in the mirror. It was one of Kay’s Vivienne Westwood shirts, and it still smelled of him. She sank to the bed, rummaging through the box. Her fingers found a bottle of bourbon, a picture of herself and her husband and dog, and at the very bottom, two small things that almost caused her to fall off the bed.
The car keys, and Kay’s wedding band.
“The ring was on the dresser…..I thought you’d want it.”
Juliet shrank down into the shirt, curling her legs up around herself. Her first instinct was to start necking the bottle of bourbon, but the knowledge of new life curled just under her navel stopped her. There was no way she’d run the risk of harming an unborn child, simply because she’d left his or her father. The part of her that had wanted to beg Kay back certainly did now. They’d been apart for two months, and it had felt like an eternity.
“Why do this now, Dimitri?”
Strong arms scooped her up, and she snuggled into Dimitri’s lap, hot tears pouring down her face. The Russian smoothed her hair away from her face, and sighed deeply.
“You miss him, and much as I regret this, you’re not the same without him. I don’t want you to go back, and I think you know why. But I want you to be happy, and I want the baby to be happy too.”
“How do you know about that?” Her hazel eyes were wide, stunned by just how much Dimitri had done to try making her feel better.
“Morning sickness.”
Juliet slid off of Dimitri’s lap, knowing that this situation wasn’t as simple as Dimitri was making it out to be.
“You still hate him.”
There was a long pause. “Yeah, I do. Even more so than before, actually. I’d hate for you to go back; I’ll set you up with some great guys who know how to treat a lady. Who’d rather go through hell than hurt a woman. But you’ll turn me down.” He took her soft snort as a yes, and continued. “I know you’ll want these things, whatever you decide. I’ll be here for you, whatever you want. I do love you, Juliet, in a protective and highly platonic manner.”
She caught the smirk on his features, and smiled for the first time in days.
“Does this mean you’ll go with me to my doctor’s appointments?”
“It means I’ll be pissed if you don’t let me.”
The red-headed beauty certainly didn’t look like a supermodel this morning, nor did she look like the world-class dancer and choreographer that she was. Her face was pale, and her eyes were tired. She’d been sick all night and into the morning, and she’d missed the gentle hands that usually held her hair back, the tired smile that would accompany her husband’s actions as he tucked her back into bed. She missed him, and it was hard to remember that she had been the one to walk out that door, not the other way around. She stood before the mirror, braiding her wet red hair, clad only in her panties and a bra. It took her so much time to get ready anymore, mostly because she didn’t want to. She could tell, now, that her visitor was in her living room. There was the sound of keys hitting the table- that rule out her father, for which she was grateful. She closed her eyes, and leaned against the dresser, wishing that she could just remain silent until whoever it was left.
She knew it was in vain, and she repressed a groan as there was a knock on her bedroom door.
“Jujubean?” The voice gave him away immediately. Only Dimitri spoke with such a thick, unfettered Russian accent. Juliet didn’t have the heart to turn him away; she’d have given her father the cold shoulder. Everytime he came around, he wanted to move her back to England, so that she could recover from her marriage in peace and be far away from Kayden. If he had his way, Kay would never see her again, no matter how many times Juliet informed him that this was all on her. Kay was the innocent party this time and Juliet had run away entirely on her own. Had Theo walked through the door, she would have screamed at him until he left, though that would have been hours in the making. Theo was used to her wrath, and he took it willingly. It was a release for her, and he understood it. But Dimitri….she couldn’t turn her best friend away. He knew her far too well, and he knew what would really be going through her head. Of all the men in her life, Dimitri hated Kay the most; he’d been the one she had run to on the worst night of her life.
“Go away, Dimi. I’m not dressed.” It was half-hearted, and the Russian knew it. The door opened, and Dimitri set a box down on her bed, before taking the braid from her hands and finishing it for her.
“You can’t hide in here forever.”
“I’m practically naked.”
“I’m gay, so stop fussing. What’s really wrong, Juliet?”
She glanced up in the mirror, meeting his gaze in the reflective glass. Juliet was surprised that she didn’t see any hatred or condemnation there, only concern. If she spoke, she was certain she would make that concern go away. Instead, she slipped past him, opening the box on her bed. There was a photo album on top, and Juliet was surprised that the Russian had taken it for her; but then, Dimitri knew her better than anyone. She set it to the side, and pulled her favourite, most comfortable jeans from the box, sliding her legs into them. Then she grabbed the first shirt she touched, tugging it on; her motions freezing when she caught sight of it in the mirror. It was one of Kay’s Vivienne Westwood shirts, and it still smelled of him. She sank to the bed, rummaging through the box. Her fingers found a bottle of bourbon, a picture of herself and her husband and dog, and at the very bottom, two small things that almost caused her to fall off the bed.
The car keys, and Kay’s wedding band.
“The ring was on the dresser…..I thought you’d want it.”
Juliet shrank down into the shirt, curling her legs up around herself. Her first instinct was to start necking the bottle of bourbon, but the knowledge of new life curled just under her navel stopped her. There was no way she’d run the risk of harming an unborn child, simply because she’d left his or her father. The part of her that had wanted to beg Kay back certainly did now. They’d been apart for two months, and it had felt like an eternity.
“Why do this now, Dimitri?”
Strong arms scooped her up, and she snuggled into Dimitri’s lap, hot tears pouring down her face. The Russian smoothed her hair away from her face, and sighed deeply.
“You miss him, and much as I regret this, you’re not the same without him. I don’t want you to go back, and I think you know why. But I want you to be happy, and I want the baby to be happy too.”
“How do you know about that?” Her hazel eyes were wide, stunned by just how much Dimitri had done to try making her feel better.
“Morning sickness.”
Juliet slid off of Dimitri’s lap, knowing that this situation wasn’t as simple as Dimitri was making it out to be.
“You still hate him.”
There was a long pause. “Yeah, I do. Even more so than before, actually. I’d hate for you to go back; I’ll set you up with some great guys who know how to treat a lady. Who’d rather go through hell than hurt a woman. But you’ll turn me down.” He took her soft snort as a yes, and continued. “I know you’ll want these things, whatever you decide. I’ll be here for you, whatever you want. I do love you, Juliet, in a protective and highly platonic manner.”
She caught the smirk on his features, and smiled for the first time in days.
“Does this mean you’ll go with me to my doctor’s appointments?”
“It means I’ll be pissed if you don’t let me.”
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Will I be scared? Teach me how to be strong...
The days that she went in for art supplies were always the worst days, she mused.
Going into the village always left her feeling anxious, and even though Kiyoshi had offered on several occasions to go and purchase the things that she needed, Siran had politely declined. She knew that she needed to force herself to be around people, or she knew that she would forget how. That self-knowledge never made the visits any easier. She always drew stares, though lately she’d noticed a bit more control over her pheromones than in the past. Still, people took notice when she walked by- women with a jealous gleam in their eyes, and men with a desirous one. She’d walked down the street with a mousy demeanour, not meeting anyone’s eyes. That had really been her mistake, she supposed, because that had been when she’d run into
Wednesday Sage.
The girl with the vivid pink hair and blossoming pregnancy was one who had always terrified the much quieter Siran. The younger woman had insisted on dragging her out to lunch, in her campaign to socialise her friend’s quiet friend. Indeed, Wednesday had done most of the chattering at the café, seemingly oblivious to the heightened anxiety and distress. Siran had been anything but oblivious, miserable about the fact that she was losing her battle to control her body’s natural response to her own silent terror. And then, there came to be one phrase that shattered any control that she might have had.
“Not to mention, Ewwie finally got into Sam’s pants. Took him long enough.”
The distress that swamped poor Siran’s mind was uncontrollable. It wasn’t that was jealous- of course, some small part of her was. She wanted to be the one sharing that intimacy with Sam. She wanted to be the one who would wake up, wander down to his garage, and greet him with a smile that said she enjoyed waking up with him every morning. She loved Sam, how could she not be slightly jealous of Ewan? Yet it was that very love that was causing the bulk of her distress. She wanted Sam to be happy, wanted to see him smile- even if she wasn’t the reason for such an expression. She’d been pursuing him quietly- against her better judgment. But what could gifts and letters do, in comparison to human contact? She wasn’t able to be in his presence to joke with him. She couldn’t give him a sneaky kiss, hold his hand, or come into his garage and perch on his bike. Siran couldn’t be positive that she would ever be able to do so. Her hands crept up to cover her ears, even as the oblivious Wednesday continued to chatter about how adorable boy love was. The distress was overwhelming. She could never compete with Ewan.
Without her permission or her intent, the men in the restaurant had all begun to stare at their table. They were outraged, some of them coming to rub her back reassuringly, to promise that all would be well. Even the pink-haired Sage had begun to notice the odd events that were taking place. That was when silverware began to fly. She’d managed to squeak the other girl’s name, before the pregnant one developed metal skin, helplessly watching dinnerware bounce off of her skin. It wasn’t long before Wednesday was physically tossed out of the restaurant. More distressed than ever, Siran had fled, trying to ignore the worried pleadings from the male patrons, calling that she needed to return. She hadn’t even remembered to grab her bag from under the table. No art supplies, after all.
It was now a few hours later, and Siran was still curled on her cottage’s floor, nursing on the half-consumed fifth of whiskey that had been placed between her bent legs, on the floor. All of the emotions were still swirling in her head, and she’d never felt more confused than she did right now. She wished she could blame it on the alcohol. How could she be grateful to Ewan, and yet hate him at the same time? It was ridiculous to think that Sam wouldn’t take on lovers. It was probably fairly normal, and just because she couldn’t didn’t mean that she should be so angry that someone else had. Yet it went deeper than anger, rooted beyond jealousy. The Armenian girl was terrified that she’d never be good enough, and having to compete with something tangible when she was not….it made it hard for her. Sam should choose Ewan. It would make sense, it would just hurt.
She didn’t want that to happen, though. She still stubbornly wanted to be the one to capture his heart at the end of the day- assuming that it was still up for grabs. But how? She couldn’t do more than she was right now, and she was just too tired to even continue her efforts. Maybe she would take a break. No contact for a week or so, just to pull herself back inside her skin. She had enough colouring books and hot dogs. There was no need to leave her cottage for any reason. There was no way she could let Sam know anything more about her distress than he already did. He’d feel guilty, and sad. She only wanted his happiness.
So Siran picked up the Disney colouring book, and opened it to the least romantic page available, and steadily began to colour the tricky pattern of Chip’s base.
Going into the village always left her feeling anxious, and even though Kiyoshi had offered on several occasions to go and purchase the things that she needed, Siran had politely declined. She knew that she needed to force herself to be around people, or she knew that she would forget how. That self-knowledge never made the visits any easier. She always drew stares, though lately she’d noticed a bit more control over her pheromones than in the past. Still, people took notice when she walked by- women with a jealous gleam in their eyes, and men with a desirous one. She’d walked down the street with a mousy demeanour, not meeting anyone’s eyes. That had really been her mistake, she supposed, because that had been when she’d run into
Wednesday Sage.
The girl with the vivid pink hair and blossoming pregnancy was one who had always terrified the much quieter Siran. The younger woman had insisted on dragging her out to lunch, in her campaign to socialise her friend’s quiet friend. Indeed, Wednesday had done most of the chattering at the café, seemingly oblivious to the heightened anxiety and distress. Siran had been anything but oblivious, miserable about the fact that she was losing her battle to control her body’s natural response to her own silent terror. And then, there came to be one phrase that shattered any control that she might have had.
“Not to mention, Ewwie finally got into Sam’s pants. Took him long enough.”
The distress that swamped poor Siran’s mind was uncontrollable. It wasn’t that was jealous- of course, some small part of her was. She wanted to be the one sharing that intimacy with Sam. She wanted to be the one who would wake up, wander down to his garage, and greet him with a smile that said she enjoyed waking up with him every morning. She loved Sam, how could she not be slightly jealous of Ewan? Yet it was that very love that was causing the bulk of her distress. She wanted Sam to be happy, wanted to see him smile- even if she wasn’t the reason for such an expression. She’d been pursuing him quietly- against her better judgment. But what could gifts and letters do, in comparison to human contact? She wasn’t able to be in his presence to joke with him. She couldn’t give him a sneaky kiss, hold his hand, or come into his garage and perch on his bike. Siran couldn’t be positive that she would ever be able to do so. Her hands crept up to cover her ears, even as the oblivious Wednesday continued to chatter about how adorable boy love was. The distress was overwhelming. She could never compete with Ewan.
Without her permission or her intent, the men in the restaurant had all begun to stare at their table. They were outraged, some of them coming to rub her back reassuringly, to promise that all would be well. Even the pink-haired Sage had begun to notice the odd events that were taking place. That was when silverware began to fly. She’d managed to squeak the other girl’s name, before the pregnant one developed metal skin, helplessly watching dinnerware bounce off of her skin. It wasn’t long before Wednesday was physically tossed out of the restaurant. More distressed than ever, Siran had fled, trying to ignore the worried pleadings from the male patrons, calling that she needed to return. She hadn’t even remembered to grab her bag from under the table. No art supplies, after all.
It was now a few hours later, and Siran was still curled on her cottage’s floor, nursing on the half-consumed fifth of whiskey that had been placed between her bent legs, on the floor. All of the emotions were still swirling in her head, and she’d never felt more confused than she did right now. She wished she could blame it on the alcohol. How could she be grateful to Ewan, and yet hate him at the same time? It was ridiculous to think that Sam wouldn’t take on lovers. It was probably fairly normal, and just because she couldn’t didn’t mean that she should be so angry that someone else had. Yet it went deeper than anger, rooted beyond jealousy. The Armenian girl was terrified that she’d never be good enough, and having to compete with something tangible when she was not….it made it hard for her. Sam should choose Ewan. It would make sense, it would just hurt.
She didn’t want that to happen, though. She still stubbornly wanted to be the one to capture his heart at the end of the day- assuming that it was still up for grabs. But how? She couldn’t do more than she was right now, and she was just too tired to even continue her efforts. Maybe she would take a break. No contact for a week or so, just to pull herself back inside her skin. She had enough colouring books and hot dogs. There was no need to leave her cottage for any reason. There was no way she could let Sam know anything more about her distress than he already did. He’d feel guilty, and sad. She only wanted his happiness.
So Siran picked up the Disney colouring book, and opened it to the least romantic page available, and steadily began to colour the tricky pattern of Chip’s base.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
When you walk away, I count the steps that you take.
New York used to be more vibrant; there used to be a sensation of overwhelming bliss when Lucy walked the streets of the city. Then again, there'd also been a swagger to her step that was missing these days. Her grandmother hadn't been pleased when a tired Lucy had appeared on her doorstep weary from a long flight and broken from her farewells. However, the wise old woman hadn't said much, and had let Lucy take her old bedroom for as long as she needed it. Lucy was grateful for that quiet acceptance of whatever had been done to make Lucy feel the need to return to New York. Yet New York didn't seem to hold all of the answers that the small girl had been hoping for, there was no trick that had made her whole again, nothing that had filled the emptiness she'd been experiencing for such a long, long time.
Her old Grandmother worried- almost more than she had before she sent Lucy away. At least when the girl had lived with her the first time, she'd had the confidence that she would walk out of any situation that her troublesome nature would expose her to. Now Lucy walked with a gait that wasn't boastful- which might have been a good thing, but no one was certain. The only things the child did were work on her correspondance classes, call her brother, and take long walks that kept her out at all hours. There wasn't anything that the older woman could do to keep Lucy in; someone had taught the child to pick locks, and once Lucy even took her door off of the hinges so that she could get out. In the face of such desparation and efficiency, Clary had no recourse but to let her child wander out on the streets, and pray that she was as tough now as she had been then.
In truth, Lucy was probably a fair bit tougher than she had been before she'd left. She was silent when she could manage it- though she was always able to falsify some cheeriness for Henrick's sake. She honestly just didn't care anymore- her mind was swirling with thoughts of a certain male, of the young woman he flirted with constantly and how much she had always wished that he could have turned this attention on her. She'd done everything she could think of to get over him, but her troublesome heart would have none of it. Not even, it seemed, transplanting herself elsewhere to get over him. The end result was a numb feeling that coated everything she did, every single action and every single thought. She wondered if the people she encountered would notice that about her- none of them had bothered her, or even really jostled her on her walks; given that most of them were in the evening, this suited her well. Occasionally she would instigate a fight. It was the only thrill that she could get her being to respond to anymore. She didn't even touch things.
Today was one of those days she was looking for a fight. It was pulsing in her veins, the desire to go to that place when the adrenaline made her feel alive. She wanted a tough fight, something that she wouldn't walk away from unscathed. She wanted the sensation of flesh slamming against flesh, wanted the pain to mingle with a triumphant feeling of ecstasy. She'd become something of a junkie for violence in the past couple of weeks, each fix getting progressively more and more violent. She wanted to find the perfect fight, and so she waited and waited. Her moment came sometime after two o'clock in the morning, when she encountered a drunken male man-handle his lady friend. All of his male friends laughed at the poor woman's expense when she was slung to the ground by her escort. Lucy knew that this was the one she'd been looking for. She took personal offense to any situation that could harm a lady.
Excluding herself, of course. Lucy had given up on anything remotely ladylike. Moving as quickly as she knew how, Lucy delivered a punch to the back of the brute's arm, just above the elbow joint which caused him to immediatly release the woman in his grasp. As the furious man and his crew closed in on Lucy, she made certain to put her back to the wall, a fierce smile on her lips- more teeth baring than anything friendly. It was a flurry of punching and kicking- most of it delivered from the trained young woman who fought in the center, keeping the wall at her back. She ducked one punch to her head, and slid a very painful jab across that assailant's ribcage. Another attacker had flanked her meanwhile, and got her squarely in the back. Lucy went down and rolled, scissoring her ankles around his as she did so, bringing him down and allowing his head to slam against the wall with a sickening crack. One attacker down. One of the others- the one she'd punched in the ribs fled the scene.
Lucy was already wheezing from the blow to her back, but she didn't give any indication of her discomfort. There were still two men waiting for their chance at her. One came armed with a piece of wood he'd found littering the alley to their right. Lucy dodged his first swing and caught the second painfully in her hands. The third took her full side, and she felt something rather painful pop. Then she wrenched the wood from his hands, and tossed it to the side. She had foolishly paid no attention to the other man, who had come up behind her, and come down hard on her collar bone with a bit of metal. That, too, cracked sickeningly, and Lucy felt dizziness overwhelming her. That right arm was out of commission, unless she needed to fight that much pain to continue. She moved warily away from the man holding the pipe, watching him cautiously. Then she rushed him, tripping him up with a side-blow to the knee, though she took a blow to her own thigh as he fell, and she crashed down on his back. With a grunt, she grabbed the back of his hair, and slammed his forehead into the ground. He went still.
Lucy didn't have time to ponder whether or not she'd killed this man, for she was hurled to her feet and then into a wall by her last-standing opponent. A low groan escaped her, but she rolled along the wall until she faced the man again. A knife was held in his hand, and it was descending on her from her left side. Locking a scream behind her teeth, Lucy flung her left hand up to catch his wrist, trying not to pass out and keep the knife away from her. She angled her body, and flung her right fist at his throat with all of the strength she had left. He grunted and staggered back. The girl opened her mouth to scream, but he smashed the back of his hand into her face, which slammed her head against the stone wall. As the world spun around her in a sick fashion, she slid down the wall and stayed on the ground, heedless of the man who stabbed her to be sure she stayed down, before collecting his weeping lady-friend, and walking away. He left two men down on the ground, and little Lucy bleeding to death as she feebly tried to put enough pressure on her side to keep from dying.
She realised, quite suddenly, that she had so much to live for.
Her old Grandmother worried- almost more than she had before she sent Lucy away. At least when the girl had lived with her the first time, she'd had the confidence that she would walk out of any situation that her troublesome nature would expose her to. Now Lucy walked with a gait that wasn't boastful- which might have been a good thing, but no one was certain. The only things the child did were work on her correspondance classes, call her brother, and take long walks that kept her out at all hours. There wasn't anything that the older woman could do to keep Lucy in; someone had taught the child to pick locks, and once Lucy even took her door off of the hinges so that she could get out. In the face of such desparation and efficiency, Clary had no recourse but to let her child wander out on the streets, and pray that she was as tough now as she had been then.
In truth, Lucy was probably a fair bit tougher than she had been before she'd left. She was silent when she could manage it- though she was always able to falsify some cheeriness for Henrick's sake. She honestly just didn't care anymore- her mind was swirling with thoughts of a certain male, of the young woman he flirted with constantly and how much she had always wished that he could have turned this attention on her. She'd done everything she could think of to get over him, but her troublesome heart would have none of it. Not even, it seemed, transplanting herself elsewhere to get over him. The end result was a numb feeling that coated everything she did, every single action and every single thought. She wondered if the people she encountered would notice that about her- none of them had bothered her, or even really jostled her on her walks; given that most of them were in the evening, this suited her well. Occasionally she would instigate a fight. It was the only thrill that she could get her being to respond to anymore. She didn't even touch things.
Today was one of those days she was looking for a fight. It was pulsing in her veins, the desire to go to that place when the adrenaline made her feel alive. She wanted a tough fight, something that she wouldn't walk away from unscathed. She wanted the sensation of flesh slamming against flesh, wanted the pain to mingle with a triumphant feeling of ecstasy. She'd become something of a junkie for violence in the past couple of weeks, each fix getting progressively more and more violent. She wanted to find the perfect fight, and so she waited and waited. Her moment came sometime after two o'clock in the morning, when she encountered a drunken male man-handle his lady friend. All of his male friends laughed at the poor woman's expense when she was slung to the ground by her escort. Lucy knew that this was the one she'd been looking for. She took personal offense to any situation that could harm a lady.
Excluding herself, of course. Lucy had given up on anything remotely ladylike. Moving as quickly as she knew how, Lucy delivered a punch to the back of the brute's arm, just above the elbow joint which caused him to immediatly release the woman in his grasp. As the furious man and his crew closed in on Lucy, she made certain to put her back to the wall, a fierce smile on her lips- more teeth baring than anything friendly. It was a flurry of punching and kicking- most of it delivered from the trained young woman who fought in the center, keeping the wall at her back. She ducked one punch to her head, and slid a very painful jab across that assailant's ribcage. Another attacker had flanked her meanwhile, and got her squarely in the back. Lucy went down and rolled, scissoring her ankles around his as she did so, bringing him down and allowing his head to slam against the wall with a sickening crack. One attacker down. One of the others- the one she'd punched in the ribs fled the scene.
Lucy was already wheezing from the blow to her back, but she didn't give any indication of her discomfort. There were still two men waiting for their chance at her. One came armed with a piece of wood he'd found littering the alley to their right. Lucy dodged his first swing and caught the second painfully in her hands. The third took her full side, and she felt something rather painful pop. Then she wrenched the wood from his hands, and tossed it to the side. She had foolishly paid no attention to the other man, who had come up behind her, and come down hard on her collar bone with a bit of metal. That, too, cracked sickeningly, and Lucy felt dizziness overwhelming her. That right arm was out of commission, unless she needed to fight that much pain to continue. She moved warily away from the man holding the pipe, watching him cautiously. Then she rushed him, tripping him up with a side-blow to the knee, though she took a blow to her own thigh as he fell, and she crashed down on his back. With a grunt, she grabbed the back of his hair, and slammed his forehead into the ground. He went still.
Lucy didn't have time to ponder whether or not she'd killed this man, for she was hurled to her feet and then into a wall by her last-standing opponent. A low groan escaped her, but she rolled along the wall until she faced the man again. A knife was held in his hand, and it was descending on her from her left side. Locking a scream behind her teeth, Lucy flung her left hand up to catch his wrist, trying not to pass out and keep the knife away from her. She angled her body, and flung her right fist at his throat with all of the strength she had left. He grunted and staggered back. The girl opened her mouth to scream, but he smashed the back of his hand into her face, which slammed her head against the stone wall. As the world spun around her in a sick fashion, she slid down the wall and stayed on the ground, heedless of the man who stabbed her to be sure she stayed down, before collecting his weeping lady-friend, and walking away. He left two men down on the ground, and little Lucy bleeding to death as she feebly tried to put enough pressure on her side to keep from dying.
She realised, quite suddenly, that she had so much to live for.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Secrets - part 2
Things had all happened in a whirlwind after Morgan had arrived; the ambulance had been called, as had Jonathan. Morgan had declined riding with Madeline, and instead had bundled Ainsley into a coat, leaving her feeling like a small child once again, and it was all she could do not to just cling to Morgan. Shock had set in, and the usually independent girl didn’t fuss when Morgan brought her out to the car and buckled her in. She couldn’t remember later what he said to her, but she knew that it was soothing, and that the sound of her Uncle’s voice slowly pulled her from that scary place her mind had retreated to. By the time they reached the hospital, she was aware of the presence of her father and older sister. Isobel hugged her sister, and Ainsley felt strange, with her sister’s pregnant stomach pressed against her. It felt sick that her mother was so frail and her sister so swollen. Reuben hadn’t been able to come with Isobel, and so Ainsley soon took charge of little Dawson, who didn’t understand what was happening; only that it was scary. But even still, Ainsley couldn’t feel anything. She was numb, and the weight of her nephew in her arms reminded her of holding her mother in a similar manner hours later. As soon as she could, she passed Dazzy on to Morgan and fled, pleading the excuse of the bathroom.
However, Ainsley didn’t stop at the bathroom, or even at the front door. Instead, she walked right outside, into the light drizzle that had begun to trickle from the sky. She wasn’t in the mood to be around people, wasn’t in the mood to deal with condolences. She walked as hard as her long legs would take her, striding away from the hospital, straight to the park that some generous government official had decided would be nice to have near the hospital. It was quiet, and it was soothing. Ainsley needed some peace, and she wasn’t sure how else to achieve it. By the time she reached the small fish pond in the centre of the park, the rain was a steady sheet that was pouring over her. She shivered in her hooded jacket, recalling how she always seemed to be drawn to water when upset- as she had when she’d first gone off to boarding school. Ainsley wasn’t certain just how long she’d been standing there, when abruptly the water ceased to fall on her. Ainsley jumped slightly, and craned her neck to see who had extended their umbrella over her.
Christian must have come straight from work, as he was wearing a nice button-up shirt underneath a wool coat. Ainsley just stared at her brother for a long minute before moving closer to him, and laying her head against his shoulder. She was grateful- not for the first time, that Christian had taken his height from his father, or this would have been harder to do. For a few minutes, the older brother said nothing to his sister, just letting her come as close to clinging to him as Ainsley ever did. When finally he spoke, Christian chose not to speak of the incident between his mother and baby sister; he knew that Ainsley would speak about it when she was ready. Talking now would only make it harder for her to process.
“Ains, you’re making it hard to eat my pretzel.” The girl made a small sound that would pass for a choked laugh, and pulled back so that he could eat his pretzel.
“Sorry, Chris.”
“No problem- want a bite?” He held the treat out, and let her take a small bite, and he smiled as he could begin to see the change. Her eyes were a bit livelier, and she was eating the first thing he knew of since their mother had collapsed. When her stomach gurgled, he held out the rest of the pretzel with a grin, and he watched her take the whole thing.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“A rather lucky guess, as it turns out.”
“Hmph.”
“One of the doctors was worried about you, and told Jon where you went.”
“So Dad sent you?”
“I chose to come.”
It took Ainsley a few moments to process that, as well as to eat the rest of the pretzel that Christian had picked up from a vendor on the way to check in on his sister.
“I’ve never seen Mom so weak.”
“I haven’t seen her yet.”
“I shouldn’t make you worry more.”
“I’m going to worry anyway, Jellybean; about you or Mom either one.”
“I was holding her, Chris. Holding her easier than it is to hold Dawson.” Her voice broke, and Christian pulled her close again. “Why didn’t they tell me? Why wouldn’t they just let me know she was sick? I-I don’t understand!”
Christian didn’t have any words of comfort; he didn’t understand either.
“I don’t know, Jellybean. But let’s get out of the rain. Don’t want you ending up in the bed next to Mom.” He shrugged out of his coat, wrapping it around Ainsley who was thoroughly soaked. Then he turned her back towards the hospital, his arm firmly wrapped around her waist.
However, Ainsley didn’t stop at the bathroom, or even at the front door. Instead, she walked right outside, into the light drizzle that had begun to trickle from the sky. She wasn’t in the mood to be around people, wasn’t in the mood to deal with condolences. She walked as hard as her long legs would take her, striding away from the hospital, straight to the park that some generous government official had decided would be nice to have near the hospital. It was quiet, and it was soothing. Ainsley needed some peace, and she wasn’t sure how else to achieve it. By the time she reached the small fish pond in the centre of the park, the rain was a steady sheet that was pouring over her. She shivered in her hooded jacket, recalling how she always seemed to be drawn to water when upset- as she had when she’d first gone off to boarding school. Ainsley wasn’t certain just how long she’d been standing there, when abruptly the water ceased to fall on her. Ainsley jumped slightly, and craned her neck to see who had extended their umbrella over her.
Christian must have come straight from work, as he was wearing a nice button-up shirt underneath a wool coat. Ainsley just stared at her brother for a long minute before moving closer to him, and laying her head against his shoulder. She was grateful- not for the first time, that Christian had taken his height from his father, or this would have been harder to do. For a few minutes, the older brother said nothing to his sister, just letting her come as close to clinging to him as Ainsley ever did. When finally he spoke, Christian chose not to speak of the incident between his mother and baby sister; he knew that Ainsley would speak about it when she was ready. Talking now would only make it harder for her to process.
“Ains, you’re making it hard to eat my pretzel.” The girl made a small sound that would pass for a choked laugh, and pulled back so that he could eat his pretzel.
“Sorry, Chris.”
“No problem- want a bite?” He held the treat out, and let her take a small bite, and he smiled as he could begin to see the change. Her eyes were a bit livelier, and she was eating the first thing he knew of since their mother had collapsed. When her stomach gurgled, he held out the rest of the pretzel with a grin, and he watched her take the whole thing.
“How did you know where to find me?”
“A rather lucky guess, as it turns out.”
“Hmph.”
“One of the doctors was worried about you, and told Jon where you went.”
“So Dad sent you?”
“I chose to come.”
It took Ainsley a few moments to process that, as well as to eat the rest of the pretzel that Christian had picked up from a vendor on the way to check in on his sister.
“I’ve never seen Mom so weak.”
“I haven’t seen her yet.”
“I shouldn’t make you worry more.”
“I’m going to worry anyway, Jellybean; about you or Mom either one.”
“I was holding her, Chris. Holding her easier than it is to hold Dawson.” Her voice broke, and Christian pulled her close again. “Why didn’t they tell me? Why wouldn’t they just let me know she was sick? I-I don’t understand!”
Christian didn’t have any words of comfort; he didn’t understand either.
“I don’t know, Jellybean. But let’s get out of the rain. Don’t want you ending up in the bed next to Mom.” He shrugged out of his coat, wrapping it around Ainsley who was thoroughly soaked. Then he turned her back towards the hospital, his arm firmly wrapped around her waist.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Secrets pt. 1
Ainsley wasn't used to the house being so quiet all the time. Jake had moved out several years ago when he went to college, leaving Ainsley alone with her parents. Her father wasn't nearly as quiet at home as he was in public, at least not usually, and his suddenly suspicious silence worried Ainsley to bits. Likewise, her mother had never been quiet in any situation and her constant exhaustion left the seventeen year old even more worried that Jonathan's silence. Even more frightening, was the way that both parents seemed to be blocking her out. Madeline always had a smile for her, but it was always tired, and distracted. Jonathan always answered her queries with a hug and a promise that everything would turn out. That answer did not satisfy the girl who didn't even know what was wrong to begin with. Even Uncle Morgan wasn't saying a word, though the fear in his blue eyes did nothing to reassure his god-daughter.
It didn't seem that Jake knew anything, either. Ainsley was racking up quite the bill on her cell-phone, with her late-night calls to her older brother. Neither one wanted to worry their older siblings. Isobel was pregnant again, and Christian was busy with the restaurant. Besides, Ainsley was afraid that they would go straight to their parents, and despite wanting to know, she didn't want to cause any more stress to them. So rather than linger in the terrified silence at home, the kind of silence that felt like the whole place was holding its breath, Ainsley was spending more and more time with her almost-boyfriend, Avery. She was certain that he was waiting until she turned eighteen to make anything official, but his door was always open to her, for which she was grateful. Ainsley knew she could tell him anything, and he was the one who had to listen constantly to the softly-spoken observations that her mother was losing weight, and that her skin was turning gray. She wasn't supposed to notice, she knew, but the day she was cleaning her parents' bathroom, and found rather long and thick clumps of her mother's hair in the shower, Ainsley began to snoop.
She spent hours in the library, poring over medical journals, trying to discover what the matter was with her mother. She took to rummaging through Madeline's desk, and even attempting to follow her mother the few times she went out. Still, Ainsley couldn't seem to figure out exactly what it was that was causing her mother to be so ill. It was killing Ainsley that she couldn't discover what was wrong with Madeline, but there wasn't much more she could do. Her parents were determined to keep their secrets.
One day, Ainsley was home alone with her mother. Jonathan had to be somewhere, and Morgan was meant to come, but was stuck in traffic. Between the two men's absences, Ainsley felt the unspoken need to watch out for her mother. She was in the kitchen, trying to prepare something that she felt her mother might be able to keep down. As she stirred her mother's favourite soup, she heard a clatter from the living room. Immediatly the girl turned the stove off, and rushed away to see what the matter with her mother was. The girl's mother lay sprawled on the floor, having fallen while retrieving a book from an end table. Ainsley knelt by her mother, carefully checking to make sure she was alright before lifting her helplessly into her arms. It was a pitiful sight, the daughter holding the mother in her arms. Ainsley had outgrown her mother years ago in stature, and her athletic build easily lifted her rather frail mother. Shock was overwhelming the poor girl, crying softly, and holding her mother. Should she call the emergency room? She wasn't even sure what had happened.
Madeline groaned, turning her face against her daughter's shoulder as Ainsley faced the front door, having heard the sound of keys rattling in the lock. The door swung open, to reveal a rather hassled-looking Morgan, who stopped cold, his gaze fixed on his god-daughter's tear-stained face.
"Why didn't anyone tell me, Uncle Morgan?"
It didn't seem that Jake knew anything, either. Ainsley was racking up quite the bill on her cell-phone, with her late-night calls to her older brother. Neither one wanted to worry their older siblings. Isobel was pregnant again, and Christian was busy with the restaurant. Besides, Ainsley was afraid that they would go straight to their parents, and despite wanting to know, she didn't want to cause any more stress to them. So rather than linger in the terrified silence at home, the kind of silence that felt like the whole place was holding its breath, Ainsley was spending more and more time with her almost-boyfriend, Avery. She was certain that he was waiting until she turned eighteen to make anything official, but his door was always open to her, for which she was grateful. Ainsley knew she could tell him anything, and he was the one who had to listen constantly to the softly-spoken observations that her mother was losing weight, and that her skin was turning gray. She wasn't supposed to notice, she knew, but the day she was cleaning her parents' bathroom, and found rather long and thick clumps of her mother's hair in the shower, Ainsley began to snoop.
She spent hours in the library, poring over medical journals, trying to discover what the matter was with her mother. She took to rummaging through Madeline's desk, and even attempting to follow her mother the few times she went out. Still, Ainsley couldn't seem to figure out exactly what it was that was causing her mother to be so ill. It was killing Ainsley that she couldn't discover what was wrong with Madeline, but there wasn't much more she could do. Her parents were determined to keep their secrets.
One day, Ainsley was home alone with her mother. Jonathan had to be somewhere, and Morgan was meant to come, but was stuck in traffic. Between the two men's absences, Ainsley felt the unspoken need to watch out for her mother. She was in the kitchen, trying to prepare something that she felt her mother might be able to keep down. As she stirred her mother's favourite soup, she heard a clatter from the living room. Immediatly the girl turned the stove off, and rushed away to see what the matter with her mother was. The girl's mother lay sprawled on the floor, having fallen while retrieving a book from an end table. Ainsley knelt by her mother, carefully checking to make sure she was alright before lifting her helplessly into her arms. It was a pitiful sight, the daughter holding the mother in her arms. Ainsley had outgrown her mother years ago in stature, and her athletic build easily lifted her rather frail mother. Shock was overwhelming the poor girl, crying softly, and holding her mother. Should she call the emergency room? She wasn't even sure what had happened.
Madeline groaned, turning her face against her daughter's shoulder as Ainsley faced the front door, having heard the sound of keys rattling in the lock. The door swung open, to reveal a rather hassled-looking Morgan, who stopped cold, his gaze fixed on his god-daughter's tear-stained face.
"Why didn't anyone tell me, Uncle Morgan?"
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