Have things gotten better since last time? Well that depends on your definition of better. Is Eva no longer stuck in a drug induced stupor coasting along on life until one day she realises her life is measured in 3 digits and nothing has ever come of it. Not even purpose. Not even creation or genitor of the next generation. Simple inertia and little else. A poor life indeed.
That much has been stolen back for the girl.
But Maslow is a harsh man and she certainly needs more to make it a life worth of… well being a life. So let us dive in and see where in the journey she is at. Maybe it's time to demonstrate a little of what our unhinged protagonist is capable of.
The Four Pines caravan park is quite possibly the comfiest and certainly cosiest place Eva has ever lived. Her memories prior to 6 are something of a blur. Which is sad. They would constitute more than half her life and the half where she wasn’t seeing things nobody else could. The best bits edited out and the dross left behind. Dross that tastes like acid, blood, salty tears and heartbreak. Yes, heartbreak has a flavour. It is very close to depression but with more tang, like a frisson of sorrow.
Check with the thing that tasted Eva whilst she was at the Hospital. It certainly enjoyed all the flavours.
Okay previous sentence comes across as somewhat ick. Tough. I’m leaving it there. Needs to be underscored what reality is like. Proper reality. Not the delusion the sane people all subscribe to.
Back on track. Apologies. Lousy week. Peer into one of the cosy little chalets built to one side of a caravan berth and you will see an industrious girl with multiple textbooks splashed out over a wide table. Stacks of exercise books ready to be filled. At this point in the day Eva is filling her head with knowledge. She’s good at that. Always has been. Should have seen her in her school spelling bee. First year in grade school. Talented. Articulate. Outgoing. It’s up on stage ready to accept her award that it all falls apart. Yup. Right in front of every parent and student in the school along with local news media and various stakeholders. If you want to destroy your life before it has ever begun that is quite possibly the perfect location.
Fast forward five years and Eva is still the model student. Christina might be the teacher but she grants no mercy to her daughter. Sink or swim. So piled high is Eva’s sole demonstration of output. What can she cram into her head this week? Well, the answer is the sort of knowledge that high schoolers break out in a sweat during finals. Feel the crunch? Those final exams to get into the college of your choice. Crystalise that into ink and scribe it upon pages. Then bind those pages and put them on Eva’s table.
Kid’s smart.
Luther is not quite a helicopter parent. More a hang glider catching thermals and swooping over his daughter every half hour or so. Would piss you off real fast. Lucky for Luther his firstborn is a very focussed student. When she is compressing knowledge into digestible formats, then going through the exercise books and filling them out methodically, reality is a distant distraction. Study. Now that is something. A pattern. Routine. Rote. It is the singular constant outside of Eva’s condition. She’s a one note person. When not being prodded, poked and probed it is learn and apply.
Another swoop. Hang glider at 4 o’clock. Check that the four walls and ceiling haven’t caved in. Just Eva, a cup of juice and pencils. Always pencils. She hates writing in pen. Feels too permanent. Doesn’t allow for correction of errors. When something is whispering in your ear or tugging at your arm it is hard to write neatly. The text book is closed. Exercise book completed. Mathematics. Double differentiations. Aced it.
Kid’s real smart.
“Do you want to take a break, Candesia?”
“I’m good.”
Total dismissal. Eva is in the zone. Distractions are to be politely brushed off. English. Use a book loaned from the library. To Kill a Mockingbird. Open the next text book. Open the next exercise book. Open your mind to more knowledge. Eva is voracious. More to see. More to do. For Luther this is actually a little scary. His little girl is normally exhausted by this time of morning. A midday nap should be looming. That’s been their routine for years. When your child is a one-stop pharmaceutical dispensary then no surprise. Now weaned off almost everything we get to see the verve and energy of Eva. Think about it. When you’re a medical zombie and still able to do so much, imagine the possibilities when not steeped in anti-psychotics with a tincture of anti-depressant. Think they could make a brand of tea like that? Decaf Heartbreak. Certainly would sell.
“Putting the kettle on.”
“Mmm.”
Take the hint, Dad. Luther fishes out cups. Yes. Plural. Starting to push his luck. Alright then. If he wants to butt in then don’t look so surprised several paragraphs down. Two tea bags. Not Heartbreak brand. Save that for tonight. Just plain old chamomile. Hang glider in a holding pattern. Kettle huffs and hisses. For all you tea afficionados he puts cold water in the cup first. Then the hot. Then the tea bag. Luther is cultured. Carries over the steaming cup to his daughter and puts it down in what little clear space there is.
“Maybe you should take a break.”
“I’m good.”
Luther sits down. Rests his cup on the table. Puts a hand on Eva’s shoulder. Firm enough to draw her out of the Zen realm of study.
“Take a break, Candesia.”
Deep breath. Inhale. Centre. Exhale. Where have I heard that before? Promise I’m not plagiarising. Raiden gave her approval. Eva is now Luther’s sole focus. Mania. Possibly. Actually, not at all. Not distracted. Not mind racing a million miles a minute. This is focus. Calm. Control. Eva knows what she wants and is going to get it.
A whisper.
“Thank you.”
Eva picks up the cup and cautiously sips at it. Doesn’t like her tea scalding. Tongue still sensitive at that age. Inhales the steam. Smiles. Very small. Enjoys the sensation. Odd little actions like these. Stark to Luther. This isn’t the daughter he has known. Innumerable tiny ways she feels different. If your child wasn’t your whole world for five years then you wouldn’t notice it. Alarm bells to the parent. But Schwarzschild is monitoring closely. Almost time to go for daily blood work and other tests. A week of this and no change. No seizures. No obvious reactions to illusionary stimuli. For one week Eva has been a normal 11-year-old girl.
As normal as any girl studying English with a foreign language book as the reference.
Okay. Back up. Quickly. There’s something Luther missed. Christina too. Can’t blame them. Been so keyed up over the last week. It was a happy family outing to Library after medical discharge. It was pointed out that the collection of texts at Miskatonic Library was unusual. Old copies. Originals. Foreign languages interspersed. They organised a library card and she approached the circulation desk with five books. That’s a win. Probably should have checked the books. And don’t look at me. I didn’t say what languages those texts were in. Unreliable narrator is intentionally unreliable.
So here is Luther sipping his chamomile tea. Yup. That one that’s meant to help calm the nerves. Heh. Sipping his tea and actually looking at the book Eva has chosen for her English homework. Luther slowly reaches out and picks up the novel. It has the silhouette of a bird on the front. Title in a language he cannot read. Seems vaguely familiar.
“What is this?” Luther asks cautiously.
Tea. Sips. Little else. Eva is in another world.
“Eva?”
Another sip.
“Eva.”
Startle. Wide eyed. Reality back in focus.
“ごめんなさいお父さん”
Book slips out of fingers. Fortunately, a desk awaits. Not much noise. Set aside the cup of tea, Luther. Time for that punch you’ve been waiting all week for. He takes the hint. Stands up and moves to look over his daughter’s back. The English exercise book. Lying open. All the questions are in English. Very generic. Allow the student to use whatever novel they like. Up to the teacher or tutor to judge answers against source material. Small catch. All the answers are not in English. Not baby scribbles either. Eva stopped writing in weird wiggles years ago. Strange scrawls made on paper that were uncomfortable to look out. Luther took all the doodles, threw them in the firepit one night. Seemed the right thing to do. Just something made up by a child’s imagination.
Right.
RIGHT?
This is clearly a cohesive language. Luther recognises the consistency of form and structure. Regular application of symbols. Not a child’s random scribbles.
“What is this?” Luther asks in a low voice.
“My homework.”
Timid. Quiet. Eva hasn’t been like this all week. Parental intimidation, even incidental, is not something easily overcome. Plenty of imprinting from a young age. Beware the entity that provides for your existence. Heavy is their wrath. Unquestioning thou shalt be.
Until the answers lie beyond the gates of sanity.
“What does this say?”
One dark finger pointing at a particular paragraph. Or Luther assumes it is a paragraph.
“Atticus represents a man shaped by his convictions, but not blind to the consequences of them. He understands that not all other men see the world as he does. But as a man of principle, a man of law, he believes it is hypocritical to treat anyone different. This could be seen as an extension of the idea of ‘all men are equal before the law’ or—”
“Thank you, Eva. I’ve heard enough.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“I think I’ll speak to your mother. Can I take this book and the novel?”
“Sure.”
“Just enjoy your tea. I will be back.”
Very subtle parenting right there. That won’t leave your child worrying over just what could be wrong. They’re little empathy sponges. Don’t try to obfuscate. It only leaves them more anxious. So there is Eva in the morning sun stewing on what she could have done wrong. Long shadows are cast in the daylight. A lonely girl at a table. A cup of hot tea. A lonely expression.
Door creak. Both parents now. Christina looking incredulous. Eyes flicking between the books held in either hand. She sits to one side of Eva. Luther the other. They knew it wouldn’t take long for the backsliding. This however was not quite what they expected.
“Eva,” Christina starts, “Do you know what this is?”
“My. Homework.”
Timid before. Now microscopic. You’ll need a shotgun microphone to pick out the words. Read the mood everyone.
Christina lays out both books. Unlike Luther she knows a little of what is going on. Perks of being a retired teacher.
“This is the book you loaned out from the library, yes?”
“Yes. Mom.”
“Have you read it yet?”
“Yes. Mom.”
Lean forward. Cup your daughters chin in one hand. Lift her head up so you can gaze in those eyes. They hold nothing but fear. Conditioned response. Frightened tawny eyes stare back. Innocent. Honest. No lies.
“And now you are completing your English homework?”
“Yes.”
We’ll need Daredevil to hear that tiny squeak.
Teacher on a path of discovery. What is going on. Check the rest piled up. Eva has been busy. A whole morning dedicated to knowledge. Economics. History. Geography. Mathematics.
Oh God drop that book!
There are things written in there that have Christina yelping. Chair squeaks as she backs up. Luthor catches his wife’s arm before she falls. Curiosity gets the better of him. Who doesn’t want to crouch down and inspect the thing that scared your normally cool-headed wife? Everybody let us guess how well this goes. There are numerals where there should be. Calculus, algebra, double differentiation. All the maths that is expected of a 17-year-old. It’s just the extras. The annotations next to parabolas or sin-waves. Numbers and formulas in the margins around graphs. A sticky note filled with complex numerical sequences that leave Luther wanting to rediscover what he ate for breakfast. Non-Euclidean geometry at it’s finest.
Oh god drop that book a second time!
Eva hops off her chair and dashes to her father. Doesn’t know any better. Only that both parents are suddenly shouting in fear. Clamp onto a leg. Fear is infectious. Wonder what is wrong. In the broad morning sun a family are gripped with fear. One of miscommunication and mistrust.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
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Eva watches the needle push through her flesh and into the vein. Do any of you give regular blood samples? Or donate blood? If it’s the later you are a champion. Please keep doing that! Just make sure it’s red blood you’re donating. The white kind isn’t in high demand. Back on track. Eva is watching the needle pierce flesh. Morbid curiosity. She’s become the connoisseur of phlebotomy. The nurse gets a 6 / 10. Accurate puncture point. But too quick with the needle. Poor angle. Stings pretty bad. Pain tolerance for this girl is… unusual. And for a girl that waves at ‘usual’ when they float past each other on a sea at storm, that should say something. Great thing to do for a midday laugh. Take off your shoes, sit in a hospital bed and have someone take multiple vials of blood.
Want to guess the colour of blood that flows up the needle? Should you ask the nurse or Eva? You will get different answers. Eva bits her lip nervously. Now she’s uncomfortable. Just don’t say anything. People won’t notice how hard you bite your lip. The white blood that oozes between worried teeth.
Latest samples withdrawn. Put pressure here. Hold this. Cotton swap. Medical sticker to seal the hole. Hopefully nothing else leaks. Eva is left on the sterile white bed in the cold room. Her arm itches. The pain isn’t fading. Quick glance down. The sticker has fallen off. Pale blood is oozing everywhere. Eva thinks quick. Clamps a hand down. Pressure is too much. The sticky substance pushes through the gaps between palm and forearm. Oozes between fingers and starts pooling at the elbow.
A wet, sloppy noise from beneath the bed. Wheezing. Lapping. Hungry. Now the blood is dripping everywhere. The bed shudders. Shakes. Nearly knocks Eva off. She leans over the railing. Something is twisting and coiling beneath. In a doctor’s lab coat. Mostly human. The rest hands. Shadows in eye-twisting places. The bed rocks again. Blood. Droplets. A faint rain upon the lino floor. That gets some attention. Shoes are knocked skittering across the floor.
“Eva.”
Wide eyes go back to the door. Dr Schwarzschild in doctor’s coat. Warm smile. Genuine. Not manufactured.
“Was Harry a bit rough with the needle?”
Hand still clamped hard on forearm. The doctor walks over and slowly stretches a hand out. Body language. Careful approach. Approval. May I enter your personal space? You are the one in the control. Eva let’s her wrist be grasped. Her hand is very slowly, very gently peeled away from the forearm. She’s gripped it so hard a bruise is forming.
“If it stings you should speak up. I’ll speak to Harry if you like.”
Shake of the head. Let the arm rest against her chest. Cradle it. Oh, context. Eva is at the Hospital for her daily check-up. Fresh blood work. No EEG. Not after last time. Various cognitive tests. One-on-one time between doctor and patient. The first day Eva was taken to the private room she had originally woken up in. Her eyes hadn’t left the corner of the room. Getting answers had proved… difficult. The doctor took Eva on a tour of the various hospital rooms. No parents. She was firm on that. Holding the girl’s hand, the pair went on a tour of the house of horrors. Room after room was rejected. Until this one. So for the last six days Eva has been seen in this private room. Generally relaxed. More alert and coherent. Focus on here and now.
The panic in Eva’s eyes that Ruth (that’s Schwarzschild’s first name if you’ve forgotten) cannot miss. A look of guilt. It’s time to throw gasoline on the embers. No choice mind you. This is something that needs to be tackled.
“Your parents are a little concerned.”
Understatement, doc. Don’t hedge. Get in there.
Dr Schwarzschild pulled a chair over and sat down.
“I’ll ask some questions. Can you answer them as honestly as possible? These aren’t questions your parents have proposed. These stay between you and me. I want to understand. And I want to understand by speaking to you. Not at you.”
She really is a keeper.
Ruth placed an exercise book on the bed and flicked it to a random page.
“You are a smart young lady. Which is why I’m surprised there are so many spelling and grammatical errors”
A finger tapped on several lines.
“Are you having trouble concentrating?”
Eva shook her head. Truth. Elder Gods honest.
“I thought I was doing well,” she whispered.
Ruth reaches out. Again, very careful. Approval. Personal space. This girl is very conscious of everything around her. Of anything touching her. Tawny eyes on hands hovering above the bed railing. Something catches the doctor’s eye. Attention elsewhere. She’s up and strolling to the opposite wall. Picks up the purple sneakers. Walks back over. Places them on the edge of the bed.
“You don’t like these, do you?”
De. Ja. Vu.
Honest answer this time. A shake of her head.
“A bit too colourful for me too. But please don’t throw them across the room either. Anyway, about your homework. It’s not like you to be so sloppy. I know how smart you are. The past week has demonstrated that.”
Eva isn’t sure what to do with the praise. Or the concern. She just looks at the needle arm and sighs.
“I was a little distracted. Sorry. Is it serious?”
“Your parents seem to think so. What about you?”
The lips are getting nibbled again. What colour blood? Hmmm.
“I think… I… well…”
“They worry too much.”
No audible agreement. Just a micron nod of the head.
Ruth smiles. Nods in agreement.
“So how about we allay their fears. Besides, I always loved To Kill a Mockingbird. If you ever have the opportunity, watch the film. It is a beautiful interpretation.”
Talk of books. That will ease any fears. Eva licks her lips and sits a little forward. Dr Schwarzschild goes through the various spelling and grammatical mistakes Eva has made. Compliments her on the small insights she has made. It is a pleasant hour of the afternoon. Eva gets to have a mature conversation with someone. And the good doctor can gauge her patient’s mental state.
She is distracted once. The bed shifts slightly. The wheel locks aren’t in place properly. Quick break to crouch down and check. Don’t want the bed rolling off. Sniff the air. Tang of blood. Maybe the cleaners need to be more thorough with their mopping. Not something Ruth likes. Cleanliness matters. Back in her seat presents another worrisome thing. Eva’s expression. She is looking just at the doctor and nothing else. The conversation continues.
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The door closes. Both books under one arm. Dr Schwarzschild is all business.
“Harry. I want you to stay with Eva. Don’t strike up conversation with her. Just do some paperwork. And watch the underside of the bed.”
“The… uh underside?”
“Just do it, Harry.”
“Yessm.”
Long strides. Hair streaming behind. Office. Two worried parents. A desk pilled with psychology texts. And language dictionaries from ten years ago. Dr Schwarzschild closes the door behind her. Drops books on desk. Plants herself in a leatherback seat and steeples fingers.
“Your daughter's grasp of Japanese is remarkable for her age. I’m glad I had my old study guides tucked away. I’d always thought they might be useful if any tourists ended up in hospital. A self-serving justification.”
Luther sighed and pressed fingers to temple.
“We’ve never taught her Japanese. She has never studied it.”
“Just a little Spanish,” Christina adds.
So about the nuclear weapons on the desk. The good doctor fingers one open. Goes through the pages. Neat, cursive writing. Hiragana. Katakana. Kanji. Half the answers Eva gave the doctor when they spoke earlier were in decently fluent spoken Japanese. Nothing to suggest she was even aware of it. Complete engagement with other individual in conversation. No ideation or distraction. No ticks or distorted observations. Just a normal eleven-year-old discussing her homework.
“I have no answer,” Dr Schwarzschild admits.
Well shit doc, nobody would. This goes beyond the realm of odd and straight into batshit crazy country. No logic in this place. You’ll need a Silver Key to get any proper insight. And those aren’t found in cereal boxes.
Married couple grip each other’s hands. Share a mutual look. The same look expressed many times over the last five years. Time to do what they always do. Act on Eva’s behalf, medicate her further and ignore the simple truth.
What truth? Easy. Sometimes there just isn’t an answer. And that is perfectly okay.
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Eva finished the shepherd’s pie and sat back. She wasn’t putting weight on anytime soon. But her pallor was the best it had been in years. No longer a mini-Machinist. There’s a horror image for you. Little light in her eyes too. A family of three at the dinner table. Freshly baked by Christina. Getting a little bitter. Enough time to learn the oven and get a feel for the local ingredients. Luther looks distracted. Chalk it up to the latest job he is working on. At least Eva does.
“May I be excused?”
A little more timbre in that voice. Not assertive. Oh no. That takes time. And… yeah, we’ll get to that. Don’t shoot the narrator. I didn’t write this. She is sounding at least a smidgen more confident.
“Going to read?” Luther asks.
“Frankenstein.”
Well isn’t that a cheery tale. Eva picks up the book. Double-check. Yes this is in English. Homework still hasn’t been returned. Maybe Eva will realise what is going on. Maybe she won’t. The best thing her parents can do is muddy the waters. Parents more stressed than usual. This one they cannot control. Completely missed by Eva. Oh boy this can only end well. Once in her own room Eva tosses the book onto her bed and starts exploring every nook and cranny. Hungry. That is the expression. Nothing for the past week. Not a peep. Not a whisper. Not a lidless eye. Withdrawal. What has happened to those not-yellow eyes?
“Shogo?”
Tiniest of whispers. No illusions. No delusions. Parents likely with ears pressed against the door.
“Shogo?”
Plaintive. Needy. Sad. A little broken. Not a great day. So much stress. So many questions. So little answers. A child left in the dark. Not the sort of dark she finds comforting. A cold dark. Analytical. Preying. Looking for something. Well, if she’s going to be alone then alone she will be. Eva checks the wardrobe for pyjamas. Bright purple. Not her favourite. Far from it. But they will do. At least she has the camisole. Layer of protection. Memory to ward against the things that stalk her.
Out the room at a good march. Christina is already in the bathroom. Sigh. Delayed. No reading just yet. Lose yourself and not realise it’s 11pm. Besides with the drugs the brain clocks out in 15 minutes. Maybe another night. Check the evening regime. New ones. Unfamiliar shape. No box. No labels to compare against previous prescriptions. That’s new. They’ve never hidden this before. A glance up at Luther where he is washing the dishes.
“Is this everything?”
Polite. Entreating. An out. Let Dad explain what is going on. Pff. Yeah right.
“Yes. Your mother should be finished soon. Just take them now, please.”
Eva knows her parents. Know what stress looks like. Neither self-medicate fortunately. This is virgin territory. Crazy uno reverse territory. Luther sounds like the unstable one.
“Please.”
No need to reinforce. Eva takes the tablets. Feel sour as they go down. Poison to break the nerves. Shatter the pins that hold the thin skein of reality in place. Or is that skin? Unpleasant metaphor.
“Can I go outside to get some fresh air?”
“Keep the door open and don’t leave the porch.”
Yup we are in alarm bell territory. Luther never lets Eva out of his sight unless she’s in a confined, controlled space. Eva doesn’t like this. Glances around. Nothing in the corners of the chalet. Not under the table. And the thing squeezed in the tiny gap between refrigerator and alcove wall hasn’t moved in days. It just likes to watch everyone and snatch up crumbs that fall whenever food is removed from the fridge. Mostly harmless and hungry. It’s fun to count how many eyes it has. Keeps changing every day.
“I’ll… be outside.”
Quick feet. Out into the night. Porch light illuminates RV and chalet. Moths buzz around harmlessly. Yellow light washes out colour. It is pleasant. Cool. Fresh air after a day of study and hospital tests. Whatever is going on inside is uncomfortable. Eva cannot take the atmosphere. Oppression. Fear. Parents haven’t been this scared since she was 7. Early days of drug induced catatonia broken up by bouts of terror and screaming. Bloody saliva. Larynx worn so hard. More drugs. More sedatives. Help ignore the rain of hungry shadows with wriggling eel mouths that come with the storms. Splatter against the RV windscreen before wipers send them squeaking away.
More screams. Those were the days. Such a vocal range.
Now Eva has more pluck. Actually, only in the last week has she found any. A pluck. Inchworm thing craws up onto the concrete. Hand with too many fingers dragging itself along. Eva watches it approach. Narrows eyes. Stomps on it. Hiss and pop. Reduced to shadows that crawl back to where they belong.
Now it’s too much. Trickle of something new. Barest thread down the back. Still molten fire but measured in Planck lengths.
Anger.
“Where are you?” Eva pleads.
Fingers tug at the hem of the camisole beneath the animal print t-shirt she wears. Not since the Library. Faint inclinations. Sensations. And recently a feeling of being watched. Nothing else. Not enough. Not nearly enough. Junkie needing that fix. Validation that it is real. Or at least a little real. Real enough. A thread to hold onto.
“嘘つき”
Fire turns to ice. Fingers go up to lips. Alien. Unfamiliar. Foreign. And completely understood. World turns sideways. Down to your knees you go. Eva panting. Skin is slick. Sweat. Maybe something else. Vision blurs. Nose drips. Sudden onset flu. Something in the lungs too. A hacking cough. Blood in her hands. Pale white flecks.
…
Whimper. Vision now right side up. Words percolate inside. Not all in English. Not all in Japanese. There should be a headache, right? That’s the cliché. Clutch your head in pain. Shudder as the psychic onslaught continues. Deluge of information. Barely hold on. Tetsuo!
None of that. Just gritted teeth as the sloppy scraps of foreign knowledge hit the wet mental kitchen floor. Mop that up later. Might want to use some brain bleach too. Images in there nobody wants to recall.
Lights flicker. Moths are gone. Eaten. Powder from their wings falls from the gutters. Whatever is hiding up there was hungry. Hungry like the shadows. Hungry like the crunch of shoes on gravel. Time to rearrange thoughts. Think in English. Easier for the reader. Eva on hands and knees. Looking up at hunger in a doctor’s coat.
This is new. Bad new. Run to Dad new. They don’t follow her. They haunt her. They mouthlessly scream. They jump scare. They lurk. They taunt. They don’t chase. They don’t pursue. They with too many sleeves and too many hands crammed into tight pockets. They with missing head and only darkness within the tall collar of the coat. They with their mortician pallor skin and anaemic coat. They that make not a sound but the crunching of polished shoes splattered in blood on gravel.
“Help.”
It’s a whimper. Tiny. Tinny. The barest gasp. They block the path to the open front door. What’s beyond hyperventilating? Super Saiyan ventilating? Eva gets up and tries to stare it down. Feet now on concrete, sand crunching beneath polished shoes splattered with blood.
“Help.”
Scrabble backward. Back away from the door. They between Eva and the door. Between safety. Put a wooden porch pillar between you and whatever it is. Withdraw carefully. Another pillar. Then another. It approaches at the same pace. Forcing Eva away from family.
“Help.”
A little louder now. Maybe enough. Awareness. Blooming. Something approaches. Fast. Fast as a nightmare.
Heavy footfalls. A face of fury. Luther in the doorframe. Pistol in hand. Understanding not necessary. Something is threatening his daughter. Let his rational mind process the details later. Just be the caveman and protecc.
“Help me, Daddy.”
“This way,” he growls.
Eva withdraws to him. Now it is just the thing at the far end of the porch. Take careful aim.
“Whoever you are. Fuck off. Now.”
It stands stock still. Quivering. Shocked. A step back. Sand on shoe. Crunch. Pistol gripped in both hands. Luther is anger. Fury. Something threatened his daughter. His little Candesia.
“Run,” he warns.
It doesn’t move. Indecision. Longing. If you could attribute that to some stranger in a coat. Luther let one stalker get away. In the same week. He won’t hesitate again. The stranger. A step forward.
There isn’t the sound of a gunshot. You would think that noise wipes all else out. It’s actually silence. Profound silence. A silence of footsteps running from the bathroom. Then screams. Christina rushing over. Putting pressure on the wound. Shouts for help. A neighbour opens a door. Shocking tableau. Rushes for the phone. 911. Just Luther standing stock still.
“You made a mess this time.”
A woman beside Luther. Flanking. Parallel. Features mostly obscured by her cloak. Blonde hair peeking out the bottom of the hood. Glasses on her nose. He cannot see the eyes. But he can feel them on the gun.
“Slowly put the safety on.”
Obeys.
“Now lower the gun slowly to the ground. Let go. Slowly stand up.”
Obeys.
Luther cannot move. Whatever arrests him. It will not let go.
“You shot her.”
Luther cannot move until the ambulance and police sirens. Just the smell of iron. The tang of gun smoke. The whimpers of his dying daughter.