2020-08-06 - Open Vignette - That was a freebie.

Never again.

Eleven years ago, peeling himself off the floor of a hotel bathroom in the Windy City on a September morning, Patrick Addington swore to himself that he would never do this again. The mirrored pain of that last glimpse had hit him like a ton of bricks, and he wallowed in it, guzzled it, wrapped himself in it like a tangible thing.

Sick, hurt, heartbroken, he would never do it again. Not to anyone else. There was no value to it anymore. He didn't care anymore, was done with caring, so why would he bother to look?

But there are no meetings for this kind of addict, no sponsors when the urge hits, no sobriety chips. He made it almost nine days before he would just take a peek, just a glancing test of the emotional waters. And it was so easy to lean on them from there, to warm those waters.

Never again. Nine days. At least they started with the same letter? Ultimately, whether it was alcohol or emotional manipulation, Patrick Addington was always going to be addicted to something.

Graham had never fucked that chick. Oh, he thought about it. Mac would hate him for it, and that thought warmed his heart in a seriously fucked up way.

The guy was a serious asshole, though. So Graham closed the car door, peered through the window for just a second at Elise's pale face - "I'll see you tomorrow," Mac had said to her, and Graham had seen red for a second. Elise was his touchstone, his safety net, his best friend, his beloved, and you know what?

Fuck this asshole.

"I fucked your daughter without a condom."

Because some people always make the wrong choice.

He could have said, Yes.

One word, and Ravn Abildgaard's life would have turned out differently. He would still have been in Denmark, for one. Married, presumably. Probably have had at least one kid now, perhaps another on the way. Kids with many names. Kids who would go to private schools where there would be no risk of them getting into contact with life until they were ready to emerge as good little conservative voters. She had talked about rebuilding. Modernising. Turn the old wing into a modern wellness centre. That's where the money is, Ravn. Wellness and conferences and rich Asian tourists coming to the Old World to get a taste of that special something so they can go home and brag about how cultured they are. Look, here's a picture of The Little Mermaid.

One word, and he would have been comfortable. Secure. Tenure at Copenhagen University, write a few books that no one would read except for the students attending his classes, golf on Sundays. Maybe buy a winery near the Château de Caïx in Cahors. She would have loved that. She would have loved spending literal weeks in Paris, picking out dresses and jewellery in the hope of getting noticed.

One word, and she might not have stormed off, furious with him. Lazy, she called him. No ambition. No drive. You could be somebody.

I'm already somebody, he had replied. I'm me.

And she'd slammed the car door behind herself and put the pedal to the metal and he had wondered how long she would drive around making the country roads unsafe as hell before she cooled off and came back and they could talk this through like rational people. Wondered if he'd be able to make her understand that he did not want to go into her father's business. Did not want to cater to the old man's snobbery by lending his name to it. Names aren't important. If she had had one, an old family name, she would have known that as he does.

The call from the polite and sympathetic policeman a bit after three am put an end to his ruminations.

One word, and she might not have rammed that tree. Might not have turned herself into so much marmalade on the broken windshield. Might not be remembered now as a stain on the asphalt of a small country road -- up there, by the old oak, that's where the girl from Copenhagen died. They had to cut her out of the car.

One word, and he would never have bought a ticket to the first destination that came up on the airport website. Would never have packed a few shirts and his violin, wandered off with just a note to the manager to look after things for a while, an email to the University to not expect him around for a month or two. He would not have hitch-hiked and walked his way down through Europe until he eventually ran out of solid land and put in the paperwork for a tourist visa to the US. He would not have ended up in the passenger seat of a truck, nor tossed out of it by an angry Trump voting driver somewhere between Seattle and Portland.

One word would have made all the difference. He still doesn't know if he would have been happy. But she would have been alive, and hence, he made the wrong choice.

"C'mon babe, just fer a wag.. few mins, tops. Just a puff."

That was the last tangible sentence from 'that fella' that Ainslie, coltish and fierce at eighteen, had heard during a house party. It started off fun enough; everyone was having a few drinks, already 'best friends' with one another. Small town; they all knew one another. Edie was having herself a shaker of a party in the family home while the parents were away and the place was packed to the nuts with graduating class of 2009... and then some. There were some under-aged twerps in the mix of it all, bumming drinks and dope.

Oh, if only Ainslie could have told 'that fella' to sod off, take himself to the shed to have a smoke and a feel with some other girl. Eleven years ago when she was eighteen, graduating high school, if she could have just gone to the kitchen instead and had a laugh with Edie. Then she wouldn't have gone to the shed. She wouldn't have broken 'that fella's' back when that mad force within her launched a tool cabinet at him.

She could have had a drink with Edie, maybe a bit too much, and puked and shit her guts out like any other hungover teenager 'the next day'. Ainslie will have learned her lesson quick, finished college, left The Rock and made a go of it in Toronto. That iron will of hers, Ainslie would have Made It. Back then she had the heart and mind of a businesswoman.

But 'lo and behold, Ainslie said yes. She went to the shed. Toronto ended up being just another stop along the line, on her way to a trailer park in Gray Harbor. The 11 years would have been so very different if she just said 'no'.

Too bad some people make wrong decisions so much that they end up having two regrets. Two. The drunk driving incident that ended up hurting a friend and was covered up by family money so she didn't even get a scolding for it. Not by the law anyway. Erin had to see that look in her grandmothers eyes for over a year until the next family member made the next mistake.

That look was back though. And it was intensified.

The biggest regret or wrong decision was killing her Uncle Thomas.

Oh sure, it could be twisted any way, but she'd been the one to sever the ties that bound her Uncle to William Gohl. She'd gone inside and cut them all, thinking she was liberating her Uncle from the killings.
In the end it had killed him. Never would she have expected that.

The guilt was real and she lived with it every day. Even backing off from her family, who.. face it.. most were doing their own thing anyway, but she'd been disinherited by the one parental figure she'd had left. Her grandmother.

Now she was left with no one in a town full of family.

The funerals. First, that of her aunt, then others before her mother and father less than a year before, killed in that accident. All of it seemed so pivotal to Uncle Thomas, William Gohl and the possession.

Then the funeral of William Gohl himself. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She had attended. She had done everything she could to follow the rules, to stay between the lines and it was all wrong. All so wrong.

Everyone else had moved on from it. Erin hadn't. Everything she ever was she had lost. Every anchor she ever had was severed like the ties that bound Gohl to Thomas.

One bad decision changed Eleanor's life, and put her on a very different path from the norm. The decision to disobey her parents at the age of 12, when she and her best friend Addie were playing in the basement. If they'd not gone exploring the room with the former tenant's things in it, life would have been different. Choosing to go outside and roller skate, would have changed everything.

She would not have had pure terror be her introduction to the Veil and Glimmer. Addie would not have died at the age of thirteen. Eleanor would not have become a paranoid, reclusive woman obsessed with unnatural things. She would not have any of the knowledge of the Art or its lore to help her when things turned bad. She would not be Eleanor Lake.

On the contrary, it would be her daughter who lived that life.

Eleanor instead, would have been popular and sociable in school and determined to go on to better her town. She'd have gone to college in Seattle, gotten a Master's Degree in Political Science, and met the man she would marry, David, an art student. They would move back to Gray Harbor, where they would wed. A year later she was elected Mayor, and two years after that, they had Ruth, their daughter, named after RBG.

It was Ruth, alone, who went into the basement at her grandparent's house while they were there for Christmas Day when the girl was eight years old. It was Ruth who was pulled into the mirror, Ruth who had the ichor bled into her by Modr in his dead forest. Ruth who fled from him and returned to her own world, and Ruth who would die a year later from cancer.

A year later, Eleanor and David would divorce, unable to rebuild their shattered lives. Eleanor would continue as mayor, and later a city council member, when she would go for a drink and a meal at Two if By Sea, and meet a man, a man she would later recognize as one she'd seen in a dream when she was a teenager. The boy she knew as AJ, was now the man she would know as August, and in spite of everything changing, they would meet, each in need of healing and understanding that only they could provide one another. Life would go on with different things to share, but some things, would remain the same.

She was supposed to be there that day. Her mother called all night prior and Elise sent every one to voicemail. She was annoyed - no, frankly she was mad, irritated that her mother was doing everything in her power to resist accepting that Graham was her boyfriend. That Graham was her choice. Her father just went along with anything that her mother said, so of course he didn't like Graham either. But really, it was her mother's fault, if her mother would just give G a chance, she'd see that he was rough on the edges but good on the inside. Elise loved Graham, she'd always loved Graham, and having him in her life was important. It was most important.

But Elise could've picked up the phone. She could've put her anger aside in the moment, she could've just kept trying and maybe her mother would see the light. She could've gone to the hotel that morning like her mother asked her to, to run the numbers again and make sure their ledgers were in order. The headlines would've been different that day, not husband and wife killed execution style on their knees on the lobby floor but their daughter, too. A real family tragedy.

It wasn't how she was supposed to go, a shot to the back of the head holding her mother's hand as tight as she could, covered in her parents' blood because they saved her for last. It would've been the end for her but not the end for everything else - the butterfly effect would ripple outward, until Graham was dead, too. There'd be no pretty engagement ring, no wedding binder and Pinterest board, no future Bubber that they're going to name Andre Junior. No struggle to figure out how to live a life in this terrible town, no internal angst over being the fiance to a man she knew was a criminal but she couldn't see a life without, no future of becoming Missus Elise Stewart.

There'd be nothing at all.

Sometimes, do-overs don't lead to the best of endings.

Such a simple little change that could have had such an enormous effect on the course Victoria Grey's life took. All she had to do, was call her father, and remind him to take down any and all photos of her in his bar, before she went undercover with the Fantasmas de Sangre, a cell affiliated with the infamous Sinaloa cartel. In this reality, she'd forgotten to do that, and one of Francisco Ojedo's goons went to the Grey Area to meet a Tindr date and saw her police academy graduation photo of her and Walter behind the bar. She was pegged as a cop, and tortured to find out who else was undercover. It was only when they threatened her father, that she caved, and sold out Javier de la Vega. But if she'd remembered to make that call, what would have been different?

The undercover operation would have been a complete success. They'd have shut down the Cartel cell, and been lauded for their work. Vic would have earned a promotion or two, wound up as a Detective Lieutenant before she got another call. It was Quid Pro Quo time. She'd asked Javier for his help on her case, now he was asking for her help on his. His Chief of Police had been murdered by a gang trying to move into the area. Some of his cops were already on the take to this invading power. He needed someone he could trust, who could investigate the officers for him, undercover.

So in early August, 2020, it is 'Officer Victoria Grey' that transferred to the precinct in Gray Harbor, assigned to patrol, and paired up with Officer Harvey Liu.

August wakes up in his own cabin for the first time in half a week, and the relief of that realization hits him so hard he about bursts into tears.

No IV, no monitoring equipment. No one slumped in a chair, neck and back stiff from watching over him. No antiseptic smell.

No weight of people, sick and dying, or watching loved ones die, torn by grief, or waiting to hear bad news, or--

He shudders, rolls over and wraps himself around Eleanor's pillow. She's long gone to work, probably already left him some DMs reminding him to NOT DO ANYTHING and LET ERICA TAKE CARE OF THE ANIMALS, AJ and DID YOU DO ANYTHING? DON'T. SIT ON THE PORCH AND GET BETTER. He breathes in the smell of her on the pillowcase, revels in how he is home. Home.

It's more than a little like that first day home from the VA, in his parents' apartment, after Bosnia. He'd felt a similar relief, and similarly had spent some time crying. Then he'd had some of the breakfast his mother had brought, then he'd slept a little more. And finally, when he felt he couldn't put it off any longer, he'd gotten up and faced his ravaged self in the mirror.

Breakfast is downstairs, as is the coffee. So the taking stock has to come first.

He sighs, gets up and shuffles into the bathroom, sheds his nightshirt so he can inspect the new additions. The stab wound itself is a vertical line, made into something of a tee-shape by the accompanying surgical incision. They're angry red and hatched for the moment; in a few days, once the stitches are out, the redness will fade. A few months after that they'll shift to white lines like all the others. Thin, if he takes it easy and keeps up with the salves. He can think about a tattoo for them at that point.

He shifts his attention to the only scar from the old set that's still exposed: the ribcage puncture wound, where (like the others on his torso) rebar had skewered him. Studying it, he's reminded of an old game he'd played in those early days after Bosnia, where he'd try to make them disappear. He'd imagine coming back uninjured, at least in body. Back then he'd been so young and vain (Itzhak has assured him it was warranted) that for the longest time all he could do was dream of being whole and unmaimed, unmarred.

Twenty years on it's hard to imagine life without the scars and implants; harder still to imagine life without the emotional wounds which are their shadows. So much of him has been defined by the simple decision, upon seeing his PSAT scores, to visit a military recruiter. He didn't have to take it that hard, didn't have to feel so useless. But he had, and before he'd known it, he'd driven over to the little strip mall and walked in that door.

Who would he be, if he hadn't done that? He couldn't have afforded college, so work out of high school was a must. That probably meant the docks; his dad could have gotten him in. Union job for who knew how long.

Except it was college that let him explore being queer. No longshoreman job was going to do that, not even in Portland. So how long would he have lasted--a few years? Maybe long enough to get his parents into an apartment and the girls into school before he buckled.

And what then? Maybe he drifts from job to job, not sure what to do or be. Takes a few community college classes looking for a purpose, something to care about. Winds up in college around the same time, but without the PTSD. Which means he doesn't flee Seattle once he has his degree; he goes out into the wide world, a botanist digging in remote corners of nature for things interesting and new, answers to how to survive climate change.

And sometimes the Art turns over in its sleep, and he feels an emotion which isn't his, finds something he thought he'd lost, nurses an ailing plant back to life. He doesn't question these things. It's just life, life is always strange and unexpected.

He doesn't marry, never settles down. Like many of the men he took up with in college, he has plenty of loves and lovers, but is too busy wandering to settle down with any one person. It's years, decades like this. And does he ever land in Gray Harbor? Meet an obstinate mechanic, lose his heart to a lovely conspiracy theorist, found a gardening and arborism business?

Maybe. Maybe not. He wouldn't be the same man at all. He'd be someone else. Someone better? Someone worse? That's hard to say. Someone who dealt with other struggles, other pains. Less grisly ones. Someone less able to meet Itzhak on the same level, someone who hadn't been ravaged by Glimmer like Eleanor. For better or for worse, the ugliness he's survived has equipped him to understand his friends and loved ones in a way this other man wouldn't know. He likes to think he'd still be compassionate and empathetic, but there's that, and then there's living in hell for three years while it carves memories of itself into your flesh; there's listening to another's stories of lived nightmares, and then there's eating that same food, drinking that same water. Compassion and empathy aren't the same thing as lived experience. They're just not.

He sighs at the man staring back at him, riddled with memories of old pain. It's better this way, in all likelihood. Maybe not for him, specifically. But that's another thing you learn to accept when you live in hell: sometimes you can't fix things for yourself. Sometimes the necessary sacrifice is you. Sometimes you can only help other people.

And that has to be enough.

Alexander Clayton is twenty-two years old when the trucker drops him off in Brookings, Oregon. He's been out of school for about a year, but instead of trying to do anything with his degree, he's wandered from town to town. Sometimes, he tells himself that he's looking for someone who was Lost, and sometimes he tells himself that he's taking a post-college tour, a Pacific Northwest version of a Grand Tour, before he settles down and makes something of himself.

The truth is that the nightmares have followed him. It took them a few years to find him again, but they're back, and with them, the sharp edges and dark eddies of people's emotions. He can't look at them for long, or else he starts sharing what he sees. And then what he feels from people is fear and mockery. So he wanders from diner to construction site to farm - anywhere that needs labor, pays under the table, and doesn't ask questions. And he feels the ache of loneliness. The need for purpose, and the knowledge that what he's doing right now isn't living. It's just waiting for something to happen.

Brookings is a lumber town, broken by an economy that no longer loves lumber towns. It reminds him of Gray Harbor, and he's already decided that he's not going to stay longer than a couple of weeks to save up enough for a bus ticket. Maybe further south. California seems nice. But when he's applying to The Food Pit (where 'applying' means demonstrating he can scrub a pot and keep his mouth shut while the owner deals meth out of the kitchen), he happens to overhear a couple of the diners talking about a revival. Old time, tent revival, like it was 1919 Kansas, or something. They're laughing, but he can feel they're curious, too. One of them has a persistent cough, and the preacher is supposed to be a faith healer.

There's free food, and Alexander is hungry in more ways than one, so he goes. He expects to see fire and brimstone, greed and sleight of hand. He expects to walk away with more water for seed of his growing cynicism with humanity.

Instead, he sees a man who lights up the world. He stands out more sharply than anyone Alexander has ever seen, and he burns with purpose, conviction, certainty: all of the things that Alexander desperately wants, and has never had. He lays on hands, proclaims people healed, and they are. Not just in body. Alexander can feel the hope burning in the air, a joy that verges on terror as people realize that they are in the presence of a small but powerful miracle, a torch of light in a dark world, wielded by a golden man.

And he sees Alexander, recognizes him for different, and yet somehow, the same. When the service is over, Alexander is the first to stand up, the first to press for the exit to the tent. He's not afraid of human contact, yet - that will come later, and it will come because of this night, but it is not yet here - so he's not above using elbows and a little push of power to get people out of his way. He knows, the way he sometimes knows things, that the preacher will want to talk to him. And Alexander knows that he wants to talk to him. Wants to listen to him, wants to stand next to that flame and warm himself by it.

Forever, if he can.

But the wanting scares him, and so he's trying to flee, to disappear into the night and find somewhere that's darker, but safer. But a hand descends on his arm, and he's too shaken to even whirl and punch it away. Instead, he turns, and sees a woman with a kind smile. She says that the Reverend wants to talk to him. Alexander can see him, near his podium, talking to a couple of other people. But he looks up as if he can feel the eyes on him, and smiles - it's a smile that breaks Alexander's heart, because it sees him, and it is not afraid.

The woman tugs gently, repeating her words. Alexander barely hears them. If he stays, he knows he will become a part of something. Whatever beautiful, terrific thing is behind the preacher's smile, it will be shared with him, and he will embrace it and make it his own, because Alexander desperately needs something, someone, to follow. If he leaves, he will drift from town to town, moment to moment, existing without fire, always worried that nothing he sees is real, until eventually, he dies. By misadventure, by random violence, or simply because he couldn't think of anything better to do.

This man, his heart knows, will define what is real for him.

So he stays.

And for several years, Alexander Clayton is not wrong about that, even when he's wrong about everything else.

She shouldn’t have worn that two-piece.

I bet you think you know where this is going. Young girl, just trying to maybe look cute for a boy. Not Abitha. Abitha just wanted to try something new, something that looked a bit more adult. Her mom always got her the most conservative things, and her friends let her know it. What could she do? Her mother was almost 60 by the time Abitha had entered high school. Her morals and standards were literally from another century.

If she hadn’t worn that two-piece, Colin wouldn’t have noticed. The bathing suit was cute, and for a 16 year old that was still pretty slim, the light padding and lift had been eye catching to high-school boys. He’d talked to her then, and she’d talked back. Over the next few months, they kept talking, until he got the courage to ask her out. Abitha answered yes? It was sort of what was expected, right? This was what normal people did in high school. She wasn’t having all this boy craze or interest in things her peers were, but… Well, expectations were what they were.

Inevitably, Colin wanted what every teenage boy wanted, and again, Abitha felt like expectations won out over her… disinterest? People didn’t like girls that led them on, right? Was that what she did? Sure, she liked hanging out with Colin, he was smart, funny, he read and challenged her, but… She didn’t have that thing in her head other girls did that said, ‘This boy is cute.’ But, a child of people from another generation, that taught her compliance was more important than critical thinking… Abitha just… gave in.

And hated it. Well… Hate was a strong word. It was more trouble than it was worth. It wasn’t fun. It didn’t really feel good. It just left her feeling gross. She told Colin so. She told him she didn’t want to again. He broke up with her soon after. He told her she was so slim she looked like a boy naked, that he was afraid that made him gay. He told other people nasty things about her too. She was humiliated. She had trusted and was hurt for it.

And he was just the first. Once she got to college, boys, even the rare girl, - which she tried, figuring maybe she just hadn’t gone about it right - tried to get close to her, and wanted that thing. She never found that feeling, that thing people said they felt when they were with people. Attraction. She didn’t get it. And people just left her. They didn’t want to be her friend, they just wanted that from her, like it was all she was worth. She stopped even making the pretense. She didn’t date. She didn’t want a relationship. People only tried to be her friend to try to turn that. Over and over, when she thought she had a friend, they wanted more. Over and over, she said no. They left.

If she hadn’t worn that two-piece, maybe no one would have noticed her. Maybe she wouldn’t have been crushed about her appearance. Maybe she wouldn’t have had to come of age inherently distrustful of people, that they didn’t want friendship, just that. Maybe she would have found that word for what she was earlier, and owned it, made it part of an identity that couldn’t be hurt by people with unfair expectations.

But she did. And here she was.

What if I’d never enlisted?

It’s a good question, Leon would think. What if? Maybe I could have tried to fix what was broken here. Maybe I could have said, ‘I’m 18 now, mom and dad. Can we talk about things like adults?’ Maybe I could have finished high school, gone to college, or just found my trade another way. Maybe I could have curbed their drinking. Maybe I could have been there for them, helped them get through whatever it was that was hurting them. Maybe I could have gotten them to stop smoking. Everyone vapes now, it tastes better and you can scale back your nicotine. Maybe then the trailer wouldn’t have burned down. Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe I wouldn’t have been in that combat zone. Maybe I wouldn’t have killed those people. Maybe I wouldn’t have learned of my powers in that moment of pure adrenaline. Maybe I wouldn’t have become a beacon for Them. Maybe I could look at my photographs from them and not feeling nauseas, not be on the verge of tears. Maybe I wouldn’t have met those brothers long dead.

Or Maybe I would have just been here, in Gray Harbor, for my parents’ deaths. Maybe I would have been crushed by the loss of the people that raised me, even though they did it badly. Maybe I would have gotten to bury them. Maybe I’d have closure.

Maybe I’d be a little closer to whole.

Staring into her eyes, her innocent, confused eyes Everett saw the future. He saw the past.

A casual glance towards where he'd rather be and he jealously saw the lump in his bed. Tired eyes glanced down at the squirming bundle in the crook of his left arm, now made quiet with the rubber nipple in her mouth. Instead of crying, she made not a noise except famishly drinking from the bottle as though this was her first meal. And she looked at him. He wondered nothing, for a while. Just wishing he could crawl back into bed and chase the memory of what a full night's sleep was like.

Pacing the bedroom floor, it kept him awake while she drank. Tilting his head back and closes his eyes, he tried. Tried to recall what a full night sleep was like. What a life, not elbow deep in used diapers, spit-up on his shoulder, and the tearing, heart-wrenching cries when her little stomach was empty, stealing naps on the sofa. It let his mind wander. If Dog learned how to get out of the way of a weapon. If they didn't have to go to the hospital. If he hadn't met... her, and work that sleazy charm of his. If they didn't start bangin'. If she hadn't taken an interest, start dressing the part. If he wasn't made to watch over her. If Dog hadn't gotten her pregnant and...

... if, if, if. Which one, just one of those would have been enough to keep him from this place?

Poorly stifling a yawn, he grunts before looking back down at the pink bundle in his arms. Her innocent, confused expression met him. Which one would have kept him from being where he is right now? He stopped pacing and used his pinkie to stroke a soft, plump cheek.
"I'd give you the moon. Even if I had to choke it out of the sky," he vowed.
She noisily ate.

All alone at his apartment, Devlin has had his third shot of bourbon as he ponders events from several years ago. So many choices of life and death that he is comfortable with; however, this one thing where he put mission over family haunts him still to this day.

What if I had listened more to my nephew and my sister? Spent more time with him, helped him through what must have been tough times that even I with all my time seeing combat, treating horribly wounded people, and seeing the worst come out of people that I respected... could never image. May be he would still be around today. Dave was a cool little kid. We always had fun when I got to be with him and looking back he was always comfortable around me. He loved that I was a paratrooper and delighted in the fact that I saved lives. I only got to see his life through random short visits, family events, and my sister's (Shannon's) Facebook postings. It was kind of like that movie Click in how I got to watch him grow up only getting to see snapshots of Dave's life, and suddenly he started High School. I should have paid more attention to signs like his father always getting down on him for not being tough enough and telling him to man up.

I was on deployment when my sister told me over Skype that she was worried for Dave. High School was turning into hell for him. I didn't get the complete story from Shannon, it was clear that she wanted Dave to talk to me one on one. I did speak to Dave a couple of times but there was this sense of his holding back. Being a leader, I knew from experience that with my medics, they'd talk to me when the time was right. My assumption was that a teen would do the same. Several times I told Dave to be strong and I'd be back stateside in a few months and I'd take a few days with him. I think the first few times we talked, he had hope and strength to endure. Shannon begged me to take the first opportunity to return because she was worried. I got the opportunity, I could have gone but I stayed to take care of the troops.

I had just come back from a patrol and got told report to Top's office ASAP. On getting there, I got told that Shannon had died in a car accident. I was still processing this, had asked the Chaplin to see if he could arrange for my return, and hit the rack. I'm not sure how long I was a sleep when I was woken up by one of my guys telling me that Dave was in the hospital. Dave had tried to take his life. I reached out to my Brother-in-Law to find out what was going on. I didn't get him, I got my angry pissed off niece blaming me for not coming back and nothing clear as to what going on. The Chaplin made the arrangements for me to get to my family. By the time, I got there, Dave was gone. He tricked a nurse and this time succeeded.

I didn't learn the truth until I got home. The short version turned out to be that Dave was being bullied for being gay in school and Shannon was protecting him from his father. If only I had listened and just went home, I'd still have my Nephew around. I could have given him shelter from that bigot of a father. I wanted to kill him but that wouldn't bring Dave back.

I'm sorry Shannon... I let you and Dave down.

Devlin sighs as he opens his laptop and makes another donation to an LGBT support group. To himself, "May be they will help someone where I failed." The bottle is half empty by the time he finally calls it a night.

~I belong, a long way from here~
~I put on a poncho and played for mosquitoes~
~And drank 'till I was thirsty again~
~We went searching, through thrift store jungles~

Music rang out from the speakers on Kailey's dresser as she considered the canvas before her. There was already layers put down or a stormy sky and sea. Now she was adding in whites and yellows of a sun breaking through the dark. Around her neck she wore the sling that a small and previous package slept within. Morganna. Her daughter. As she contemplated the next splash of paint - should I put more yellow in with the white? - the lyrics of this song hung in her ears. For the first time in a long time she didn't feel like she was running. Like she didn't belong somewhere. It made her smile a little to realize she had started singing under her breath without realizing it.

~Found Geronimo's rifle, Marilyn's shampoo~
~And Benny Goodman's cursive pen~
~Well, okay, I made this up~
~I promise you I'd never give up~

Kailey stopped singing as bittersweet pain gripped her. A memory that was painful struck her from out of nowhere. "Never give up, baby girl. Never!" Coleen's voice echoed in her ears. The ache of her absence was suddenly intense like it hadn't been for years and the new mother bit back a sob. Setting her art aside she moves to sit in her chair, curling her arms around Morganna. The music went on.

~If it makes you happy~
~It can't be that bad~
~If it makes you happy~
~Then why the hell are you so sad?~

Oh the irony of this song at this moment was not lost on Kailey. And though tears slipped freely down her cheeks she did smile sadly. Looking down at the sleeping face within the blue and purple paisley sling. Curled up in her skull and crossbones sleeper. Kailey had splurged last Halloween, being the goth girl she was. The two patterns clashed horribly. "Stupid baby blues," Kailey grumbled as she reached out to wrap her fingers around a tiny hand. With a sniff she wiped the tears away on her sleeve.

~Get down, real low down~
~You listen to Coltrane, derail your own train~
~Well, who hasn't been there before?~
~I come 'round, around the hard way~
~Bring you comics in bed~
~Scrape the mold off the bread~
~And serve you french toast again~
~Okay, I still get stoned~
~I'm not the kind of girl you'd take home~

And just like that the lyrics took her from sad thoughts to happy ones. Filled with a tall man with dark hair, green eyes, and a wardrobe that rarely varied from black and green. From that first night on the boardwalk, her trying to make some last minute cash from the thinning tourists, him soaked and clothes trudging from under the pier. He'd been sad then and haunted. She knew why now.

~If it makes you happy~
~It can't be that bad~
~If it makes you happy~
~Then why the hell are you so sad?~

Kailey breathed out a shakey breath as guilt struck her. She bit her lower lip and stared down at the infant who hadn't a care or worry in the world, beyond her next meal and a clean diaper that is. The memory was clear like it was yesterday, but the guilt had only grown. 'Stay out of my head,' He had told her after that, guarding himself and other from a pain she could all too easily imagine. Both of them had someone that meant everything to them killed before them in a gruesome and horrifying manner. She licked her lips and stroked the back of Morganna's little hand with her thumb.

A year ago now. Sweet Retreats. He'd come in and looked at her as if she were a ghost. And then poked her to see if she was real. He had been so dark and grim and unhappy. Literally haunted she learned later. And something inside her couldn't take that sadness. So she had shared some of her joy with him. She hadn't asked though. And there was her guilt. It was worse because she hadn't yet found the courage to fess up to it. Excuses were easy to come up with to avoid it. If it wasn't for the guilt digging into her gut she'd be able to forget it. If it wasn't for the fact she believed making him happy allowed him to see her as more than a girl who reminded him of his loss. A tear hit the back of her hand and she angrily swiped at her eyes again.

~If it makes you happy~
~It can't be that bad~
~If it makes you happy~
~Then why the hell are you so sad?~

Would she do it again? Kailey was pretty sure she would. That didn't help and she bit back another little sob as she put her hands over her face. She should tell him. It was long ago. It wouldn't matter now...right? Or would it?

~We've been far, far away from here~
~I put on a poncho and played for mosquitoes~
~And everywhere in between~
~Well, okay, we get along~
~So what if right now, everything's wrong?~

Her gut was aching and she was on her feet and heading out the door before she knew it. Moving down the hall to Everett's door and opening without knocking. And he was there. Passed out on the bed, clothes still mostly on, hair a wild spray of black around his head. The stained shirt he had taken off was still dangling from one hand. He insisted on getting up at night, even when she told him to wake her. Daddy liked being able to feed Moganna and she couldn't blame him. "I'm sorry," She said softly, barely a whisper. Carefully she pulled Morganna from the sling and removed it from her head. Draping it over the bedpost before gently laying the baby in the cosleeper attached to the big bed. Recently fed and changed, she was asleep and probably would stay that way for another hour. Two if they were lucky.

~If it makes you happy~
~It can't be that bad~
~If it makes you happy~
~Then why the hell are you so sad?~

Kailey plucked the dirty shirt from limp fingers and tossed it into the corner clothes pile. Everett could still be such a guy. Slowly she crawled onto the bed and lay her head down on one of his outspread arms. Sleepy mumbles and soon he was rolling over to wrap his other arm around her. Oh, and there was the grope in his sleep and it made her smile a fleeting smile.

"I made you happy last year against your will, and I'm sorry," She whispered these words so quietly, unable to give real voice to them. His snore in her ear was the only answer and she just sighed and closed her eyes. The music drifted down the hall from her room as she found herself falling asleep.

~Baby did a bad bad thing~
~Baby did a bad bad thing~
~Baby did a bad bad thing~
~Baby did a bad bad thing~

Get out of town, make something of your life. Those are not words that anyone says to a Lockhart. It's a given that people will stay, contribute to the various family businesses, and yes, skirt or break the law. That's all well and good for most of the family, as truthfully? That's where the most opportunities lies for a family of middling intelligence and limited skills. At least Gray Harbor has a network, and a chance to make money.

But Tor could have been valedictorian if he stopped getting into fights and had any extracurricular besides selling weed and stolen electronics in the halls. He could have gotten into a good school with scholarship money.

He tried once.

The letter that came from UC Berkeley was completely unexpected. One of his classes required him to write a college application as an exercise. His English professor, knowing he didn't have the money, spotted him the application fee to actually submit it. And he got in. From there, he could have applied for scholarships, for financial aid. He could have leaned on his dad for some cash, leveraging guilt for leaving town. He could've worked his ass off over the summer, or deferred admission for a year to save money.

Instead, one night as he was building a fire in Huckleberry, he dropped the admission letter into the growing flames. His mom would want him to go - would sacrifice what little she had. But most of the rest of his family wouldn't be supportive.

He's a Lockart, after all, and Lockharts belong in Gray Harbor.

Esme knelt beside her mother's grave, running over the events of Maybel Armstrong-Wilkinson's final days. Why was I so stupid? Esme chided herself as she touched the gravestone. Tears welling up in her eyes.

If only she had just kept her mouth shut in that Dream.

But the promise was too good to pass up and she should have recognized it. Yet, how could she pass up an opportunity to help her father get better? If only she'd known the cost.

If she'd just kept her mouth shut then her mother would still be alive. Her father would still be sick but maybe he'd be improving. At least they'd all be together.

Esme gripped the headstone for a moment and then exhaled shakily as she rose to her feet. She pulled out her cigarettes and lit one up as she started heading back to her car.

She was going to live with this guilt forever. There was no fixing that.

Eating breakfast, catching a bus, and shuffling back to work at the worst hospital in the Bay area. Going back home to a father that hated her for not being someone else. Renata went through these motions over and over again until she met Him.

He was different in a way that was impossible to explain. It could only be felt deeply throughout her limbs, her chest, crawling up her spine. That feeling jolted her awake as if she had been walking around in a half-dreaming state beforehand. He told her she was special, that she shined unlike anyone else. He asked for her help with a charming smile that she never thought to doubt.

Lies can be comforting in their way. It would be so convenient to blame him. To lie to herself by placing the weight of her choices solely on someone else's shoulders. It was her choice to walk down that hallway and meet him again. She could've recommended him to psych and dismissed everything. Maybe she would've married a doctor after that, played the part of a good wife and mother who swore to do better by her child. A promise that would be harder and harder to keep as that sense of emptiness gnawed at her. Maybe she'd end up leaving just like her mother.

Some people can't turn away, no matter how many times they're presented with a choice. No matter how many ghosts are left behind as a result of all the pain and damage it causes. She'd heard about it before, what happens to people who seek out the Other World, that they risk becoming lost. Yet she persisted with her eyes fully open. For better or worse, she can't bring herself to let it go.

Lilith is watching the credits roll across the television flat screen while laying on the leather sectional, she's listening to the score playing because she likes it. But she doesn't like where it starts to take her as she stares at the ceiling. Quotes from the film play back in her mind for some reason, posing theoretical 'what if' questions. Maybe it's the very big pending life changes, the idea of giving up the shop, assuming she can be free of it, letting go of what remains of her family.

If all I ever gave you was a hammer...
Everything's a nail.

From Lilith's very beginning, life gave her hammers over and over again, she approached so many things as something to hit with force, the only way she knew how to hold things together. When you hit a nail with a hammer too hard, too skewed, too much, it splinters into the wood and cracks it, it destabilizes all the things you try to build. Everything is flawed and cracked from the start, right from the structure's damaged bones. Byron came into her life again like glue and iron joint supports to help hold up the frame, he helped re-wire her and he turned on the lights. Gradually, little by little, the structure in her life has began to stabilize, despite the danger and uncertainty they live with in Gray Harbor. She knows and accepts who she is in a way she hasn't before.

What was once a collection of so many regrets, the way life seemed so mean and rigged and unfair... it's changed into something else. In a sense, she sees as a very long trial she won. Byron helps Lilith like herself most days, love herself a little even, because he finds her so worthy of his love. And that's something. But she's still a hammer and life still has so many nails... what if the foundation is cracked at the concrete base inside her, what if she ruins everything being so... Lilith?

Maybe her life is still rigged to hurt and it's only a matter of time before the most unimaginable destruction and collapse.

If you could see your whole life from start to finish, would you change things?

Yes. No. Yes. No. Maybe it took all those things to end up right where she is. But Lilith is missing things in the middle of finally having many things worth having. There's things she should have fought harder for, not ran and hid from and accepted as her lot in life, she only knew how to react in ways she thought according (often in terribly self-damaging ways). There's things she can't amend now like she amended with Byron after their turbulent, emotionally-wounding long-term parting. There's fundamental things she wanted and needed and never got.

What would be different if Lilith was nurtured and cared for from an early age? What if she didn't have a drunk, negligent, troublesome single father?

What if Lilith had a mother? She should have asked while Hank was alive. Lilith should have asked over and over, she shouldn't have given up. Maybe she's alive, but if she is, the tracks have been well-hidden. In fact, it might be the only thing Hank Winslow was consistent about, the subject of her mother was taboo. He hid from the truth, it meant hiding it from her too. She doesn't know why. Lilith believe she might never know why now that he's gone, she has no one else with the keys to her origins or past.

What if...?

Her name is Kathleen. People call her Kat a lot. Lily Rose Winslow calls her 'mommy'. When she gets older, she calls her 'momma'. When she's grown, she calls her 'mom' or 'mother' when she's exasperated. Kat kicked Hank out when Lily was three because his antics were too much, finally. Thankfully, they never married, she didn't inherit his debts and neither did Lilith. The next year, his hustling, drunkenness, and bad deals and debts catch up with him and he disappears into a shallow grave out deep in the forest. His body won't be found for twenty-two years. When they find the bones, there's a toy in the grave too, a wind up dog that looks like their Yorkie named Puddles at the trailer.

Kathleen calls Lilith the day they find him. She talks to Lilith at least every other day since she moved to from Seattle to Houston for a job at a refinery where she's a Project Lead chemical engineer. She lets her daughter tell her about volunteering for Habitat for Humanity last weekend, she wants to give back to the poor and struggling since she grew up with a single mother, she does that sometimes. Like a good mother, she doesn't broach the subject of Hank's body yet. Maybe she won't. Lilith is happily telling her about the plants on her patio she's kept alive and she even has tomatoes and a lemon tree.

Kathleen wants to protect her from the bad things in life, she always did her best. And she raised a good girl, she taught her to work with and through her temper issues, she taught her how to calm the storm of powers that crept on her as a teenager, then sent her away to college so she'd forget about them before they became trouble. She taught her to trust, she told her that people are generally inherently good, that they're worth the effort of a smile. Lilith has such a lovely smile, it goes to her eyes. Lilith is smiling while on the phone, her mother can hear it.

She doesn't tell her about Hank's bones or what he had with him. Sometimes, parents don't want to tell the truth to their children. It's for their own good.

With everything that he'd accomplished, Byron Thorne wasn't a man with many regrets. From a turbulent upbringing, which he hid well from his peers and teachers, he worked hard, found all the right connections and built his empire. He even got the girl in the end. If you'd asked him about the things which he'd done, he would most likely tell you that he'd do it the same all over again.

Losing Lilith in high school had recently been remedied, but then there was his ex's.. Vivian's disappearance shortly after their break-up, something which Byron was still trying to sort through.

Byron had just come out of a Dream, every single nerve in his body was on fire. The urge to vomit was intense, but all that he could do was sit there, rocking back and forth with wide wild eyes as his mind tried to process everything he went through.

"Afraid to give your old man a go now that you're a big man? Weak. You're weak, son."

Those were words that should have stirred him to anger with all the hate that he must have felt towards his father for all those years of fear and pain. "You're DEAD!" is what he should have shouted at the shadow of the monster. "I killed you..." But did he really? Did Byron really help push Stephen Thorne so far over the edge that it drove the man to blow his brains out? And if so, why was he still afraid?

---

Pain. His head was throbbing, the bitter taste of his own blood was smeared across the gash at his lip, being joined by the blood seeping from his nostrils. He was being dragged to the staircase by the hair, which his father's clawed fingers felt like they would rip straight out of his scalp. Despite all of this, he was trying his best not to cry, not to make a single sound even while struggling against his the man's rage-fueled cruelty. Deep down within the twelve-year old Byron, he wanted to live. To survive. To not be afraid anymore.

Byron's powers manifested at a very early age though it was something that he hadn't noticed nor had any control over. It was HIS FATHER who could read his mind, rather than a young mentalist projecting his thoughts and emotions upon the elder Thorne. Or so the kid believed. That's why, out of fear, he would try to clear his mind of all thoughts, all emotions in an attempt to close it off entirely and to not enrage his father any more. Usually, by then, it was too late and the deed had already been done.

However, there came a turning point around this time where the boy had had enough.

The child's powers never protected him against his father until now; his untrained mind lashing out with a frantic and desparate fear as he grabbed onto the banister to keep himself from being dragged further. All that he could feel was this pain and anguish but rather than suffer in it alone, his mind projected, poisoning Stephen Thorne's mind in a way that the man had never experienced. It was terrifying and excrutiating, like living out all of his own horrors. Grabbing for his head, he lets the boy go. Which was a terrible mistake on the elder Thorne's part.

At first, Byron had wanted to run away. Lock himself up in his room again, where his knows that his father would find him. If he did that, he was merely prolonging his punishment. So instead, perhaps out of fear? Or anger? Most likely both, in the man's distraction, rather than flee and cower, Byron does push his father over the edge. Not mentally this time (though, it's the emotional anguish instilled into the man's mind that helped), but physically. Crouched huddled at the top of the stairs, he watches his father's body tumble down those shadowy steps, eyeing his crumpled body out in the downstairs hall.

The man lay there motionless. Was he dead? With slow, careful steps, the child crept his way down the staircase, one step at a time; his eyes never leaving the form of his father. The rest of what happened was then a blur. By the time the GHPD showed up, Stephen Thorne, one of their own, was a bloodied mess at the bottom of the stairs. His wife, Mary, was besides herself in grief; screaming bloody murder, her hateful, tear-filled eyes turned to her own son. But she always hated him. Byron knew that much even if he tried his best to ignore it.

Rather than run away, reports had stated that twelve-year old Byron Thorne stabbed his father twenty-two times after the man had fallen down the flight of stairs. They found him with the kitchen knife in hand standing over the deceased, his eyes wide and wild.

After a mental evaluation, the child was sent upstate to some facility, an Asylum, or other that was better suited to handle a case such as his. In fact, Mary Thorne had begged her husband to send the boy there in the past, but the man outright refused. Did he have any regrets now?

It's difficult to say how life in an Asylum would have molded Byron. Would he grow up to own a casino? Dress in suits day in and day out? Would he get the girl in the end? It's hard to say, but the only thing that's certain is Byron Thorne would no longer be afraid of his father.

He sat shiva. He did that much. But when it came time to take up the duties of the man of the house, when it came time for the year of the Mourner’s Kaddish, he refused.

Why should I? he screamed at his gone-pale mother, while his little sister wept in terror. He left us and WHY SHOULD I?

But what if he had?

What if he’d done his duty, said the prayers, gone to services, read from the Torah when called? What if Itzhak Immanuel Rosencrantz, oldest child, only son, violinist with a bad attitude and a temper to match, had done what his family’s religion required?

(Tune in to Itzhak's scenes page soon to find out.)

The late summer brings a sky of bright cerulean blue across the upper atmosphere. The breeze that ruffles through the field of grass pushing the bumblebees around brings the scent of late summer and chlorophyll with it with the sharp smell of freshly cut grass. It's not even below 82 degrees and it's a great day for a picnic.

Since the age of three Joey Kelly grew up fighting.
Since being old enough to swing back he's learned he's had to,
and that terrified him.
And the one time he needed to most?
He wasn't there.

This is not about the day his mother was killed, It's about what never came next.
It's about the day he told Felix Monaghan 'no'. It's he and his brother being shoved into the state system, and that offer being taken away. It's that feeling of unbelievable separation when you are torn in half and your twin is sent elsewhere you are too young to know how to get to. He tried though. Joey tried like hell. He fought, lied, cheat and stole to get out of the placed he was sentenced to live in.

He never did learn how to do it right. He never did learn how to pick his fights.
He never learned trying to find his brother when not to point that gun at someone
in hopes it would be enough so he wouldn't be hurt anymore.

But today the sun is bright and dance off the brass letters that read: Joseph Lee Kelly on the weathered plaque in the freshly hewn field while the bees go about their very busy day here in Addington Memorial.

"If you go, Vivien, I will not be here when you return."

Vyv turned from the door, studying the other man for a silent moment. The mess sleep had made of his hair, the planes of his body, the dark challenging eyes and inviting lips. He stepped closer, sliding a hand through the hair to comb it down, fingers ending at the back of Philippe's neck, and drew him in for a kiss. It was a good one -- lingering, full of feeling and passion -- and was returned.

Drawing back, Vyv sighed. "Oh, minou." He searched the man's features for the space of a breath.

History, such as it was, paused.

Did he love Phillipe? ...maybe. No. Probably not. But... he could, perhaps. And the man loved him, by his own frequent account. It was-- it was pleasant, being appreciated for the parts of him that weren't work. It was less... lonely.

"All right."

It probably constituted a moment of madness, really. A short series of moments. A call in sick, taken with no suspicion. He was virtually never ill, never missed a moment unless he feared being contagious. The other apprentices were rearranged for the day to work on the chocolate-dress to make the deadline or the show. The design was adjusted to make it easier for them, to get more done in less time.

Monday Vyv returned to finish it, on time. But it was different, now. Different from how he'd planned to work on it, different from how he'd wanted it to look. It was... acceptable, he supposed. But it wasn't his.

And it won.

It won anyway, this creature of many hands. He was pleased, at first. Everyone was pleased. Phillipe was thrilled. "You see? You work too hard. You can allow yourself a life and still you win!"

But he didn't, not really. It ate into him slowly. Perhaps they could have done it without him at all. Perhaps his own would have done worse.

Perhaps he wasn't really so good as he thought he was.

He'd planned to move on in another four months, to study with another of the best in France, but-- perhaps he wasn't ready, after all. Perhaps he needed more work at this level. Perhaps this was his level. And he must love Phillipe, after all, or why would he have stayed?

And so he stayed.

It took a few years before things truly fell apart. Before resentment slid quietly in and caused more fights, before he found himself cheating with men who meant nothing, before Phillipe found him too.

A few years before the final closing of that door, though this time Vyv was on the other side of it.

It was the first time he'd lost his art to a lover.

How long would it have taken to find it again?

Fourteen years old and Aidan fidgeted in the chair, though not so much as he would be if they hadn't had him swallow whatever that was they made him swallow, hw was pretty sure. Yesterday he wouldn't have been in the chair at all, wouldn't have been able to sit more than a minute or so, would have experimented with all the ways he might be able to sit on a chair that people didn't seem to have discovered in all the centuries they'd been using chairs, would have been the Columbus of chairs positions! Except maybe not him considering all the genocide and stuff or at least that was what he was pretty sure he remembered from Ms. Rodriguez in 4th grade, he thought.

It felt like he was thinking so slowly. Talking so slowly. But the lady'd already asked him to slow down twice. How was everyone still so slow when he was going so slow too? He took a breath. A slow one. The slowest he could muster. How slow could he breathe, if he really tried? He tried. She was asking something again. He tried to concentrate.

"--with your mind? Can you do other things that way, just by thinking about them?"

What with his mind? Oh, the fires, right. But no one wanted those things anyway, he'd been careful, they just-- called to him, they just needed to burn, the voices had said so, and it wasn't as if... Ha, what if he just set her clipboard on fire? That'd be-- but no it's hers, she probably wants it.

Do it.

What if he did?

Burn it, burn the chair, burn her, they'll have to believe you, they'll know you're not crazy.

I'm not.

So prove it!

"You kinda think I'm crazy or something, right?"

"We don't call people names like that, Aidan, and I'm sure you're not. I'm just trying to understand what's been going on with you, how all this happened. Okay? So I need you to tell me the absolute truth."

"Okay, um, it's maybe easier if I show you?" DO IT.

He saw the way she looked at him while he focused, that odd combination of concerned and confused, maybe preparing what to say when nothing happened or waiting to hear his explanation for why it wouldn't work now.

But it did work now.

The clipboard and all its papers burst into flames, and she dropped it on the desk, leaping back with a scream. The desk caught light, alarms began to ring, two alarms, the sprinklers came to life on the ceiling, footsteps ran in the hall, finally, finally the world was moving at a pace that felt right again, and that particular voice in Aidan's mind laughed with utter glee as the fire danced and fizzed beneath the start of that artificial rain.

He didn't actually realise he was laughing like that too.

It was a long while before he remembered much of anything else. They watched very carefully to be sure he took all his meds. Too carefully for him ever to get away with palming the one that made the world slow and too quiet. And they administered it other ways if he refused. And after a while, he got used to it.

Maybe the world was supposed to be that quiet. This was how normal people were. And of course there wasn't anything weird about sensing how someone was feeling. Of course he could't heal people. Of course he must have had some kind of lighter or match, back then. He can't remember where he'd have got it or where it went, but that's the logical explanation.

It wasn't until a few years after they'd released him, when he decided to go look into his birth family and visited the small town where he was born, that everything he thought he knew suddenly exploded into fire again, just like it did in the office, and just like it did when he was three. But he'd stopped listening to it, and conversations have to go both ways.

If the utterance of wrongdoings is unheard...it is defensible that none has taken place. This is how Atli had always lived. If you were simply decisive a misstep could be explained as choreographed with no need for apologies. There was in the last year however, a single apology her heart had been screaming to make. It was to the one person who had no way to hear it anymore.

“I’m sorry I left Daddy.” Atli whispers to the trim she was painting. The trim for the house that had been bought with money tainted with his blood. A consolation prize for the fact she would never again sit next to him on the piano bench and play on a hot summer’s day. Her mother had said he had left it to her so there was no reason to feel guilty.

She did feel guilty though. Guilty enough to cry while she dragged a brush near the base board in the music room, small streams down her alabaster face. If she had not left Gray Harbor to go to school, no to run from the distress her abilities brought her, let’s be honest here. She could have defended him. If she had not given to cowardice the siren song of an eased mind when she had left..Michael Addington may still be alive.

On September 13th 2019, William Gohl would not have found such easy access to Michael Addington. His little girl that he had always been so proud of would have been there to fight back.

Her mother would never have sold the place she had grown up in because it was too big without Michael to take up the space, the massive presence he provided. All of his clothing and sheet music gone, leaving only an emptiness.

Atli would not be putting a coat on the trim, but sitting beside him in that house with his music and his solid form beside her, keys producing music too loud for this time of night. A duet between them with her Mother looking on with disapproval. Yet Michael, would have a grin on his face and say that he and Atli would go to sleep soon, the house would quiet. Instead there is only quiet. Atli watches the eggshell color begin to crisp at the edges and as her tears fall she promises herself that her tears would be dry before the baseboard, or she would have to admit she was wrong. She wasn’t sure she could live with that.