I arrive home. The slamming door and my loud panting is enough to announce my entrance.
It is hardly a house. There are only four small rooms, all surrounded by a dry brown exterior, all nearly empty save for the single yellowing bed, or the dilapidated table, or the woodstove. I have never questioned my family's poverty. It is a fragile matter in my mind, to discuss, so I simply accept it and force myself to move on. Mother is always reminding us of how lucky we are to be in this situation. I suppose I just don't want to know where the unlucky ones are.
Mother is sitting on on a tattered chair. She glances at me. I see the dark streaks down her cheek. Father's death was only yesterday. Seeing my turkey-less hands, she sighs and relegates her gaze sorrowfully back to her bare feet.
I do not feel like comforting her. She will get over it. She did with Felix.
Instead I go to Myra's room. My little sister is sitting on her bed, her back to the door, staring at the bleak wall ahead of her.
Silence. A softly shutting door.
Myra reminds me so much of Felix: her rich blonde hair, her youthful face. But there is something encased inside of her that Felix never possessed. Something that I know will haunt her eternally.
It is sorrow.
And such a sorrow. Such a sorrow for one so young, one so vulnerable to life's hardships. She had not been born yet when Felix disappeared, but life in general has gotten more difficult since then. She does not complain. She simply copes. But when she saw that one word on the letter, she did not cry, but there fell upon her an agony, a grim misery, that was so visible that I wish she had.
That word was "died."
Myra's somber affliction gives her a personality that is that of one much more elderly than she actually is, which is only a little older than Felix was. While I loved Felix for his purity, I love her for her impurity. So quiet, so accepting. Yet if I have ever seen a fighter, it is her.
"How did you handle it?"
I start. She remains completely still, yet the words float across the room and echo into my ear.
"When Felix died? How did you handle it?"
I choose to remain silent. The question is startling, agitating. I stare at her soft thin figure. It radiates an icy fire.
Finally I answer. It is cold.
"He isn't dead."
She turns to me. The fierceness emanating from her eyes surprises me, and for a moment I feel a slight tinge of fear. No. I can't be afraid of her. How can I? She is my little sister, so much smaller than me, so much weaker. Suddenly I realize that it is not this that is stirring my anxiety; it is the fear of losing her, the fear of severing the thin thread that binds us together amidst our sadness. How would I live then? The answer comes quickly: I wouldn't. At least, not what I would consider living. I would be nothing, permanently incapacitated by grief. I realize how much I love Myra, how much I need her. How much I need her to help me through this. And then I know what she is going to say, and I desperately want her not to. But of course she does.
"He's dead, Lavern!" Her voice is hardly a yell, but the words scream in my ear. "Why can't you accept it? Why do you still tell yourself that he's alive? You're so...so arrogant!" You know you're wrong! He's not coming back!" Her voice rises. She does not care if Mother hears her. "I'm nine! Nine years old, Lavern. I've already seen my father's dead bod--" A choked sob interrupts the word. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes, shutting out the pain. Eyes still closed, she whispers, "But you can't even admit what everyone knows? What I, your little sister, know?"
"You didn't know him. You didn't see him playing in the grass. You didn't see him drawing a bird with his pencils, how he ran out of blue and had to color the rest red. You didn't see him slowly falling into the infinite depths of the lake. How easy it would be for you, to say he's dead and so readily move on, taunting those who loved him in life." But I say none of these things. I stare at Myra coldly, and, without a word, walk out the door. I hear a silent snap, and I know that our thin bond has at last been broken.
Tapping. Tapping in the night.
I sit up alertedly, sweat trickling into my eyes and mouth. Bad dreams.
The sound is loud. Near. It comes from my right.
I shakily slip out of my blanket and stand up. The cold floor burns my feet.
The blackness is impenetrable, but I know the room well. I take a few steps forward and feel around the rough top of my dresser for a candle and matches. I find them. Careful to be as quiet as possible, I creep over to the window, where the sound seems to be coming from. Light the candle. Look out.
A pair of shining eyes stares back at me.
I stifle a yell, taking an impulsive step back and tripping. The candle hits the floor as I do and flickers out.
My head aches. The darkness whirlpools above me. A vexatious throbbing swings like a pendulum against my two ears.
Somehow I manage to stand up. I feel the floor for the candle, finally finding it having rolled a good distance away from the window. The matches are strewn across the floor, and I feel some crack in half as I walk dizzily across the room.
The tapping continues.
I light the candle once more. Again, the beady eyes glare into mine. Though it is frightening, I manage to rein in my fears and take another step toward the window.
It is a bird. A black one.
That must have been why I didn't see the shape at first. The feathers are nearly as dark as the abyss outside. Its beak raps urgently against the glass.
Finally it stops. But in its eyes the tapping continues. They radiate urgency.
My fear all but replaced by a growing anxiety, I know it wants to tell me something. But how can it? How can it even be here, in the dead of night, clearly singling out me to wake?
I stroke the window. Is there some way I can communicate with it?
"What do you want to tell me?" I whisper, though I know it cannot hear me.
I stare into its eyes. Such black eyes, penetrating....
It begins to tap again. I listen closely to the tapping. It seems to fall in some kind of pattern, almost a beat. But no discernible message is apparent. Finally it caws.
And suddenly I know what it came for.
It sees this. I know it. Its eyes seem confirming. Then, for a moment, afraid.
That is before the blood comes.
It is everywhere. Splashing against the window, splattering the ground below. I drop the candle, letting the room become dark. Wanting it to. I do not pick it up.
Heartbeats threaten to overwhelm my ears. I sink to my knees. My head lulls on my neck, a worthless and heavy extension. It is there where I see the exploding bird outside my room replay over and over and over.
But it did tell me something.
A warning.
One word.
Danger.
Myra and I are silent. Our brisk footsteps seem to argue with the unspoken words.
You're wrong.
You're stupid.
I hate you.
Wait!
I hate you!
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
She is not. I am not. We both know that, but still we walk on.
We arrive at the store. Mother made us both come, thinking it would go faster. Clearly she did not hear yesterday's dispute.
Who would she have sided with? Who would Father have sided with? Me, I'm sure. But I do not say that. Why not? Why am I not convicting Myra? I don't know.
It is a small store. Then again, it's a small village. People tell me it's a small world. I'll never know.
Bread. We get the cheapest kind. The kind that's always stale.
We walk home. Not a word trickles from our lips. Our footsteps continue their argument.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
Myra goes in first. I follow. She goes to her room. I start for mine, but am stopped by the mass of brown hair slumped on the chair.
"Wait," says Mother, "Lavern, we need to talk."
What could possibly be worth talking about? It occurs to me that the whole house should have heard the events of last night. And yet there were no flashing candles, no agitated yells, except for mine. I had also made sure to wipe all signs of blood from my window and the soil below the following morning, but could Mother have seen it before then? Or the Friers next door? Could they have seen it, and then reported their findings concernedly to Mother? But her next words surprise me.
"Your father wanted you to have this." Have what? What did she say? My confused mind attempts to refocus itself on her words. She holds out a tiny thorn. It was brown and looked like it could've come from one of the dehydrated berry bushes so common in the forest. Careful not to prick myself, I pick it up daintily between my thumb and forefinger.
"He said to give it to you in case something happened...in case he didn't...." Mother stares at the thorn with a contemplative look on her face. "It's as if he knew...or guessed...." She shakes her head. "I nearly forgot about it. I have no idea what it might be for. Symbolic, maybe? Something to remember him by? But it's so small...." She looks at me. "Never mind. It's yours, isn't it? Better keep it somewhere safe."
I do. I find a faded yellow envelope and slip it inside. I don't lick the seal, knowing that this is probably not the first time the envelope has been used, but instead set it on top of my dresser, next to the bruised candle. Father was always intelligent. The thorn must have some purpose that I currently am unaware of. I spend a long time sitting on my bed, watching it, as if it might unexpectedly leap out of the envelope and disappear. The truth is, I value it, want to keep it, even though I do not yet have any idea what I might use it for. It was Father's.
Myra thrusts the words into my hands. They are hot. Jealous. "Father didn't get me anything."
I glance at her, encased by the looming doorframe. So small. So stinging. I blow on her words and they cool. Like soup. I hand them back, now comfortably warm.
"You were young when he left. What could a tiny thorn be useful for anyway?"
Myra answers. "Something. Or else he wouldn't have given it to you. You know that, right?" She walks over to the dresser. The envelope. I want to scream at her withheld resentment, at her indifference, because I know she is angry that she didn't receive anything from Father. Because I want my thorn. I don't want her to take it from me.
Myra looks at me. She must have caught a hint of the suppressed loathing in my eyes, because for a moment her eyes widen and she looks fearful. Then, icy words cradled in her arms, she leaves the room.
I supposed I should have felt sorry for her. I should have followed her, held her hands, apologized. For what, exactly, I do not know. She would have understood. I would have understood. I would have become her big brother again.
But I do not. I watch her go with indignation. I feel no need for our rancor to come to an end.
I see it before Myra and Mother do. The crowd. Pointing and shouting at something I cannot see.
I fight my way through the mass of arms and legs and elbows.
The crowd forms a wide girth around him. The man. He lies on his back, unblinking eyes staring upward at the colorless bowl above us. Suddenly I recognize him. His name is Paul Vorren. He is the aging owner of the small shop our family goes to. We are frequent customers, so he would commonly give us special discounts on items like fruit and milk. He would call Myra "Little Flame."
"Is he dead?" I whisper through the narrow hole in my throat that is not choking. But I can see the answer before I finish. His chest rises and falls heavily, and a thin coil of mist issues from the slit of of his mouth. But I can see no other sign of life. His emotionless eyes continue to gaze at the gray sky.
But something is happening. A dark spot has materialized on his temple.
Silence. The ticking clock of Vorren's life.
It spreads like ice over an ocean. It leaks off his body onto the ground, where it screams smoke. His fingers curl as they are enshrouded by the gray corruption. And then he is lying there, a mummy beneath its coating, a thing ancient and frightening.
His eyes. Those horrible, dead eyes....
At last, even they are consumed by the darkness. The plague seeps into the sockets, eating up his pupils, devouring them, until they are but two scorched voids in his face. Then the remains of his mouth open in a scream. It is a scream of such anguish, such torment, that my skin simmers and the piercing sound burns into my blood. I want to run then; I want to enter another world, where there is no pain, no suffering, no dying shopkeepers. But no one presses their hands to their ears, no one wants to miss Vorren's agonized writhing and moaning on the blackened ground.
Finally, as suddenly as it had all started, it ends. No more does a trail of mist hover above Paul Vorren's lips.
I pick up a screaming Myra and go home. Never again would she be called "Little Flame."
