From my creative writing class; belongs in a bigger piece of work, but this is all that's written
Sometimes she would see their faces while she slept.
It remained a mystery as to why they would appear to her. She tried her best not to think about them during the daylight hours. Very carefully she folded up any memories of her past and tucked them away in the furthest corners of her mind, where they sat, collecting dust.
And yet, on those odd nights, there they’d be. Ghostly images of her past came and haunted her. The faces she tried to forget, knew so well, loved so much, hated to see, burned forever in her mind; even when she tried to escape. One night she had tried to evade the spirits by staying awake. They came anyways, in the dead of the night and danced on her walls. Tormented her.
They never spoke to her, never said a word. They would just stare at her with blank faces and empty eyes. No emotion. Not the anger and the hatred she had expected after what she had done. She wished they would say something, anything at all. Tell her how much they hated her for everything, or at least let her know why they were there.
Silence.
The dreams of them were usually followed with The Dream, as she had come to think of it. The Nightmare, more like. Or maybe it was a memory; she wasn’t quite certain anymore. Maybe she had dreamed up the whole ordeal in the first place. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?
It didn’t always happen in the same way. Sometimes she’d dream of helping out in her family’s tavern, and then everyone would just disappear. Other times she’d be in that room and witness everything happening, the panic on their faces, and the screams of terror.
It always ended the same way. Bright light and the screaming that hurt her ears.
Just screaming.
And then the darkness.
She would wake up screaming, too. Screaming how sorry she was, she hadn’t meant for it to happen, it wasn’t her fault, but still The Dream came, still the faces were there, in the shadows, watching her, the dead that would not rest…
Maybe it was a good thing this happened to her. How was she to know? Part of her was grateful for the dream. Glad she could remember those faces. That story. The one story she never told any of the other storytellers, never told in the taverns. Her story.
All the same, she wanted it to end. Even on the nights when she didn’t see their faces, dream The Dream, she’d still catch a glimpse of something or someone; out of the corner of her eye, or behind her in the mirror. There one second, in front of that house there, and gone the next. Maybe they did want her to live the rest of her life in regret.
Or maybe they just wanted her to remember who she was.
“One shot, girlie. One shot, ‘s all it’ll take.”
The old man waved the battered-looking handgun in front of him. His sunken eyes were lit up and hopeful. One shot could save the entire clan of Street Performers, the only people left in the City of Dreamers, the city of thousands.
“I’m gonna wait, see,” he wheezed, “until they bring in their big guns. Their top dogs. Those specialized men they’s got just for our resistance group.” He looked proud. “Then I’m gonna sneak up, I is, and wham! They won’t know what hit them.” The gun slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. Cricket swept back her tattered skirt and picked it up with her good arm. The old man smiled and Cricket cringed at the missing teeth and rotting gums. Gingerly, she handed back the offending weapon.
He patted her clumsily on the cheek, his skin dry. Cricket could see white scars on his wrinkled skin. Both he and the hand gun had been through the First War, and had the marks to prove it. The oncoming attack was nothing new for them.
“You’ll see. I’ll pay them back for everything.”
“Cricket! There you are!” She turned to see her older brother plowing through the crowd, his dark hair hidden under the cap of his resistance uniform. He stopped in front of her, frowning. “It’s time to go.” Before she could protest, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her through the crowd. The old man called after her “I’ll save us yet!”
Cricket was led through the bustling groups of the Street Performers, the ragtag bunch of traveling musicians and artists that had become her family in the past few months. They were camped in an abandoned building, the biggest one they could find. Before the First War, the War of Black Souls as they called it, the building had been an indoor marketplace. Although it was shambles now, Cricket could still see traces of its splendor. The high ceiling with birds nesting in the rafters, the broken pillars that had stretched all the way to the top, the glass windows of many colors that allowed the sunlight to stream in…
Her brother stopped and set her on the stump of a broken pillar, so she was near to his height. “You were supposed to have left with the others! I wanted you with the Performers who were going to hide!” he scolded. His face was lined. When did he get those lines? Worry. This was her fault!
“Jack, I told you, I have to stay here.” She tried to run away, but he held her arm. She couldn’t go with them, the soldiers couldn’t be lead to the safety group, they were looking for her, and she wouldn’t have more blood on her hands!
“Cricket.” Jack was frowning at her. “How old are you?”
“Sevente- no, don’t give me the ‘you’re nearly an adult’ speech. I make my own decisions. It’s too late; I did it, I stayed. I’m here, I’ll help, and I’ll die for the cause, like I was supposed to a long time ago.” She was practically shouting those last words, desperately trying to make him understand that this was all her fault; that she needed to do this to fix what she had done.
He didn’t answer at first, just looked off into the distance, at all of the Street Performers bustling around, gathering weapons, forming groups, preparing for the start of the war on the Empire, or what the empire had become. “I need you to promise me something,” he said softly.
“What’s that?”
“I need you to live. So you can keep looking for Mother and Father.” Cricket fought off the mix of emotions that always threatened to overtake her when she thought of her parents. She had searched so long to find them again, in vain. “I promise,” she whispered.
He smiled, and pushed her dark hair out of her face. His eyes however were on her right arm, her crippled arm, eyes sweeping over the puckered scar that spiraled around it. “I am so sorry,” he whispered. “But try not to blame yourself. I’m off to the patrol now.” Jack stood up briskly, face emotionless. She jumped up and grabbed his arm. He turned back to her, smiling. “I’ll be okay, Cricket. I promise.”
“Just…I can’t lose you too, Jack. You’re all the family I have left.”
“You have the Street Performers. You’re they’re story girl. They depend on you to help them earn their bread with your wild tales for the taverns. You’ll have them.” She wanted to say more, to tell him that she loved him and that she was sorry for what she had done, but he was already running off after the lines of men marching off to patrol.
Cricket sat on the pillar trying not to cry. Her parents were missing, and try as she might, she couldn’t find them. She knew they were still alive. The soldiers couldn’t have killed them after their trial, right? They were still out there, somewhere.
And now, Jack, her older brother, was off to the front line of the war that she knew was coming. And Ryne, her best friend was missing, had just vanished one morning without a trace. All of them had broken their promises to never leave her. She was alone, and terrified of…well, everything. She wished so much that she didn’t have gnawing fear every time she set foot out of her tent, wished she didn’t have to hide and travel by night, wished she could use her right hand and fight. Oh, the world had been so simple before the soldiers had come.
The Street Performers around her seemed oblivious to her tears. She watched them running around, a small smile playing at her lips despite the tears. Jack was right, they were her family now. They took her in when she had been wandering the streets, made her their storyteller and thief, had hidden her; and wherever they stopped, they helped her look for her parents.
Someday, she knew she’d find them. She had found Jack; she could find her parents too.
And maybe Ryne.
Ryne was there, her savior, carrying food for her. She was hiding in the woods behind their houses, where they played as children. She couldn’t think of anyplace else to go after the soldiers had left with her parents, she was so scared! The familiar hideout felt safe, especially with Ryne sneaking out to see her. Sometimes, momentarily, she could forget that she was a year off from adulthood and terrified of facing the world, and pretend they were little kids sneaking out again…
“I brought this,” Ryne said, his voice dropping to a whisper. His hands shook a little as he pulled a shiny handgun from his pack. “I borrowed it from Father. Keep it in the hideout, In case you ever need-“ He looked down quickly, instead of finishing.
Her heart was pattering as she picked up the gun. Such a shiny, lethal weapon, she thought. “I don’t know how to use this. I wouldn’t be able to, not with my left hand!”
The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. His poor, twisted mouth, burnt from the tavern fire, burnt from saving her. “I’ll show you.” He stood up and placed the gun in her hand. “This is how you hold it,” he said. Her left hand wasn’t used to being used so much and was shaking. Her heart skipped a little as he placed his hand over hers. The gun went off with an explosion of sound and power. Such power.
Her daydream was interrupted by the sound of hooves. Soldiers? No, that blue was the color of the resistance. What was going on? She could feel her heart picking up and her mouth going dry. Something was wrong, she could feel it.
“They’re back early,” commented one of the Performers standing nearby. Cricket jumped to her feet to see what was going on. They were carrying someone-no, it couldn’t be. Not this soon. It had only been ten minutes. He promised. The resistance leader was leading a horse, and Jack’s body was limp in the saddle. An arrow was driven into his back. “It was a sneak attack from a lone soldier,” the leader was saying. “It’s beginning.” Cricket ran forward to where they were placing the body.
She stared at Jack’s face, hardly believing that this man was her brother. Where was the boy who named her Cricket? So many lines, so much age, no more smile…so much red, shining wine colored liquid smeared all over his face, his beautiful resistance coat was seeped with it, the glittering gold buttons now resembling rubies. Somebody was screaming. No, not somebody, that sound was coming from her! She was screaming at Jack, begging for him to look at her, not to leave her, no, why wouldn’t he open his eyes? He was sleeping, right? She felt disconnected from the world. He had to be sleeping, he promised he’d be okay! She tried to shake him awake but he didn’t move, now her hands were red with his life…
Cool hands were grabbing her, dragging her away from Jack. “Drink this. Sleep,” commanded a voice.
“No! I don’t want to!” Cricket tried to fight off the draught, but the cool hands held her down, and it was poured down her throat. Still she fought, mind racing, trying to get out of the tent and back to Jack, but the world was turning cloudy, the sounds of the campsite becoming farther and farther away…
Not much longer now until she was out. What if something happened? The battle- no, she had to get to Jack, he had to wake up, but she was too tired to move. It was so warm here…
Oh, Jack.
They came in the dead of the night, just like the stories had said.
She hadn’t been asleep when it happened. She was wide awake, staring at the wooden beams of her ceiling, some creature within her gnawing at her insides. She had said too much, and said it to Mrs. Minstrel, the town gossip. It had been a flash of anger- at her parents, for pushing her out the door like that; at Jack for leaving home, and at Mrs. Minstrel for saying such horrible things about her family not being respectable. And it had all come tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop it- her parents were monitoring who came and went in the tavern, and not only that, they ran a newspaper for the resistance.
If only she had just run, like Ryne had told her to.
Outside, the sky was black as coal, and the grinning mouth of a moon that had been leering at her earlier that evening had vanished. It was absolutely still and silent, so she heard them when they approached. The sound of hooves, then heavy boots on the dirt path. The door to their tavern being kicked in, and her parents screaming for her to get out of the house. The soldiers were here, here to punish the traitors.
She struggled to get out of bed, but she was all tangled up in her sheets. She fell to the floor, hitting her head, momentarily paralyzed, and that was all the time the soldiers needed. They kicked her bedroom door open and dragged her into the main room.
“It seems that your family values of resistance aren’t shared by everyone,” sneered Cricket’s captor. She twisted out of his grip and fell to the floor in a heap. “This is the little brat who gave the tip off.”
“No!” cried Cricket. No, they had come, they had found her, they were going to kill her and her parents, this was it, the end, all because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. The panic gnawing inside her fought to its escape, and her half-digested dinner splashed onto the floor and across the boots of the soldier closest to her. He kicked her in the stomach, and she toppled over in pain.
They were holding her parents- no, they were throwing them across the room, her mother’s head hitting the fireplace with a sickening crack. Was she dead? No, she was stirring, crying, the tears leaving tracks in the blood that was now coating her face. The other soldier was holding a bayonet up to her father, scraping it along his arm, drawing blood. “Tell us! Is it true?” Her father shook his head. He was still holding together That brave man.
Cricket’s captor abandoned her and pulled out metal coated whip. He turned to her mother and brought it down upon her. More screaming. Her father begging the soldiers to stop, to just leave her alone and take him instead. They ignored him and poured something from their pockets into the fireplace. The low flames exploded high, leaping out of the fireplace, grabbing towards her family. The soldiers started to tear the room apart, searching for evidence, or maybe just to fill their need to destroy. Pots smashed, chairs were knocked over and splintered, and food was strewn about.
The fire from the fireplace was huge now. It was a monster growing out of control, eating the kitchen, eating the floorboards, jumping towards the soldiers and her parents. She tried to get up and run, but one of the soldiers had her, had his whip, was heating it over the growing fire. Was he going to hit her? She tried to duck as the glowing whip danced across the room, but it caught her, twisted around her arm. The world exploded with white hot pain and she screamed, and she could hear her parents screaming too, the soldiers laughing; she couldn’t breathe, the smoke was everywhere, the burning wood and hair smell filling her lungs and her brain and eyes, squeezing the life out of her.
One of the soldiers had discovered the book on the shelves, the one that wasn’t really a book. The one with the resistance paper stashed inside. That was all they needed, proof of traitors. She was left in a heap on the floor as her parents were dragged out the door. She was being left to die.
Rough hands grabbed and lifted her, but she was too weak to move. She could feel her captor or her savior rush down the staircase, could hear the flames devouring the once cozy main room, the groaning as the well polished beams started to give way. Then suddenly the temperature changed dramatically, and she was outside, away from the fire, being dropped on the frozen earth.
She could taste blood and dirt, and the cold night air bit at her arm, sending fire to her brain. The last thing she saw before everything exploded to white was the roof of the tavern caving in.
And then she slipped into the cold welcoming hands of darkness.
Cricket sat up fast, heart pounding, head spinning, and a sour taste in her mouth. There it was, that dream, The Dream, the reason she was here now, hiding from the soldiers, terrified of going outside, terrified of living. She should have died that night. Hands shaking, she reached for the gourd of water that had been left for her. Her hand was halfway there when she heard the shouts of the watchmen. They were here. Her palms were sweaty as she pushed the flaps of the tent aside, and peered into the gloom beyond.
The world was being destroyed around her. The battle had begun. Left and right the Street Performers were taking arms. Her family of musicians and artists were heading to die. They weren’t musicians and artists anymore, though. Soldiers. Warriors. Anyone who remained in the City of Dreamers joined the Street Performers, for there was nothing else left to do but join the resistance and fight. They were all that stood between the rest of the world and the oncoming storm, the oncoming storm that was now devouring them. She could see red splashed everywhere, so much red! The same red that was on Jack, marking the battle victims, waves that splashed across the floor, stuck to her bare feet, dotted her dress. There were so many people falling, so many people screaming, a chorus of sound straight from the pits of the Underworld, those screams and the swords crashing and the guns firing, filling her head. Such noise, such color, such pain! She could name the fallen around her; she knew their stories, because they had told her their stories in case such a thing ever happened. She couldn’t die, she couldn’t! She needed to stay here to tell their stories in taverns. She needed to keep her promise to Jack.
The old man was there at her feet, his fingers still wrapped around that battered handgun. She didn’t know if he was dead or not; she didn’t want to find out. Fighting off the waves of nausea, she gingerly removed the gun from his fist.
Everything changed in that instant. The smooth, cold weapon felt right at home in her left hand. She could almost feel it pulling her hand, guiding it to aim for that man there on the horse…yes, kill him, the soldiers would lose focus without him, he was the queen bee of the hive, and everybody was listening to his shouting commands. He had to go.
People were falling around her, maybe dead; she didn’t want to see. Somehow, she knew she was the only one still standing in one piece. How come nobody noticed her standing there? Just a girl in a tattered bloodstained dress, holding a weapon that clearly shouldn’t belong to her, but nobody made a move to kill her, nobody seemed to see one small girl in the sea of dead. She had faded into nothing somehow, she knew it, from all that hiding she did. She didn’t exist enough to matter to the soldiers. One little girl who was now pointing that lethal weapon at the man covered in medals…
Her whole body was icy with fear, but there was nothing left to do. One shot, that’s all it would take to save everyone. To avenge the kidnapping of her parents, and the death of her brother. One shot to change her from the terrified girl to a woman and a war hero. What does it matter anymore? She could see the people she loved standing there, Jack and her parents and Ryne and the Street Performers. Haunting her again, telling her to go. Time to grow up and stop being afraid of the world. She could still feel Ryne’s hand wrapped around hers. Her left hand was shaking. One shot.
Taking a deep breath, she pointed the gun.
And pulled the trigger.
I like the language and the action and whatnot...and of course the name "Cricket." Like Luna and Bubbles! ^_^ Hooray!