All Alone Pt 3 (Patreon)

The Daughter

Limbo.

More than just a mythical location, it is also a state of mind, a state of being. Or rather, a state of non-being. Not thinking, eyes closed, breathing shallowly, not moving. Not acknowledging even the possibility of the existence of an outside world.

There is nothing here. Nothing can hurt me, because I do not exist.

If there is no me, then there is no pain, no hurt, no loss.

I am not.

<><>

She drifted in limbo, the warmth of the sheets covering her a barely acknowledged reality. The covers that she had pulled over her head gave the illusion of night-time, let her pretend that she was asleep, didn't have to get up, didn't have to do anything.

Didn't have to remember.

"Taylor."

The voice is an illusion. It doesn't exist. Ignore it for long enough and it will go away. It always has before.

"Taylor."

The voice does not exist. I do not exist. Nothing exists.

"Taylor!"

She clenched her eyes shut, but did not put her hands over her ears, because that would acknowledge the existence of the voice.

I am not.

"Taylor, you have to get up. You've been in bed for days."

The covers were pulled away from over her head; warm sunlight splashed over her face, her vision turning from black to red with the glare through her closed eyelids. She curled instinctively, arms covering her head, assuming a foetal position.

"Taylor, you have to get up. You have to eat. To drink. To bathe."

I have been getting up, she thought rebelliously. Midnight forays to sneak downstairs when the hunger pangs grew too strong to ignore. Furtive bites snatched in darkness because she didn't want to turn the lights on, to face her father. To face herself. To face reality.

“Taylor, get up.” There was desperation in his voice now. Fear, for her. He doesn't want to lose me, like he lost Mom.

“D'n'w'n'a,” she mumbled through a dry mouth, through vocal cords that hadn't uttered a sound that wasn't a sob for two weeks. The words, such as they were, came out despite herself, and in that moment she knew that she had lost.

Since the funeral, she had been striving to shut herself away from the world, shut the world away from herself. Her father would get up in the morning, shower and make breakfast. Then he would come and tap on her bedroom door before he went to work. She always heard him, never answered.

Awake, she would curl around the little tight ball of misery that was her entire world now, and pull the covers over her head. Sometimes she would sleep, sometimes she would cry, and sometimes she would just lie awake the entire day, the slow march of her thoughts matching the progression of the sun across the sky.

He would come home in the afternoon, to find her breakfast cold and congealed in the pan. She would hear him sigh as he scraped the pan out, and then he would come upstairs and tap on her door. Call out to her, ask her what she wanted for dinner. She never answered. Her door would creak open slightly; he would be checking that she was still there, still alive. She would roll over, turning her face from the door, and it would close again.

But now he wasn't taking that for an answer. He had forced her to respond to him, with almost insulting ease. Perhaps some part of her -

No!

- wanted to end this self-imposed exile -

I don't!

- and rejoin her family -

Don't make me!

- and the human race again.

Please. Don't make me.

Don't make me remember.

She felt hands on her, guiding her to sit up. Her legs unfolded against her will, slid over the side of the bed. “Christ,” he muttered. “You're skin and bone.”

Her eyes opened, but she kept them downcast. “Been eating,” she muttered defiantly.

“Not much,” he retorted. “And you smell. Have you showered at all?”

The answer to that was obvious. She didn't want to shower during the day, while he was out, because then she would have to look at herself, look at her face in the mirror. See the hurt in her own eyes. And she couldn't shower at night, because then he would hear her. Get up, perhaps. Turn on the lights. Talk to her. Make her talk to him. Make her think. Make her remember.

“Well, you're showering now,” he decided. “You're getting up now, and you're marching into that bathroom, and you're going to stand under the shower for at least five minutes.” As he spoke, he was delving into her drawers, retrieving a shirt, a pair of jeans. Underwear, even. “If you don't, then I'm going to fill the tub full of ice water and dunk you in it.”

Her eyes opened wider at that. “You wouldn't.”

“Try me,” he retorted, with an uncharacteristic grimness. “It's been two weeks since Emma passed. To mourn is natural. This is more than mourning. It seems to me like you're trying to join her. Are you?”

The shock went through her system like an electric jolt. Is that what I've been doing?

Almost immediately, she denied it. No. No, I wouldn't do that. But the denial felt just a little hollow.

“Dad,” she ventured, to try to turn her thoughts away from that topic, “is this what it was like for you when Mom passed?”

He took a long moment to answer, and his own face was carved in harsher lines when he did. “I … possibly. I don't remember much of that time. I know that Alan and Zoe and Emma took you in, helped you where I couldn't. But they can't help you now. They need all the help they can get, themselves. It's a terrible thing, to lose a child.”

He fears losing me. He's worried for me. He loves me.

I've been so selfish. Emma's gone, but she wouldn't want me to do this. She'd want me to get out and make the best of life.

Guilt welled up inside her, and she pushed herself to her feet. It took her two tries, but she made it. Taking the clothes from his arms, she made her way across the room to the door. It felt strange, opening it in broad daylight. Turning, she looked across at the shelf above her bed, which held two of her most prized possessions. One was a flute, worn and well-used, while the other was an equally well-used Alexandria action figure. The flute reminded her of happier days with her mother; the plastic toy stood strong and brave and optimistic, as she remembered Emma to be. Mom, Emma, I'm sorry. I'll do better.

Her father followed her along the hallway to the bathroom. “I'll be making breakfast,” he told her. “Bacon and eggs okay?”

Her stomach rumbled alarmingly, and she was suddenly very hungry. “Yes, please.”

<><>

After the shower, she realised just how bad she must have smelled; she could scarcely stand the reek of the pyjamas she had been wearing. Freshly soaped and scrubbed, hair shampooed, she felt a thousand percent better. And the odour of the cooking food, wafting up from the kitchen, made her stomach rumble all over again.

Her father looked up as she entered the kitchen; he was just putting bacon and egg on to a plate for her. “Hey now,” he greeted her. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” she told him. It wasn't totally true; she was still avoiding her own gaze in the mirror, but she could handle being up and about. The impulse to dive back into bed and pull the covers over herself was still there, but it was being eroded more and more by the minute.

Taking her seat at the table, she picked up the glass of orange juice at her place, and sipped at it. It tasted heavenly; she could feel the chilled liquid trickling down her throat. A clank signalled the plate being placed before her; the delicious odour of freshly cooked bacon and eggs, seasoned just the way she liked them, hit her nostrils anew.

“Now, take it easy,” he cautioned her. “You haven't been eating that much recently, so you want to ease into it.”

He hadn't given her all that much, she realised. Compared to what he had on his plate, it wasn't much at all, but she still had trouble finishing it. It tasted so good; she felt as though she'd been fasting for weeks instead of days. “Wow,” she told him after swallowing the last morsel. “That was great, Dad. Thanks.”

Much of the worry was gone from his face and voice when he answered. “It's good just to see you up and around, kiddo. Now, let's go do one more thing.”

“Go do what?” she asked. “I can't eat another bite, honestly.”

“Not food.” He held up the car keys. “We're going out.”

“What?” She was puzzled. “Where? Why?”

“You'll see,” he replied. “Now go visit the bathroom so we can go.”

“What? I don't have to -” Her stomach took the opportunity to rumble in quite a different manner than before. “Whoops. Maybe I do.”

<><>

Once in the car, she watched him driving. “Sorry for frightening you like that, Dad,” she ventured. “I … don't know -”

“I do,” he stated. “You were right. When your mother passed, I went into a similar state. I could barely take care of myself; I certainly couldn't take care of you. I owe Alan and Zoe so much, just for being there when you asked them for help.” Glancing across at her, he continued. “I don't know how you held up so well.”

“I didn't,” she confessed. “I fell apart totally too, remember? And even a month later, I was still crying myself to sleep.” She had cried again, in the shower, but her father hadn't commented on her puffy eyes, for which she was grateful.

“Well, you've been coming back,” he noted. “Even Alan was saying before you went on the camp that you were looking more cheerful, more like yourself. It's been good to see. Good to see you again.”

“I don't know if I'll ever feel like me again,” she replied in a choked voice. “Emma -”

<><>

The Father

She began crying again; wordlessly, he handed her a box of tissues from the centre console. She used them profligately, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, but he didn't care. She was letting the emotions out, which was far better than locking them inside. Which was basically the point behind this trip.

They made one stop, at a florist. She stared out the window at the floral arrangements, then turned to him. “What are we doing here, Dad?”

“Why else?” he tried to make his tone light. “To buy flowers.”

She didn't ask who the flowers were for; that was kind of a given. Together, they went into the shop. She got a little teary while picking out a bunch of summer-bright flowers, but he pretended not to see. He picked out a wreath; she was silent as they went back to the car.

They had driven a few more blocks before she started looking around, an expression of concern on her face. “Uh, you do know that you're going the wrong way for the cemetery, right, Dad?”

He nodded. “Yes. We're not going there.”

“What?” She stared at him. “Where are we going then?”

He drew a deep breath. “I asked Alan. We're going to where it happened.”

“What?” Her tone was utterly different, this time. “What, no. No. I don't want to go there, Dad.”

“Taylor, listen to me.” He put all the strength he could into his voice. “I'll be there with you, every step of the way. We need to see it. We need to see the place. It might help you come to terms with it. To face what's happened. Give you closure.”

She clenched her hands around the bouquet that she was carrying so tightly that her knuckles whitened. “The only thing that would give me closure would be … “ Her voice dropped too low for him to hear, but he could guess. If I could kill the bastard who did it.

He didn't know how to tell her that her wish had already been granted; at least the part involving the death of the culprit. The police had kept it quiet, but Alan Barnes had confided to him the scale of the bloodbath following the death of his daughter. Their best suspect for the murder, found wearing Emma's jacket, with the bloody blade still in hand, had been found dead on site, along with several of her comrades. Emma had been killed by a girl only a year or two older than herself.

“Well, let's just see how it goes, okay, Taylor?”

She brought her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs. “I guess.”

<><>

The Vigilante

She picked up the signal from the radio beeper when it was still four blocks away. For the last two weeks she had been confining her attentions to this general area, two weeks during which she waited for Emma's friend to visit the spot. The device that Sophia had attached to the Heberts' car wasn't exactly Tinker tech, but it did the job; it had cost her a chunk of druggie money, but that was okay. There was always more where that came from. But now she was starting to get impatient; another week and she would have cut to the chase, gone to talk to the girl directly.

She pulled the receiver out of the belt pouch and tried to align the screen properly. The tiny dot indicating the car's location was moving toward the appropriate area, all right. Excellent. Show time.

She wasn't quite sure what she was expecting from the girl; after all, she hadn't been in the alleyway. All Sophia had seen of her was a tall, rail-thin girl, crying and being comforted by her father. Is she a wimp? Is that why it's taken her this long to come here?

Nah. The Barnes girl was a fighter. She wouldn't be friends with a wimp.

Stuffing the receiver back into the pouch, she ran to the edge of the roof and jumped; her cloak flared as she went to shadow form and coasted to the next building, where she reformed and ran forward once more. While she couldn't run as fast as a car, she didn't have to stop for traffic lights, or take a roundabout way to get where she wanted to go.

Puffing slightly from the exertion, she paused on the rooftop that she wanted. Are they going to drive up there, or park outside and walk? She didn't thinkthey would drive into the alleyway; that, after all, was what had precipitated what had happened to the Barnes girl. But then, walking down the length of the narrow street held its own perils. Walking was the ballsier option. Let's see what this one does.

The car nosed up to the turnoff leading into the alleyway, and stopped. The air was so still that Sophia actually heard the parking brake come on as the engine stopped. Both doors opened, and they got out, bright flowers in hand.

Wait, what? They're bringing flowers? Did I just misjudge this whole thing?

As she watched, the father went to the back of the car and opened the trunk. From it, he took a large tyre iron. Gripping it tightly, he rejoined his daughter. Well, he's not stupid anyway. He's not prey.

<><>

The Daughter

Taylor glanced around as they walked down the narrow street. It looked ordinary to her, strewn with random trash and refuse, but what had happened here made it ominous. Even though it was midmorning, the shadows cast by the buildings were just a little intimidating. She felt that she was on the set of a horror movie, that the monster was going to jump out at any minute now.

A flicker of movement, above, caught her eye, and she jumped, moving closer to her father. Turning her head, she stared at the edge of the roof. “Something's up there,” she stated, not daring to raise her voice too much.

“What's that, Taylor?” Her father was looking all around, even glancing behind them, as they advanced down the alley. He put his arm around her shoulders, keeping her close. She didn't have any problem with that.

“I saw something move. Up there, on the roof.”

“Probably a bird, or a stray cat looking for a bird,” he suggested.

“I guess,” she responded, but she was dubious. It hadn't looked like a bird, but then, she'd seen it only fleetingly, and not through her glasses. All she'd gotten an impression of was a dark object, moving. For all I know, it was a gorilla. Or a runaway weather balloon.

He kept moving, and she kept moving with him, but she was watching the edge of the rooftops now.

<><>

The Father

“Taylor.”

She looked around at him. “What?”

He pointed down at the ground before them. There was a vague misshapen stain on it; it could have been oil, paint or a dozen other substances. He knew what it was. “This is where it happened. This is where she died.”

Dropping to his knees, he carefully laid the wreath on the spot. “Rest in peace, Emma. You will be remembered.”

Beside him, Taylor was looking around at the alleyway, the surrounding buildings. “This is the place? This is where my best friend died?” Tears were running down her face. “Emma died here? In this stinking, shitty place?”

“Taylor -”

“No, Dad, don't you see how wrong this all is? Emma wasn't supposed to die. She was supposed to live! We were going to grow up as best friends, and critique each others' boyfriends – well, I'd critique her boyfriends – and she was going to be a supermodel, and I'd be a scientist and discover how super-powers really worked, or something like that! We were going to have lives! Adventure! Fun!” She kicked an empty tin can; it skittered across the cracked asphalt until it hit a wall. “And now all that's gone because of some fucking assholes in a dirty stinking fucking alley!”

As her voice rose, echoing between the buildings, she stormed back and forth across the road, kicking at scraps of newspaper and other trash. The can bounced away again, propelled by her foot; she ran after it and kicked it again, the bouquet forgotten in her hand.

Danny got to his feet and glanced around. He didn't like the idea of her yelling like this; the idea had been to visit, lay the flowers down, then walk away. But at least she was venting, letting her feelings out. But still …

“Taylor.” She was standing still, head down, crying, as he came up to her. “Taylor, come on.” As he put his arms around her, she leaned against his chest.

“It's just not fair, you know?” she sobbed. “It's not fair. This shouldn't have happened to her.”

“I know, kiddo, I know,” he sighed. “Life's not fair. We both know that.” I've known it since Anne-Rose passed.

“I'm sorry for yelling like that,” she ventured.

“It was only the truth,” he pointed out. “Want to put your flowers down?”

“Okay.” Pulling away from his hug, she went to where the wreath lay, and carefully placed the bouquet in the middle of it. “Emma, I'm really sorry this happened, okay? I'll try to have a great life for the both of us.”

<><>

The Vigilante

She couldn't hear the words as they spoke between themselves, but the girl – Taylor – had been clearly audible as she yelled. She had anger in her; Sophia could hear it. If she'd just started to cry, Sophia would have dismissed her as a wimp, but the violence in her actions told another story altogether.

She was sharp, too; Sophia wasn't sure that she hadn't been made, earlier, when they were walking up the alley. Taylor had been scanning the edges of the rooftop, and Sophia had had to keep her head down so as not to be seen. Most people didn't look up; it was a fact that made her life easier. But Taylor had looked up. What does that mean?

In any case, there was a new situation brewing. While they'd been in the alleyway, a couple of guys from the Merchants had wandered up and were now leaning on the car. These guys were out of their territory and they had to know it, but they were probably out tagging for the hell of it. The Archer's Bridge Merchants were not known for their common sense; they were in the process of being forced out of their original territory by the ABB, but they still went and tagged in ABB turf.

What the hell; Sophia didn't care about what happened to some Merchant mooks.

But what was going on down there at the moment was definitely of interest to her. Taylor and her father had just walked out of the entrance to the street, to see the gang punks. How are they going to handle this? Are they going to fold, or are they going to fight?

<><>

The Daughter

She caught her breath when she saw the gang members. The anger had drained out of her, or at least mostly so, and she was more tired than anything; she still wasn't really recovered from her self-imposed starvation diet. There they were, leaning against the car, smoking something that she guessed wasn't tobacco, jeering to one another in highly obscene terms.

Her mind flashed back to what had happened to Emma, and she felt fear. It washed through her body, weakening her knees and loosening her bowels. Oh god, what's going to happen? “D-dad?”

“Taylor.” His voice was firm and low. “Stay behind me.” Gripping the tyre iron, which she had quite forgotten that he was carrying, he stepped forward.

The punks turned when he was still a few paces from the car. “Hey man, whassup?”

Her father stopped, and pointed the tyre iron like a gun. “Whassup, you little shits, is that you're gonna get off my goddamn car, and fuck off before I beat the ever-loving shit out of you.”

Taylor's eyes opened wide. I've never heard Dad talk like that before.

It seemed that the gang punks were equally surprised. “Hey man, chill,” one of them told him. “We're just hangin'. No big.”

<><>

The Father

Stepping forward again, he brought the iron down on the trunk of the car, leaving a dent. He hated doing it, but the anger roiling through him needed a target, and they needed to see that he meant business. The loud bang caused both the gang punks to jump up and away from the car. “Then go and hang some other place,” he growled. “Fuck off before I fuck you up.” Raising the tyre iron threateningly, he took another step forward.

“Shit, dude, all right, all right, we're going.” They backed off; he wanted to follow, to threaten them some more, but they were going. The danger to Taylor was passing. He stood foursquare, tyre iron in sight, as they shambled off, looking back occasionally to make sure he wasn't following. When they felt that they were at a safe distance, they stopped and shouted obscenities, but he didn't care.

Getting his keys out, he unlocked the car and let Taylor in, then went around and got in himself. The tyre iron he tossed into the back seat.

His hands were shaking too much at first to put the key into the ignition; this was due to the after-effects of adrenaline in his system, he knew. But eventually he managed it, turned the key, and started the car.

“Dad … “ Taylor began, as he turned the vehicle and began to head back toward home.

He didn't want to look at her, see the fear in her face. He knew he had a violent temper, inherited from his father, but he had sworn that he would never let it loose on Anne-Rose or Taylor. And he hadn't. But now she had seen and heard what he could be like, what his father had been like when he was a boy. “I'm sorry, Taylor.”

“Sorry for what, Dad?” she asked, and now he turned to look at her. The look in her eyes wasn't fear, wasn't revulsion. It was hero-worship. “That was awesome. You scared the shit out of those assholes.”

“Yeah, I know,” he grunted. “I shouldn't have done that.”

“What? No. Dad, seriously. That was awesome. Totally badass. You did what you had to do.”

He shook his head. “Taylor, that's not me. Not really.”

Reaching out, she put her hand on his forearm. “Well, I'm glad it was, just then. I'm glad you were there.”

Taking his left hand off the wheel, he reached over to briefly cover her hand with his. “I'm just glad we got out of there in one piece. You all right?”

She leaned back in her seat and breathed deeply. “Yeah, Dad. I think I'm better than I was.”

“Good. Let's go home; we've had enough adventure for one day.”

She giggled, a little high-pitched, some of the adrenaline still working its way out of her system. “Yeah, I think so too.”

<><>

The Vigilante

Shadow Stalker watched the car drive away. She didn't bother to follow. Well, well, she mused. That family is definitely not made up of wimps. I'm going to have to keep a closer eye on them.

She still hadn't managed to talk to Taylor alone, but her chance would come.

Sooner or later, it would come. 

Part 4