The rage left Lucy, ripped from her throat as her eldest daughter, Sonjia fell to the floor, shot by the man currently holding a gun to her own head. Once her howl became a whisper pushed through strained vocal cords, anti-freeze began pumping through what was left of her. They yanked her to her feet, one of them by her hair and dragged her from her home. They then stripped and deloused her, frowning at her scars and threw her into this hermetically sealed tent.
In the center are two chrome chairs that before the rains came would have been cheap throw away patio furniture but are now as exotic as Persian rugs or silk drapery. She perches herself on the edge of one, her back ram rod straight and closes her eyes beginning meditation techniques to clear her mind. Lessons learned long ago to control the anger that always burned too hot in Lucy. She knows this game, she knows waiting. Soon enough the seal of the tent breaks and soft footfalls add rhythm to her meditation.
“Well, if it isn’t Dr. Lucy Hassier. It’s been a long time,” he says, voice carefully modulated.
“Do I know you?”
The man in front of her is somewhere in his late 20’s or early 30’s, both his hair and eyes are a warm brown and like all the other invaders, thus far, is well fed, clear of skin and looking irritatingly like the world hasn’t gone to shit.
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t remember me, I hoped that you would, but I didn’t make quite the impression then that I do now.”
“What do you want, other than the designs for the filtration system, which you pretty much blew any chance of getting when you killed my daughter,” says Lucy.
“You would never willing cause suffering to those you can help. I imagine that your need to aid your fellow man is as deeply ingrained as your maternal instinct.”
She can’t help rising to the bait and growls, tasting blood in the back of her throat.
“Now, now. You do still have one daughter left and it’s only a matter of time before we find her.”
“Yea, good luck with that,” says Lucy snorting.
“You will help us put the world back together.”
“There is no ‘putting it back together’. Only time can heal this planet and we won’t be around long enough for that.”
“Perhaps but you wouldn’t believe the most amazing things that come from some terrible lies,” he manages to both sing-song and say sagely.
But she can, things like angels and faith, safety and childhoods, society and grass. Tomorrows.
And she quotes back, ever wondering at the marvel of the human brain, “Some nights I wish that my lips could build a castle. Some nights I wish they’d just fall off,” and seals hers and all that he wants behind them.
For the previous parts to this story I created the category Falling Rain to the right, because linking each part was getting loooong!
Inspired by Write at the Merges smash-up of Fun.’s When We Were Young and this: