by Ian Withrow
He set the boy down, and with only a quick backwards glance Justin ran into the house, leaving the two of them alone.
“Tyson says you're an angel, that true?”
“No.”
Lauren didn't want to lie to this man. She didn't want to lie to anyone, but she felt that this man especially, with his piercing gaze, would know if she tried.
The man nodded slowly, thoughtfully.
Lauren cast a downward look and turned to go, spreading her wings and preparing to take off when the man stopped her.
“You hungry?”
She paused, wings raised and extended to their fullest. She looked at the man. His expression hadn't changed a bit. He was unreadable, like a poker player at a high-stakes table.
“Breakfast is on the table, would you like to stay and eat?”
“Your child could have been seriously hurt. He could have died because of me.”
“'Round here we don't judge people for making mistakes, not as long as they fix them. We don’t put much stock in ‘could haves’ or ‘would haves’ either”
Maybe it was the man's blunt attitude. Maybe it was the curious faces pressed against the dining room window behind him. Maybe it was the crushing loneliness that Lauren felt, the hunger for normalcy and family. Whatever it was, she nodded and followed him inside.
To their great credit, Charlie and his wife Jennifer, as well as their three beautiful children, Tyson, Abigail, and Justin, took Lauren's appearance in stride. They welcomed her into their home as a guest and a friend. Jen and Lauren made small talk while the children set the table, and Lauren helped where she was able to around the kitchen.
The mouth-watering smells of biscuits and gravy filled the modest home and Lauren realized she hadn't eaten since early the previous day. Her stomach growled with embarrassing volume, causing the kids to giggle.
“Alright, alright y'all,” Jennifer spoke with an endearing southern drawl. “Food's getting cold, set down and let's eat.”
The family gathered at the table as they had the night before, and Lauren was transported to her own childhood. This house, with its noise and laughter, warmth and closeness, was what she used to have. What she used to know.
“Justin, seeing as how you and your brother brought an angel home,” Charlie smiled and winked slyly at Lauren. “You can say grace.”
Justin and Tyson were quite taken with her, and they had insisted loudly that they should be allowed to sit next to her. As the family bowed their heads they reached out and joined hands. Lauren looked at the tiny hands stretched out towards her, and with a small, genuine smile she grasped them firmly.
As the young boy gave thanks for the food, his family, and for Lauren, she looked around the table. These people were good, simple, and true. They accepted her, welcomed her. She resolved to be better, to earn the kind of acceptance they had given her freely. These past few months Lauren's heart had gone cold, hardened by grief and pain and sorrow. She grew very still, committed everything to memory. A bright new candle to be held in her darkest hours.
When breakfast was over Lauren volunteered to help clean up, and after that was done she was invited to stay for coffee. Lauren was loath to leave, but she couldn't stay. They had already been more than generous, and Lauren knew too well the worldly consequences of her inaction.
Instead she said farewell, promising at their insistence to return someday if she was able. They gathered in the yard to watch her leave, and Lauren felt an awkward sort of performance anxiety. Previously she'd flown only in haste, with fear and urgency clouding her mind. Here she stood in broad daylight, a belly full of food, and with an audience looking on.
Come on, she coached herself, you flew just fine yesterday, you'll be fine.
Shaking the feeling that she looked silly she spread her wings wide once more, the enchanted gasp of the children gave her renewed confidence and she whipped her wings back downwards with surety.
Powerful muscles lifted her swiftly into the skies and she did a quick circle around the yard, waving and smiling at the friendly faces below her, before heading east once more.
Lauren decided to follow Route three, the last thing she needed to do was get lost. Within a few minutes she was cruising over Gorham. The small prairie town couldn't have had more than a couple hundred residents, and it seemed to pass in the blink of an eye.
Within an hour, however, Lauren realized she had made a serious miscalculation. The first few towns she'd passed over seemed fine, a few people on the streets and in cars going about their business. But now every town had masses of people crowding the streets, faces up and cellphones out recording her passage.
The normally sparse traffic of the rural route had tripled or more, cars and trucks clogged the road and people stood crammed beside the highway, their gazes locked on her.
Shit.
Lauren had hoped to fly under the radar, at least until St. Louis.
So much for that plan.
Hoping to elude the crowds she veered farther East, leaving the highway and heading for the Mississippi, another surefire way to hit the city.
No such luck.
Lauren swore under her breath as the unmistakable form of a helicopter approached from the northeast.
By the time she reached the city she was exhausted, surrounded by news helicopters, and incredibly annoyed. The rotor wash from the helicopters made it much harder to keep her balance. They buffeted her with strong winds and caused the air currents to shift unpredictably around her. It wouldn't have been so bad if they weren't insisting on getting as close to her as they could. The vehicles circled her like hungry wolves, each network desperate to push itself to the front of the pack.
As the city rose on the horizon Lauren began to search the vast urban sprawl for the green expanse of Forest Park. She had no trouble finding it, the well-maintained greens stood out sharply against the concrete and steel below her. From above the park it was easy to spot her destination, the St. Louis Children's Hospital.
The hospital was one of the first places she could remember visiting. She would have been five or maybe six at the time. She remembered meeting children her own age who were hurt or sick, and being especially proud of making them feel better.
Lauren tried to ignore the thousands of people filling the streets. She circled a few times, looking for a place to land below. Impossible. After years of shunning physical contact the idea of landing among a crowd of people, all pressed together and groping for her slightest touch, was too intimidating. Instead she opted to land within the rooftop garden of the hospital, where she was met with the surprised faces of a few doctors and nurses, as well as their small, frail patients.
“...returned to the public eye today. Corvidae flew into the spotlight once more at the St. Louis Children's hospital. She cured all 280 of the residents, and more than 50 visiting patients as well before being escorted by police officers into a crowd of more than thirty thousand. After spending hours looking to the needs of the masses, curing everything from runny noses to cancer, we have word that she is now resting at the luxurious Fourth Season hotel... ”
Kent's voice blared from the fancy flat-screen in the corner of the room. She'd tried changing the channel but his fake, plastic smile was everywhere. In the wake of her return he had soared back into the spotlight as well, being the subject of dozens of talk-show interviews regarding his initial discovery of the “Miracle Girl.”
The room was one of nearly a dozen, all connected in the single most opulent suite that Lauren had ever seen, or even heard of. She'd been met by the mayor of the city, as well as the governor, in the lobby of the hospital after only an hour of visiting with and healing the children of the hospital. She was welcomed very loudly, and publicly, by both of the gentlemen. The handshakes alone lasted several minutes,with at least a dozen cameramen recording and snapping photos.
The politicians had expressed their gratitude for her visit, and told her they had policemen standing by to escort her throu
gh the crowd. Being put on the spot, and in front of live camera feeds, she had little choice but to swallow her fear and accept. The next few hours had been a horrifying combination of screaming faces and suffocating closeness.
Even now, standing in an elegant, exquisitely tiled bathroom under a rainfall shower nearly big enough for her to spread her wings all the way, she couldn't close her eyes without seeing them.
The desperate, frenzied faces. People crushing in against her and her ring of protective officers. The constant, incomprehensible yelling of thousands of voices. And always the reaching, grasping hands, tugging and clawing at anything they could touch.
She hugged herself, tears mixing with the water running down her face. She knew that if she were a normal woman, her body would be covered in bruises from their overzealous hands. She hated herself for the disgust she felt. For her desire to flee, to leave those hungry crowds far behind.
Turning the water off at last, Lauren stepped dripping from the shower. She looked longingly at the thick, monogrammed bathrobe hanging beside the bathroom door and sighed. Her gaze carried over to the long curved mirror that followed the wall above a green, polished marble counter.
Lauren examined the woman in her reflection. She was still tall, still too thin, but she had a youthful, healthy appearance. No outward sign of her exhaustion. Of the stress that held her muscles tight as guitar strings just beneath her skin.
Her hair was darker when it was wet, it looked closer to brown in the soft, recessed lighting of the room. Out of habit she gathered it in her hands, pulling it behind her head to put into a ponytail. Something caught her eye as she did so; a blemish above her left breast.
Lauren approached the mirror, leaving a trail of droplets on the tiles as she crossed the room and looked more closely. There, just below her left collar bone was the unmistakable discoloration of a long-faded scar.
Lauren reached up, stunned, and gingerly touched the area. It had a slightly puffy texture, different from the surrounding flesh. Her mind returned to the night she must have gotten it, to Erin's house. Tears came to her eyes as she wished for a moment that the dagger-like wooden shard would have actually pierced her heart. Or the alcohol would have deadened the memories. But it hadn't, and drawing a ragged breath she felt certain nothing else ever would.
She felt the scar again, remembering the brief touch of Erin's skin, and how similar it felt to hers. That only made it worse. Lauren felt in her heart she was responsible for Erin's death. If she had only spoken up, or not been so drunk.
Or told her to begin with.
But it was too late for a second chance, her own stupidity and lack of foresight had once again seen to that. Too late for Erin, too late for Gabriel, too late even for her parents.
Stop it, she told herself. She repeated it within her mind over and over again, a prayer meant to silence her inner demons. But their voices were louder than her own.
Lauren's head was pounding, she had to make it stop. She felt herself sliding down into a pit with no bottom, her heartbeat quickening with desperation. Looking up into her own eyes she was transported to another memory. Another mirror.
Lauren shook her head, trying to clear the darkness from her mind. She grabbed a towel from the rack and wrapped it around herself and headed to the kitchen. There, just where she knew it would be, was a mini-bar.
There was a seal on the mini-fridge, with a friendly notice from the hotel informing patrons that opening the bar would result in a 250-dollar surcharge.
Lauren ignored it. Snapping the thin paper she swung the door open to reveal a number of small bottles. They all had fancy names, and having never really experimented with drinking they were essentially gibberish to her. The bottles seemed designed for one or two shots, which struck her as phenomenally stupid considering the price tags. She wasted no time trying to decipher the good from the bad, grabbing the first bottle and unscrewing the cap.
Rum, vodka, gin, whiskey, Lauren opened and downed the contents of the tiny bottles as quickly as her body would let her. The combination did not sit well in her stomach, but she kept pounding drinks. Sure enough, within about 20 minutes it started to have the desired effect.
Lights began to blur in the spacious suite, and her inner demons seemed content to gorge themselves on liquor instead of her fears and doubts, at least for the moment.
Lauren decided she'd be more comfortable sitting, and after grabbing another armful of bottles she hopped up on the counter. She sent various spices, salt and pepper shakers, and other kitchen utensils flying as she both miscalculated her jump and completely disregarded her body's recent addition of wings.
Nearly slipping from her precarious perch on the edge of the gray granite, she swore loudly and dropped a pair of bottles, which skittered across the floor.
Determined and stubborn, however, she scooted farther onto the counter and tucked her wings around to the front of her as best as she could. A large crash accompanied the movement and she turned to see that she'd knocked a knife block from the counter into the sink, filling it with a dangerous array of sharp, bladed instruments.
She continued to drink, curious if and when her abilities might kick in to save her from alcohol poisoning. If her last experience was any gauge, she could hope to at least drink herself into unconsciousness.
An hour in and the room was spinning fast. A small stack of empty bottles had replaced the full ones she'd brought with her onto the counter. She knew if she wanted to keep going she would have to leave her seat.
She sighed drunkenly.
“Well fuck Lauren, you're too drunk to want to get up, and not drunk enough to get what you wanted out of drinking.”
Unsurprisingly, there was no response from the room or the bottles.
She slipped, literally, from the counter, crashing to the floor with almost as much grace as a knocked over bookshelf.
Standing unstably and rubbing her bruised behind she peered once more into the mini-fridge.
Tequila.
Even with the letters swimming together she had no trouble reading the label. It was like ice-water poured into her veins. She slammed the door angrily, much too hard, and set the plates and cups rattling in the cupboards.
Denied her escape, she pounded her fists on the hard stone of the counter, raging against the sea of memory threatening to drown her. With rising anger she balled her fists and cast a wrathful gaze around the room for some other outlet.
Her eyes settled on the sink full of knives. Her mind turned to the enticing distraction she'd felt when she broke her mirror, and the words that Erin had told her long ago. Words that hadn't fully made sense to her at the time. They seemed much clearer now, in meaning and in truth.
With a trembling hand she lifted one of the blades from the basin, a smooth, stainless steel paring knife.
Bracing herself, Lauren drew the blade quickly across her forearm before she had a chance to second-guess herself further.
“Shhit!”
Gasping, she dropped the knife and clutched her wounded forearm.
The pain cut past her drunken stupor and clouded her mind, forcing the memories into a quiet, dull corner. She closed her eyes in relief, but reopened them as she felt her flesh begin to close itself.
She'd bled all over the sink, giving it a grisly appearance. She examined the cut as it closed, it was narrow but deep, deeper than she'd really intended. It stitched itself back together and sealed without a trace.
She looked down at her chest, pulling open the towel and examining the scar above her breast. It was still there.
That doesn't make any sense.
Confused, drunk, and angry at the slowly returning noise of her emotions, she picked the knife back up. She ran the blade across her arm again, harder this time.
Again her mind was washed clear of everything but the pain, and she could see a flash of white for a brief instant as the knife brushed across her bone. She wondered for a moment that she had overdone it. The edges of her v
ision started to fade and the lights seemed to flicker inconsistently.
Sinking back to the floor and gritting her teeth, she watched as the blood pouring from the cut slowed, and then stopped. Close examination revealed her muscles and skin rapidly growing back together. This time though, a very, very faint line was left. A tiny, easily missed pink scar, no wider than a piece of thread. While it quickly faded to the same soft tan as the rest of her skin, the scar remained. Lauren hesitated for only the briefest of moments before making up her mind. From her position on the floor she reached once more for the mini-bar.
Lauren awoke to the sound of the television blaring. From the next room she could hear the sounds of screaming, shouting, and what sounded like sirens and occasional gunfire.
Dammit, that was loud. Kent's smug face must have finally been turned off and the channel must have reverted to normal programming while she was passed out.
Her head was pounding and she had no idea what time it was. She moved to stand and felt the bare skin of her legs peel off of the floor, she was sitting in a puddle of something dark red and sticky.
Looking herself over, flashes of the memory returned. Her vision was still blurry, and the room was spinning violently, so she couldn’t have been out too long. The windows were dark as well, she noted, so it must still be night time. The floor, the towel, and even her hair reeked of alcohol, it made her stomach do somersaults.
She could feel her gift working, slowly, to clean the poison from her veins, but judging from the sheer quantity of bottles around her she guessed it was going to be a long, painful process.
She tried to stand, and immediately thought better of it. Her legs refused to support her, and a banged shin was the only reward she got for trying.
But the noise from the next room was relentless.
Growling under her breath she crawled hands and knees across the tacky, blood-covered floor towards the sitting room. She paused briefly, lamenting the clean, plush ivory of the carpet, but the television was drilling a hole into her skull through her ears.
