by Ian Withrow
She thought back to Sarajevo. To Erin. To Gabriel. She thought about the riots that had broken out across the world. The trouble she had caused in the Vatican. About the mob that nearly killed her father. Had she ever really helped anyone?
Or was she a monster?
How could she be anything else, considering all the suffering and death she was responsible for?
Her thoughts turned to the people she had let down. The family she'd met in Gorham, the Cardinal and the guardsman in Rome, Caroline and Rosaline. Was she worthy of the faith they placed in her? Was it even possible for her to be the person they needed her to be?
Lauren took another pull, her thoughts hounding her relentlessly. She closed her eyes and sobbed, the bottle in her hands her only safe port in the storm. Eventually the numbness she was so desperately seeking started to sink in, and the crashing waves inside her receded.
Lauren raised the bottle to her lips once more, but only a few drops wet her lips. She stared at the bottle in frustration.
“Stupid thing,” she slurred to herself, struggling to stand. Her legs seemed to have fallen asleep at some point. Cursing under her breath she steadied herself against the counter.
She selected another bottle at random, yanking it from the shelf amidst the loud clinking of glass.
“Shh,” she whispered.
She caught sight of a television remote behind the counter and grabbed it, looking around for the TV in the room. She saw it now, smaller than most of the others on the plane. It was settled against the backsplash of the bar behind the counter.
Taking her new prize around the bar with her, she settled herself on one of the bar stools bolted to the floor. She pulled on the top of the bottle for a moment before realizing it was a screw cap.
“You're an idiot,” she muttered, chuckling darkly at herself.
Her bottle now open, she fumbled with the power button on the remote.
She took a drink as the device powered up to reveal a fierce soccer match taking place.
“Boo,” she said loudly, jamming the channel button down, her clouded mind causing her to raise her voice again.
She drank as she flipped through children's programming, a pair of movies, a nature documentary of some kind, even some live music. A few channels later she hit the news.
The remote fell to the counter, slipping from numb fingers as Lauren stared horrified at the screen. A news anchor who had clearly been crying was speaking in front of several live feeds from around the world.
In one, Jerusalem was burning, the streets rife with gunfire and piles of bodies. Soldiers moved street by street exchanging bullets with armed, violent mobs.
Another feed showed a village on the Pakistan-India border. Men in biohazard suits were walking among piles of dead civilians, their skin bluish and blood dripping from their open mouths and noses, victims of some undetermined nerve agent.
The video switched to show large trucks in formations, thick white streaks of smoke streaking across the skies as the trucks unleashed flurries of rockets into the distance.
A quarter million dead, the bottom of the screen read.
Video after video, news feed after news feed. Villages burned in Sudan, a ritual suicide in Moscow, riots across the Bible Belt in America, the carnage was endless.
And then, the Vatican.
An angry mob, tens of thousands strong, had marched on the Vatican demanding Lauren. Some clamored for an explanation, a solution to the atrocities across the globe. Others came demanding guidance and salvation.
Many had come armed.
The reporter on the screen was speaking, but Lauren's mind couldn't process what he was saying. The words were disjointed and warped to her ears.
“...on the Vatican earlier yesterday evening, overpowering the largely ceremonial Swiss Guard and damaging many of the structures on the grounds. Preliminary reports suggest that at least four guardsmen were killed with more than a dozen others seriously injured...”
The video skipped ahead, showing the pope addressing a loud, angry crowd in the courtyard of the Vatican.
“... appears to have been a major split within the Church following the unofficial announcement that the Vatican will be denouncing Lauren Corvidae. Unconfirmed reports are that the College of Cardinals has divided itself into two camps. The majority of the church seems to support the papacy. A second group, which has considerable strength outside of Rome, supports Lauren Corvidae's status as a ‘Divine agent’ and disputes the decision by the papacy to declare her anathema…”
Wheels spun in Lauren’s mind as the report continued.
“...Theologists are already calling this the second Great Schism. This second group is reportedly being spearheaded by a rogue Cardinal, Roberto Fafoglia, who has fled the holy city along with his supporters amidst a series of violent clashes between police, citizens, and the Swiss Guard. We’ve obtained video that appears to show the cardinal cautioning Catholics against the pontiff's condemnation of Corvidae...”
Again the video shifted, this time to a shaky video of Cardinal Fafoglia. He was bleeding from a small cut on his cheek but he spoke with fire, an impassioned plea to viewers.
“... instead let us turn to our hearts to God, for only through him can we find Truth. The Word holds many mysteries, even to those who have served it for a lifetime. I have met this woman, her grace and her kindness are indisputable. Look how she has come among the people of the world to heal wounded hearts and bodies…”
The familiar face of Kaspar entered the frame and he whispered something into the Cardinal’s ear. Roberto nodded, but continued speaking to the camera.
“...Can we be so swift to disavow her, as our forefathers condemned The Son of God to death upon the Cross? To condemn her actions because they do not fit our flawed and human understanding of God? Consider Saint Joseph and the Virgin Mary, who were visited by the angel Gabriel. Gabriel spoke to them and prophesied a Savior, our own Lord Jesus. What dire consequence had they not heeded his edicts...”
The reporter returned, cutting the previous video short. He stammered out an apology at cutting the video short..
“I-I apologize, we're going to take you live to Vatican City where the Pope is addressing the people in what official representatives have announced as a 'call to action for all true believers.' We want to warn our viewers this is a live feed and given the events of the past 24 hours in particular, strong discretion is advised.”
An aerial shot of the Vatican took over the screen. More than a hundred guardsman, all wearing thick body armor and carrying assault rifles, lined the courtyard of the Vatican. Scores of similarly armed police forces were scattered throughout a crowd that seemed endless.
The mass of people roared as the pope walked out onto a balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica, though with approval or anger it was hard to tell. The pope raised his hands and the crowd quieted. There was a deep, zealous energy that Lauren could feel through the screen.
“Brethren in Christ, We stand before you as a humble servant of God.”
As he spoke, a squadron of guards hauled a man forward from within St. Peter's Basilica. The man was wearing torn and dirtied clothing and had a cloth bag over his head.
“Let it be known that we have consulted the Word of God and the Holy Spirit and the Lord has spoken. Our very world is threatened. We live now in an age of marked tribulation, prophesied in Revelations. Thus, by the authority of our Lord Jesus Christ, of the Blessed Apostles Peter and Paul, and by our own authority, we pronounce, declare, and define it to be a divinely revealed dogma: Lauren Corvidae is not a faithful servant of our God the father.”
The crowd grew restless, rumblings of anger rolling through them in a wave.
“Rather she is a fallen angel, of the host of Lucifer! Never has the Lord spoken through his Word that such a being would come to us. No. This creature is a foul trick by the Devil. She is a tempter of men. Indeed she did deceive even us, that most faithful mouthpiece of God, made infallible
by the trust of Jesus Christ…”
The pope paused in his address, taking a moment to let his confession sink in to the onlooking crowd before he continued.
“But, through divine providence, we have seen the mark of the Beast upon her! See too that her once-pure wing is blemished with darkness. She revealed not as seraph, but as the whore of Babylon.”
The violent, ugly mood of the crowd deepened and darkened. The soldiers and policemen looked nervously around, their hands visibly tightening on their weapons in the face of the horde.
“More than that, we denounce her supporters as idolaters. As anathema. Foreign to God and irredeemable. The Catholic Church is alone in keeping the true worship. This is the fount of truth, this the house of Faith, this the temple of God: if any man enter not here, or if any man go forth from it, he is a stranger to the hope of life and salvation.”
The crowd was frothing with emotion at the pontiff's stirring words. Latent aggression visible throughout the crowd. Lauren paled at the fury of the people. The pope raised his hands, again seeking silence from the assembly, but they were beyond reason.
“It is the duty of the Church to root out wickedness, to be the salvation of the whole of mankind. In this duty we bring forth Jonathan Scott Corvidae.”
Lauren's heart stopped.
The raggedy man in the square was shoved roughly to his knees, and the bag ripped from his head. There, blinking in the sun, was her father. Again the crowd roared, louder this time. Their shouts and cries nearly drowned the voice of the pope as he spoke.
“Jonathan Corvidae, you stand guilty of heresy, of witchcraft, of devil worship, of bearing false witness, and of tempting the hearts of good men. Witness the infinite patience and forgiveness of the Lord. Will you repent, cast down the false prophet, and confess before the body of Christ?”
The pope gestured widely to the gathered masses, but John was steady before the accusing shouts of the people. Though tears streamed down his face he was unbowed. Unashamedly he held his head high and spoke as loudly as he could.
“I can confess to many sins, but loving my daughter is not one of them. I am just a man, but I believe more truly in my Lauren than in any God that would allow-”
His words were cut off as a stone thrown from the audience struck him across the forehead, visibly dazing him and leaving a nasty gash. The guards surrounding her father tightened their ranks, and police rushed to secure the man who had thrown the rock.
Lauren felt dizzy, her breath short as she held the wood of the bar with a death-grip. The single, violent action threatened to send the crowd into an uncontrolled frenzy. The pontiff had a grim look on his face as answered John’s words.
“Then let it be witnessed; as shepherd of the flock of God, and an agent of Christ, we will cast down this wickedness to the Pit. For it is ever the charge of Good Men to fight the agents of Evil.”
Lauren screamed, her hands flying to cover her mouth as the crowd surged forward and engulfed her father. The guard surrounding him held their ground for only a brief moment before being driven back by the lethal crush. Police tried to get to him, and many officers were dragged into the press and disappeared from sight as the pope prayed.
“St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the Devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Hosts, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan, and all the evil spirits, who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.”
The coverage cut swiftly back to a horrified reporter, who stared open-mouthed at something off camera.
“I... we're very...”
Lauren threw the bottle in her hand, unwilling to believe. The bottle exploded into a thousand pieces as it impacted the TV, destroying it in a shower of glass and shattered LCD crystals.
She raged like a hurricane.
Lauren ripped through the delicate glassware hanging above the bar, casting shards tinkling off of the walls of the small room. She ripped an expensive looking painting from the wall beside her and smashed it against the bar, gouging the wood and shredding the canvas. She pulled the television from the back-splash and dashed it to the ground, as though it were somehow responsible for her father's death.
Bottle after bottle crashed against the walls, expensive liquor staining the plush carpet of the floor and the pristine walls.
She was wanton in her destruction, her rage-filled screams echoing throughout the plane.
Seconds after her rampage began, a steward burst through the door, confusion apparent on his face. He narrowly dodged a bottle as it impacted the door inches from his head, showering his face with brandy and glass fragments. He retreated, as quickly as he’d entered.
In his haste to leave he ran into Dustin, who shoved roughly past him, slamming him against the wall of the aircraft.
Dustin burst into the bar-room, weapon drawn. Lauren was a living maelstrom of violence; unbridled, righteous anger of such magnitude that for a moment even Dustin was afraid.
Her wide but unseeing eyes cast a baleful gaze upon him and he knew her fury was such that she didn't even recognize him. Screaming and incoherent, she stripped one of the bar-stools from the screws that held it to the floor and launched it across the room at him.
Dustin ducked back behind the door, which shook with the impact of the blow.
“No one is to enter this room without my express permission.”
He left the steward cowering on the floor as he walked past and pulled out his phone.
The staff of the aircraft cast furtive, terrified looks towards the closed door of the bar as the flight drug on. Lauren had raged for nearly four hours before the room had fallen eerily silent.
Lauren was sitting amid the splintered remains of the once-proud bar.
Lauren stared blankly at the mountains of shattered glass, jagged scraps of wood, and battered walls that surrounded her. Her fingers and hands were only now healing fully. They were covered in glass, in liquor, and in thick ragged cuts and bruises.
Even the pain of the fractures in her knuckles and fingers were like light scratches against the devastating pain in her heart.
She felt like a ship, tossed by storms in an ocean of despair. She sought desperately for a sign, a light in the darkness.
She could feel herself sinking when she finally saw them; two anchors in the storm. Two cracked but unbroken bottles offering salvation.
Lauren crawled to them, pulling herself through the wreckage to the only way out that she could see. She didn't bother to read the labels, not even to see how strong they were. She only hoped they were strong enough. She tore open the cap of the first and drank as fast as she could, moving to the second as soon as it was emptied.
She begged the harsh, clear liquid to bring her darkness.
When Dustin finally braved the room once more, after nearly an hour of silence, he found her among the remains of her tirade.
Lauren lay there, breathing shallowly in a pile of rubble, shattered glass, and vomit.
The room reeked of alcohol and despair.
Reaching down, he gently picked her up and carried her from the room. He paid no mind to the mess, cradling her gently like a child and taking her to the washroom of the plane.
Dustin cleaned her up as best he could. He wiped her face, hands, and arms down with a clean, damp cloth before brushing the dirt and debris from her hair and feathers. Dissatisfied, but unable to do any more, he carried her back to their section of seating.
Dustin placed her softly into a reclined chair and covered her with a blanket, then took his own seat. He brooded silently beside her, watching the news with the volume muted and subtitles on.
Lauren woke to the turbulent rocking of the airplane. She kept her eyes closed at first, wishing that she wasn't really awake. Wishing that she wouldn't ever have to be awake again. But her steady heartbeat and clear, hangover-free head reminded her of the curse of her invulnerability though.
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br /> Would she ever be free?
Lauren couldn't help but tear up, her soft cries slowly building in intensity. She felt a warm hand on her back and stiffened for a moment before she realizing it must be Dustin. It was amazing how that simple gesture calmed her soul. Dustin wordlessly rubbed her back between her shoulders, and she silently thanked him.
“Lauren, I want you to know this won't go unanswered. Not even the pope can murder an American citizen without retribution.”
So he was definitely dead. Her gentle crying became deep, shuddering sobs.
“I promise you. I swear to you I'll keep you safe.”
They sat in silence a while before he spoke again.
“Lauren, we're rerouting from JFK to Chicago, alright?”
She was silent, so he continued speaking.
“The weather's a little rougher, but we think we can avoid most of the more... active crowds. You'll have a home-field advantage, there's still a lot of support for you out there, especially in the Midwest.”
What else was there to lose, Lauren thought bitterly to herself as she buried her head deep in her arms.
“I know it seems bad right now, and I won't lie to you and say I have a magic fix to make it go away.
She offered no response.
“My... my dad always used to tell me something. Picture life as a stream, right? Sometimes a boulder gets tossed in the stream, and it seems like it's going to block the way forever. But life trickles on, and eventually, eventually that rock wears down. Life will take that jagged rock that seems impossible to move past, and before long it'll just be more sand on the river bank.”
Lauren sniffled, half smiling despite her sorrow.
“You're awful at analogies,” she mumbled softly.
“Well, my dad was anyway,” he corrected her gently. “But I'm not much better.”
After a long pause Lauren spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I don't hate you.”
“I know.”
