The Attack and Its Aftermath

Things have happened.

I suppose I was expecting this from the minute we arrived here, but it still took me by surprise, the way it happened. I was expecting Agents, sociopaths, led by that bastard Redlight. Instead I got a crazed little girl and her two bodyguards.

Let’s begin at the beginning.

On Monday night, while Riley was out at the store, most of us were still in the apartment after having gone out to see the fireworks. It was me, Violet, Ava, Tony, and Cathy. Things were just winding down; it was quite late, and Vi was just taking out some trash. I sat down and contemplated cleaning my gun, since I’d been at the range earlier, and as usual, I hadn’t completely unloaded it (I know, I know, bad Celie, shame shame), instead leaving one round in the chamber and one in the magazine in case of emergencies.

I can’t say exactly what happened in the hallway and on the stairs -- from what Violet said, they did in fact speak to each other before they went down the stairs -- but by the time I heard the loud scream and crash, I’d already suspected that all wasn’t well. I didn’t hesitate for a second -- I grabbed the holster on the counter and took the pistol out of it, tossing the straps to the floor.

I yanked the door open and headed for the stairs. Once I was there, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Violet was lying in a crumpled, twisted heap at the landing between the sixth and seventh floors; for one terrifying moment, I thought the worst before I saw that she was breathing, but certainly unconscious.

Standing over her, shaking and staring up at me, was a little girl, maybe twelve at the most. She looked frightened, but when she looked up and saw me, suddenly she became enraged. She moved to rush forward up the stairs at me; automatically, I raised my weapon.

“You’re Celeste,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You have to die.”

“Not now. You can leave,” I said.

For a couple of seconds, she looked like she was considering the possibility. She seemed to be losing composure.

Something like a growl came from her and she said, “I came here to kill you!”

“Change of plans,” I said. Retightening my grip on the gun, I said, “You’re going to go back to your master, and you’re going to tell him that the Gray Haven is defended again.”

My voice got stronger as I ventured to add, “And tell him that the Witness defends it.”

Panic crossed her face for a second, but then it relaxed and  became something like a grotesque smirk; her face was far too pained, far too corrupted with malice for her to show any real pleasure at anything. I started to feel that sensation in the pit of my stomach, that wrongness.

“You don’t think I came alone, do you?”

Now it was my turn to panic.

“Ava!” I called, not taking my eyes off of this little girl. “Cathy! Tony!”

It was only a few seconds before I heard their footsteps in the hallway and felt their presence behind me. In hindsight, it must have been quite a sight to come in to; I was in my shorts and pajama tank top, holding a gun pointed at a crazed preteen.

Then something happened that I didn’t expect. Cathy ran forward, looking like she wanted to hug the creature.

“Cynthia!” she gasped. “My little girl!”

“Wait!” I shouted, much louder and bolder than I’d intended because of the echo in the stairwell. “She’s not alo--”

No sooner had I gotten through half the sentence than two fully-grown young men stepped around the corner, having hidden on the other side of the steps for who knows how long. Cathy, panicked, scrambled back up the stairs and out of reach before they’d even gotten fully around the corner.

For a fraction of a second, the girl called Cynthia hesitated and almost cried out to her mother. Cathy had mentioned her daughter before -- in passing, prompting sympathetic looks from Ava -- but I had thought it would be rude to press her for details. Her daughter, barely eleven, was a proxy?

Now my attention had to be turned to the two men, wide-eyed and obviously deranged. They had the same air as Mary-Ann Compton had when I’d seen her; they were content in their insanity. They didn’t hide it, nor did they think it detrimental. Their confidence scared me.

Tony pushed Cathy back and shot Ava a look that said Think of your child. It was just me and him in this standoff. But he was still injured, as was I, even though my arm wasn’t in its proper sling at the time; could we take on two healthy twentysomethings in a fight?

No, I decided. Not in a fair one.

I felt suddenly that I heard my father’s voice. No such thing as a fair fight, he was saying. No such thing. Rules of combat are a fallacy.

Anything to defend the Haven, the Runners, my friends, my family.

The men had evidently had enough standing around. One of them made a slight motion as though to come forward -- without thinking, I aimed the gun upward.

The shot rang out, and darkness flooded the room. The proxies charged anyway.

It’s difficult to say how long the light was out, or what happened in the total darkness of the windowless landing between the stairways. The emergency light was on the wall, in case the bulb in the hanging one blew out and left it dark; it was an archaic-looking bulb in a barred dome, and it was uncertain how long it would take before the system kicked in.

In the struggle, I lost my gun. I could hear Cathy and Ava retreating up the hallway and Tony’s grunts and roars as he took on, from what I could tell, the bigger of the two.

Both sides got good hits in. Both sides took damage. I have a hell of a bruise on my elbow, and another on my hipbone.

Suddenly there was I cry -- I think from Cynthia -- and the two men retreated. Confused, thinking something bigger was coming, I backed up as well. One flicker of light, then another. Then the backup kicked in fully, and I immediately wished that it hadn’t.

Little Cynthia, two crazed men behind her, held my pistol in her small, shaking hands. She was crying; I don’t think she expected this kind of confrontation, or any kind of confrontation. She trained the gun on me.

“Why wouldn’t you just die?!” she shouted, her tiny voice magnified by the echo. “You ruined everything! I hate you!”

She pulled the trigger.

Anyone experienced enough in firearms will tell you that pistols are not known for their accuracy. It takes an awful lot of practice and patience with timing to hit a target. Cynthia was maybe five yards from me, because we’d wandered about halfway back up the stairs in the scuffle. Her hands were not nearly big enough for my gun, small as it is. And she was shaking badly.

Does that mean I wasn’t relieved when the bullet whizzed past and cut only the outside of my arm instead of plunging into my chest? Not bloody likely.

The kick from the gun had obviously scared her; she was crying harder now. She steeled herself and tried to shoot again, only to produce little more than an empty clicking noise. There was no more ammunition left. She no longer had the advantage. The gun fell to the floor, and she ran. The proxies looked unsure at first, and then followed her.

I didn’t waste time; I was bleeding from the arm, yes, but Violet was unconscious and obviously in need of serious help. Tony carried her inside and laid her on the couch while Cathy called the local hospital to see what we should do, and whether we would need to take her in.

Ava, meanwhile, fussed over my arm while I tried with my other hand to get on my phone to call Riley; it was better if he didn’t come home to see it and freak out.

In hindsight, we made a right good team; as soon as I gave them each a task (except Ava, who took up the cause of nursing me all by herself, much to my dismay), they went to it and before long, things were back under control. I watched at the door window as Cynthia and the two men ran for the small patch of woods, twisted trees gnarled by the ocean wind. What mattered was that they were away now, and probably not going to come back soon.

Now it was time to call Zeke and let him know. As I chose him in my contacts, my finger froze over the call button. Was he able to talk? Where was he? Could something have --

Ava reached over me and hit the button, interrupting my worry session before it got out of hand.

He picked up after three rings.

“I’m busy,” he growled. My face flushed; well, we’re kind of busy too, stupid.

“Zeke,” I said, calming myself. “Cynthia Delmont was just here. She attacked us --”

“Celeste? You’re breaking up.”

I checked the signal on my phone; it was fine.

“Goddammit, just get back here, and hurry,” I said.

“Celeste? Hey!”

The phone cut off. He must have been in an area with bad service.

The last two days have been rather busy. But under the constant advice from the doctors at the hospital, Violet has been getting better by leaps and bounds, and said today that her headache is nearly gone. The aid in the panic room sort of saved our skins, otherwise we would have really had to go to the hospital.

It’s been quiet for the last two days. Zeke hasn’t been back, but he called again yesterday and I was able to explain. He should be in sometime this afternoon.

I can’t believe I threatened that little girl. What’s wrong with me? At the time it felt like the thing to do…I must have looked like a monster to Tony and Cathy, looking almost ready to shoot their daughter. Would I have done that? Could I have shot an eleven-year-old to save my friends, to save the Haven?

I suppose I’ll never know. I don’t think I want to.

And in any case, it’s all back to normal now. Riley was distraught for some time, but once Vi woke up and calmed him down, he was pretty fine. That boy is strong, much stronger than I’d ever given him credit for before. And faithful; I’m happy that he’s here, sharing our work.

The fight goes on. And so does the Show.

Feathers & Focus

A few days ago, Zeke and Wren told me about a plan they had to find Keaton. Zeke said he wasn't sure whether it would work, but even if it didn't, then it couldn't hurt to generally look around. They left Friday, and haven't been back yet.

I'm worried about them. I know their plan, but I don't know all the details and...well, I'm afraid that they're going to run into him. As far as which "him" I'm referring to...well, take your pick. The answer is all of the above.

So to calm my nerves and have a bit of fun, Violet, Ava, Cathy and I sent Tony out to The Greene Turtle, the sports bar, and had a girls' night. It felt bizarre -- almost like PBT back in the old days, but now with two other women, who I never would have known without the events of the last ten months. But bizarre in a good way. In an almost normal way.

We all needed it, to bring us back down to a level we could comprehend. Ava just went through hell in the Magna, lost Reach. I'm still wearing a sling from my attack, although the wounds are healing up quickly. Cathy has been through things that a mother should never have to be put through.

And Vi. She still won't tell me any details of exactly what she did, or what happened to her while she was away. But she's so different from the girl I'd laughed with over sushi last September. She was shy then, timid, even, more content to spend time with her paints than with people if only for the fear that they wouldn't understand her. Now, that sense is still there, but with an edge. A conscious detachment. Riley has been preparing to come down with us, although it would require some shuffling around; once he gets here, we'll be at maximum capacity.

If I'm only just starting to get  to the soldier's mentality, then I can tell that Violet is already there. I see it every day. I just wish I knew what has pushed her there.

During our girls' night, we talked about trivial things. Movies we liked, music we didn't. We gossiped and chirped like old hens and painted our nails like training-bra preteens. We watched The Young Victoria and gushed over the beautiful dresses (and Prince Albert) together.

About halfway through the evening, Ava produced something she'd found in a shop on the Boardwalk: a full hair feather kit. It's become a trend nowadays for girls to put these thin, colorful feathers into their hair, the classier, earthier alternative to gaudy tinsel.

We took turns choosing our colors and clamping them to a tiny strand on each of our respective heads. I got three; Violet, ever the daredevil, got four. Ava stuck with three as well, and Cathy chose two. I chose a green-and-black stripe, a yellow-and-black, and a solid white. The green is much longer than the other two, but I think it gives it a nice layered look.

Cathy went before me; as I got ready and made the final choice on my colors, Ava glanced over and said, "So what will these mean, Celie?"

"What?" I said with a laugh.

"You're building a right meaningful wardrobe. What do these mean?"

"She's right," Vi said with a wicked grin. "It'd be anticlimactic if these just meant, 'look, we think feathers are pretty.'"

"Ah, well," I joked. "Gotta stay dramatic and all that."

We laughed. I bit my lip and picked up the green feather. "This one is for family. It's green because I'm full-blooded Irish, and it's long..." I glanced at the girls. "...because I keep adding to my family."

Ava smiled; Cathy gave a small "aw!"

I picked up the yellow and black and stared at it for a good few minutes. "Emily Dickinson said that Hope is the little yellow bird that perches in the soul. So this one is hope."

The white one was last. I was still thinking and looking at it when Cathy got up, her feathers all put in. The girls looked at me. "Meaning or no, we've gotta put them in," Cathy said with a laugh.

I sat down and let her start, choosing a place to put them quite close and up front, so that they hang down next to my face. The whole process doesn't take more than ten minutes; the feathers are attached to a small strand of hair by a bead that sits flat against the head.

As it fell at last, complete, and Cathy beamed at her good work, I said, "Me."

"What?" Vi said.

"The white one stands for Self. The last time I forgot who I was..." I couldn't find the words; I didn't feel myself reaching up absently to touch the back of my neck until Cathy interrupted its path and took my hand, holding it tight.

I had been the last to get mine put in. We spent the rest of the night determining the meaning of each of our feathers, specific to each woman, qualities and virtues that we admired or wanted to keep close to ourselves. Violet's meant tranquility (blue and black), strength (solid yellow), creativity (solid purple), and resistance (red and black).

I know what Cathy's and Ava's mean, but I'm not sure whether they want me broadcasting it.

And speaking of broadcasts...a project was recently begun involving Maduin, better known as the Jester. After some correspondence, we came to the conclusion that it would be good for there to be a central source where Runners could get information on their friends and loved ones in a quick, easy way, safe from proxies. The result is called The Show, and I'll say no more about it here.

Now that I've wasted at least a page detailing the stylistic choices of the hunted, I should probably go into what this post is really meant to be about.

If we are to have any sort of organization -- and I do believe that organization may be the key here -- we're going to need to shift our target.

Trying to defeat the Slender Man directly has simply not worked. It's been detrimental for most, and suicidal for many more. We need to switch our attention if we want to get anywhere; we need to start defending from proxies first, then him.

Wars are not won by going straight for the general; first, ground must be gained and kept. So far, all I've seen are people losing ground, mostly not to him but to his soldiers. From what I've researched, I've theorized that while he is dangerous -- you don't need to tell me twice for me to know that he is dangerous -- there are certain things he can't do. Whether this is by choice, or coincidence, or just his pure alien nature, I don't know. He needs servants to do the things that may be a bit too nuanced to our world for him to do himself.

That is where Redlight and the proxies come in. Redlight, as far as I can tell, doesn't have a higher authority than the tall bastard himself. Under him is an unknown number of proxies. For some reason, most of them latch onto one Runner or another; maybe the reason is personal, but due to the fact that it happens so often, I'm more inclined to think it's a requirement, or some sort of rite-of-passage. Give someone to the Slender Man, move up in rank? Maybe.

In the end, what we need to focus on is defense. As far as a good holdout, the Gray Haven is physically very well-fortified. We're not going to hunt proxies; as I just said, it seems more like they'll come to us if we need to fight them. All we need to do is keep them from getting in, which I think we can do. I think we can.

At the same time, most of my observations are just theories. It's impossible to know for sure whether or not they hold true.

But it's a start.

Paradiso

Ava arrived a bit sooner than I'd planned, but I certainly didn't mind when she sent me a text message saying that she and the Delmonts were on their way. I helped them bring their things up the elevator and into the apartment. Now there's a grand total of seven people and a dog staying here. Sometimes things get rather crowded, but mostly it's quite pleasant.

When I lived with my father, I always had to watch what I said. I don't know what I'd do if one of my family found out about what we're going through -- if some theories are right, exposing them would be disastrous. One slip, and I could be endangering their lives.

Here, there's nothing holding us back. It's not like any of us don't know what it is we're fighting. We can dig in, keep each other safe, and most importantly, be open. When one of us says, "It's a bad day," everyone else knows that they're not talking about minor trifles or a headache.

When people know what's wrong, and know how to handle it, it's easier to heal.

Ava and Violet have gotten on famously since they've met. Vi has never been the loud type, unless she's angry, but her dry, quiet remarks mirror Ava's wit beautifully. Zeke and Wren don't make many appearances; they mostly keep to their rooms or the balcony, and I think they may be plotting something. Tony and Cathy share their habits.

We could be a sitcom, I swear. Seven misfits, and a dog. We could fight crime.

Last night, I left the Gray Haven at midnight. Ocean City is far south enough in Maryland that it escapes most of the harsh, unpredictable weather of up north in the woods; the sky was clear, the wind just strong enough to ripple my sundress. We're very close to the Boardwalk, so I wandered down along the battered wooden planks, crowds of new high school graduates passing me, paying me no mind except for one or two boys with their friends who shot me half-drunken lascivious looks. I didn't really mind.

I took my iPod from my purse and put the headphones on as I wandered away and onto the cool sand of the beach. Taking my sandals off and stowing them in my purse, I walked along the threshold where the tide was slowly creeping up. Every now and again a big wave would come and soak my feet to the ankle.

Eventually, it got to the point where there weren't any other people out on the beach. Maybe that was unsafe, going out alone. But did anything compare to looking out at the ocean, gaze steady, feet sure, while the sand slowly melted with the waves around me?

My iPod was on shuffle. Over the headphones came the small, warm sound of a ukelele.

"I got troubles, oh, but not today,
They're gonna wash away, they're gonna wash away.
And I have sins, lord, but not today,
They're gonna wash away, they're gonna wash away --"

I felt someone step up beside me, too close to be a stranger. I looked over only to confirm it, but I already knew it was just him; sometimes being followed is as much a protective measure as a predatory one. I unplugged my iPod and hit play again, so that the music came out over the little speaker inside. I looked up at him; he was shaking his head, with a smile that said, You goof. You complete goof.

I laughed -- really laughed, out loud, the way people are supposed to laugh, giddy from the ocean and the beauty. A big wave came and water brushed the bottom hem of my dress; I yelped, stumbling backward, then spun and turned it into something almost like a dance.

Zeke laughed. I furrowed my eyebrows in a playful pout, dropped my purse in the sand, I ran back over to him, grabbing his hand and dragging him into my idiotic dance. With a smile, he corrected my hands, tried to guide my feet, spun me around.

Freedom, I realized. Aunt Michelle has given me so many things, but her greatest gift was freedom.

"Oh, I been cryin', oh, I been cryin'.
No, no more cryin',
No, no more cryin' here.

I got troubles, oh, but not today,
'Cause they're gonna wash away,
This old world is gonna take them away."

Purgatorio

My sentences were punctuated by loud sniffles and coughs as I picked up the phone.

"Hey, bitchface."

"Hey, pukey," Vi's voice came from the other end of the phone loud and clear. "What's up?"

"Still pukey." Sniffle. "What about you?"

"About halfway back from Salisbury. Traffic's a nightmare."

"You shouldn't talk while driving." Cough.

"You sound like you shouldn't be talking, period."

"Fuck off." The glasses clattered against the blender as I poured in the ice and bananas.

"What are you doing?"

Having poured those in, I then reached for the Nyquil. "Making a smoothie."

"You're sick as a dog. Make Zeke make you a smoothie."

"Like Zeke knows what to do with a blender." Sniffle. "Besides, it's my special smoothie."

"Oooh. What flavor?"

I glanced at the label on the Nyquil bottle. "Looks like...strawberry. And banana."

In went the Nyquil.




The moving process was slow and tedious -- a three-hour drive each way makes moving something of a hassle when the ever-so-smart-and-manly males in your life don't want to rent a U-haul. And so, I was probably the only one uncovered in all our collective junk as I sat in the driver's seat with Violet, Zeke, Wren, and either Nikki or Milo, depending on who was willing to help that day, all piled into the car and we talked, bickered, ranted and joked our way back and forth, two trips a day, both of the two days.

On our first trip down, Violet drove. As we approached the city coming down through Delaware, my scent glands suddenly felt a familiar twang.

"Do you smell that?" I said, suddenly, jerking Wren out of a nap against the window in the backseat. I bit my lip. I moved some stuff off of my lap and sat up straighter. "That's not salt -- it's rotting seaweed and other decaying organic matter -- I don't care -- that's the best thing in the world -- that's the ocean!"

I may have gotten a little excited. I looked back at Zeke; he looked caught between confusion and a smile.

Ocean City traffic is always a beast in the summer -- but at least we caught it a week before Senior Week began and the graduating high schoolers flocked down from the entire Mid-Atlantic Region.

Before our last trip down -- the one we wouldn't be coming back from -- I walked through my father's house and reflected one last time. He walked out from the hall and said he would miss me when I was gone. We sat at the kitchen table and had a good long talk. It was obvious that he didn't want me to leave, but I knew I couldn't stay there any longer.

That was Sunday. It was right around morning Saturday when I first started sneezing and coughing, and then about noon last Thursday when my stomach decided that food was way too mainstream for it and that it had to stick it to the one keeping it down (which would be me, naturally).

Violet and Zeke, ever the loving nurses that they are, have kept me either in bed or on the couch and forbade me from touching my computer until today, which is the first day that my symptoms have actually subsided noticeably. Wren, on the other hand, has continued to insist that excessive projectile vomit builds character. I do not like that man.

Fortunately, now we can actually get some work and unpacking done. Eventually, we'll have this place up and running, get a few of the glitches off of the security system, and explore what Aunt Michelle was so adamant about leaving to me.

And I have plans -- oh, do I have plans. Soon, everything will be clear for our first Runner to come and stay here: Ava Conquest. And I've had a bit of correspondence with Maduin the Jester involving plans for a method of communication that's safe from the prying eyes of proxies.

A few more Nyquil smoothies and I'll be right as rain.

Now let's get to it.

Inferno

How does a few days' extra hospital stay become a week? Why, I'm so glad you asked.

Firstly, it was all started when fucking Zeke brought in that criminal, that ass, to "help" us. Admittedly, my reaction got...rather out of hand, but at the time, I only thought that Zeke had called Wren in -- not that he had already gotten there, and all behind my back.

Zeke has been stepping lightly around me lately. I never thought I'd say this, but I think he's a little scared. I don't usually scream when I'm angry, ever, but he just really surprised me at that moment.

Wren, on the other hand, is grating on my last nerve and it's only been a week. I suppose it's just how I react to being around people who are just like me, but I cannot stand that man. He and I are mirror images of each other -- red hair, porcelain complexion, bright eyes. He's thinner than I am, and obviously older. He could be Desmond, if Des was a redhead.

From the minute he got here, he just started and wouldn't stop. He's always making these snide remarks and calling me odd, offhand nicknames. Never just one, either; each time he has a different one. It's maddening. Fortunately, besides being exceedingly annoying, he hasn't done anything sneaky. The minute he does, I won't need to yell for Zeke. I'll shoot him myself.

Where was I? Oh, yes. How a few days becomes a week.

My archetypal Wicked Stepmother, feigning to care ever so deeply, kept the doctors from releasing me on the grounds that she was afraid my stitches would break again -- what with me being such a rambunctious young thing and all. I'm pretty sure even the fucking doctors saw through her ruse. Milo and Nikki straight-up told me that she was calling up some sketchy lawyer friends of hers to see if there was any way she could legally seize control of the inheritance of a legally adult stepchild still living in her husband's house. Judging by the fact that I have been served with exactly no papers saying so, I'm guessing that she hasn't had much result.

I left the hospital Tuesday morning, and I've been staying mostly to my room since getting home. I've been having Vi help me with packing -- because of my arm and my stitches, I can't lift very much, so I've been kind of directing her with packing.

This area is too small to have any hotels, so Zeke and Wren are staying in the closest thing -- a bed and breakfast just on the other side of Rocks. I certainly don't mind the idea of Wren staying far the hell away from me, although I would have liked Zeke to be closer. At least I know that he's not far away if I need him.

Yesterday, we drove the three hours down to Ocean City with Mr. Monaghan and looked at what he and my aunt had once called The Gray Haven. The name wasn't just appropriate because it was near the water -- the apartment building, like most of the big buildings and hotels close to the beach or inlet, was ten stories of dark gray stone. We went inside and rode what looked like a very old, frail elevator up seven stories until it stopped with a jolt and we stepped out. Mr. Monaghan showed me the odds and ends of the building; the building is shaped in a U, and a lot of the hallways to the apartments were actually sort of balconies.

Finally, we came to number 713, the true Gray Haven. And the place...it's beautiful. All whites and blues and granite countertops and a gorgeous view outward at the ocean. It's not empty, but the furniture is sparse, minimalist, leaving plenty of room for customization if I should want to bring my own stuff down (whether that was intentional or not, who knows). It's a bit small, but it feels open. Scenery-pornographic.

Mr. Monaghan showed us the panic room, too. All I can say is, it certainly looks secure. It's a tiny space, but it's well-stocked. And the surveillance isn't even noticeable, but it comes through very clear through the monitors on one wall of the square room.

There are three bedrooms. The master bedroom (what will be my bedroom, I suppose) is a beautiful space with a huge bed and big windows, and its own door to the balcony off of the living room. The other two are both in the hallway; the one on the left holds a double bed, the other, bunk beds.

But I really fell in love with the kitchen and bathroom. Well -- not so much the bathroom as the bathtub. My god, that bathtub. It's big and all soaky and has jets. Yeah, it's one of those. And the kitchen is all black granite and silver fixtures, contrasting the white and blue gorgeously.

If this apartment is anything to go by, then Aunt Michelle and Mr. Monaghan really were the best at what they did.

On the drive back, Violet and I talked while Zeke and Wren (I couldn't convince Zeke to make him stay behind) sat mostly silent. We discussed the logistics of moving, the plan once we were there, and how long it would be until we could get it set up for Ava, and eventually, more Runners, to come.

"I'm not babysitting," Zeke said.

"Nobody said you'd be babysitting, Zeke," I said, only half jokingly; he still really wasn't in a position to be snarking at me.

"I know that, I'm just saying that I'm not dealing with any punkasses trying to start any--"

"You know, those are the people you're fighting for --"

"Both of you!" Violet snapped. "The kids don't like it when Mommy and Daddy fight. Now shut the hell up."

We didn't have anything to say to that.


For now, I'm still here. Angel, the few times I've seen her when I've left my room, has been icy and aloof. I'm leaving and she's staying; I suppose she's convincing herself that this is a victory for her. I don't care. The only thing I regret is that Milo is still in school so I can't take him with me. And as far as my father...well, he married the bitch. I guess that means the joke's on him.

I suppose this is momentous -- my last night in my father's house. We'll be moving the vast majority of stuff and ourselves down to the Haven tomorrow morning.

I'm flooded with memories. I've lived in this house since we moved here seven years ago. I went through middle and high school here. When my "friends" decided I was the weak one out and turned on me, turned me into the kind of pariah that only preteens can make each other, I came here for refuge, hidden in the woods and fields of rural Harford County. My dad saw me crying once and sat with me for a long while and told me that it would all eventually pass. I didn't believe him then, but I guess he was right. It all passes.

I remember Thanksgiving 2009, the year before Dad married Angel. We had our big family pile into this house and have a big dinner together. Everyone had a job; mine was bartender. I made sure everyone's glasses were filled, whether it be with wine or juice for the kids. After everything was done, Desmond, Melanie, Nikki, Milo and I went Black Friday shopping with my mom and eventually had another Thanksgiving with her, at her house.

I remember how every dent and whole in our walls was made, most of it from the last year. I remember the screaming. She never hit us, but I remember that she-wolf abusing my father and my siblings. I remember watching as this house sunk into hell.

Now it's high time I find my way back to the light.

My stitches broke open.

It's nothing big, but it means I'll be in here for another couple of days; they just want to make sure that they'll hold this time.

A real post will be coming soon, either from me or Zeke. Everything's fine. More or less.

Hospital Stay (Repost)

[EDIT 5/14/11: I'm reposting this since Blogger appears to have somehow gotten its shit even more wrecked than mine. The original post was made this past Wednesday; since then, not much has changed, although I'm set to leave the hospital on Monday or Tuesday, and have been doing a certain bit of reading at Violet's request. I'll have a full update for you guys soon.]

I'd like to start off this post by saying just one thing:

Admittedly, that was a bad idea.

Now, I'll have to move on, because a lot has happened in the last week and Violet only just let me have my computer back.

The physical therapists have been in every couple of hours to re-teach me how to walk and move without jarring myself or making my wounds any worse.

Zeke arrived here last week, when I was just sort of waking up. He and Violet have been with me nearly round the clock when my dad and stepmother aren't here. My mom also comes in often, and she doesn't react to the two of them with suspicion. I think I might be starting to understand why.

As strange as it sounds, I think I recognized him before he started to speak. When I saw him come in with Violet, my half-awake brain almost thought it was Riley with her -- but that was ridiculous. Riley has hair down to his shoulders, and it's brown. Zeke's is black, and slicked back. He has a round face and he'd shaved to come in. He's actually shorter than I thought he'd be.

He had them leave and sat in the chair next to me. Vi stood at the foot of the bed. Zeke looked at me for a long moment before he said, "What did I tell you monkeys about jumping on the bed?"

So I said, "Go to hell, Zeke."

He smiled. It was a really pleasant moment, and like most pleasant moments lately, it faded into silence.

He took a deep breath.

"Let me see."

I wasn't awake enough to put together words at such a statement. But I felt my eyes burn as I shook my head, as much as I could without the pain.

"Celeste. Let me see."

I bit my lip. "No."

"I brought this," Vi said, loudly, to change the subject. She came to the other side of me and placed the metal and wooden beads in my hand. "You left your rosary when you left. Your jacket and stuff is in my car, too, for when they let you out of this place."

I looked down; Jesus and Saint Jude looked back up at me from the Crucifix and medal. I got the feeling that they didn't approve of what I'd done, either. Then again, I'm a Catholic, so it could just be natural.

"Celeste."

I turned back to Zeke. He was still looking right through me. I knew he wouldn't let up.

"Zeke, don't make me."

"I'm sorry," he said.

I knew I'd already lost this argument. I knew the routine from the nurses coming in to change the bandages; I gathered the hospital gown around me and slowly, tenderly, maneuvered myself onto my stomach. My hair was down and covering it, so I moved it out of the way as I put my face into the pillow, unable to turn it very far. The sheets covered me up to the start of my hips, but my entire back was visible.

Despite not being able to see, I could tell that it was Violet's tiny, delicate hands that gently worked at the tape and pulled up the bandages. From the few times I've glimpsed it with mirrors, I know that the stitches are the exact opposite of attractive. The pillow hid the tears; this wasn't the first thing I'd want anyone to see of me, let alone Zeke.

"Jesus Christ, Celeste..." he hissed through his teeth. Slowly, gently, his fingertip touched the very center of the symbol.

I flinched so hard that I screamed into the pillow. I hadn't been expecting his touch, and couldn't see him reach for me. I started really crying -- more from embarrassment than any pain. He put a comforting hand onto my bare back. He felt cool and reassuring against my warm skin. Eventually, I calmed down, and he put the bandage back over it and let me turn back around.

Then he asked me questions. He asked more or less normal cop things; where I was when the encounter happened, and what Practical Cat looked like. He didn't ask me to go into detail. I think he didn't want to push too far again.
After two days of full consciousness, I finally convinced Violet to give me my phone to make a call. I waited until everyone was either out or asleep. I didn't go into my contacts; I'd promised that no one else would have access to the number that I now dialed from memory. A European number. After three rings, there was a click.

"Mm?" came the voice from the other line.

"Ava? It's me," I said.

"Celie? Wh --" Avalesca Conquest cut off for a moment, and when she spoke again, I could hear her narrowed eyes in her voice. "Are you even well enough to be using the phone?"

I shifted in my hospital bed. "Probably not. But you said when I was awake. I'm awake now."

"Fair point," she said. "How are you feeling?"

"Like hell," I said. "But the physical therapist says that nothing vital was damaged. I should be able to function almost normally within a couple of weeks, except for wearing this stupid sling. And the sooner I can get out of here and get to work, the better." I hesitated. "How are...how are you faring?"

Ava paused on the other end of the line. I could hear her false start a few times.

"I--it's hard and...odd. It's like after Ray's...d-death, I'm being reset. Emotionally."

"I think I understand what you mean, almost," I said. "My brother, when he was a Marine, used to call it a 'soldier mentality.' It's what helped them cope with seeing so much death. Who knows? Maybe we're becoming soldiers ourselves in a way."

She barked a laugh before sighing.

"What are your plans for Pussybrained Cunt?" she said. I laughed.

"Now, is that the Cat, or my stepmother? Because those words could refer to both."

She snickered. "Cat. But...tell me about your stepbitch after."

"Fair enough," I said. "Well, the Cat is, naturally, nowhere to be found again. The sheriff's department is hot on his trail for now, but that won't last. It's weird...after what happened...I'm not sure if I want them to get him. I don't want them to have to fight him. And...and I never want to see him ever again...even though I know I will."

She sighed again. "Oh, god, honey. I really -- I'm so sorry. If I could hug you and not break you, I would."

I smiled. "I know. If anybody understands, it's you."

Ava made a noise somewhere halfway between a "hrgh" and a "mm."

There was a bit of a pause. Then I said, "Zeke is here."

"Mmmm."

"I guess he's everything I imagined him to be. He got my dad and Angel to leave us and Vi alone within the first five minutes he got here."

She didn't sound amused. "Well. Good for him. He try anything?"

"What...what do you mean, try anything?"

She "hnrgh'd" again.

"Have you forgotten the rant before you went gallivanting off to kill yourself?" she asked. "And don't tell me you weren't. That was a bloody suicide mission, Celie."

I couldn't argue with that. "What's your point?"

"You're going to tell me that part of your decision to run off wasn't based on the fact that you were pissed at Zeke?"

"It was...it was based on a lot of things, I guess. But if I wasn't angry at Zeke at the beginning, I certainly was by the time I left the house."

"Mmm," she said. "How're you doing mentally?"

"I'm...better, I guess," I said. "Like you said, I guess I'm resetting, too. And that's good. I know what I have to do now, where I have to be."

I took a deep breath.

"Ava, I have something I need to tell you. Something I need to ask you, too."

"Shoot," she said.

I took a long pause, organizing what I'd been planning to say for the last two days in my head.

"I'm not sure if you remember me mentioning Scott Monaghan," I said. "He was Aunt Michelle's good friend and her partner. He came in the other night to show me details about the Ocean City place. He said that Michelle named the houses they'd kept according to a Lord of the Rings motif, since she was a lit major and he was her favorite author. Since it's a pretty place by the ocean, they used to call this place the Gray Haven. It's...it's an appropriate name to say the least, Ava. The place has three bedrooms, sleeps a total of eight at a time. It's on the seventh floor of its building, with no way up except the stairs or elevator unless you count the balcony. And...and here's where it gets a little odd.

"It has a panic room. It's a tiny place to use in case of emergencies, undetectable at first, stocked with medical supplies and stuff. And monitors. There's surveillance hidden around the place. I have no idea why they would feel like the need a panic room in the place -- it seems like it would be wasted space. But that's not the point.

"The point is that it would make the perfect safehouse.


"And...well...Ava, you're still reeling from everything that's happened. You can't stay where you are; it'll destroy you. I'll be leaving to live at the Gray Haven as soon as I get out of the hospital, because I can't stay here, either. Zeke and Violet and I are going to get the place set up, but then you could come here. You could stay with me. We could look after each other."


Ava stammered. "...It...I-- ..."


"It's okay if you need some time to think," I said. "But I just...I feel like this is the way I could finally help the fight. I could give them some semblance of safety, even if it's just for a night or two while they're passing through. The Gray Haven is the perfect place for us to start to build a real resistance.


"It's time to try defying gravity, Ava. Nobody can hold us down except ourselves. Together we'll be the greatest team there's ever been."


I stayed quiet as I could practically hear her thinking.


"I--" she began. "I can't just leave Egypt, Celie...I mean, there's so much that I could --" She cut off suddenly. "Actually, that's a lie. I've done all I can in the Magna. I'm running out of money and patience. I'm scared for my child's life.


"Give me a day or two, I'll get back to you. I have something I need to get before I decide."


"I understand," I said. "We still need to get down there and get the place ready, so take all the time you need."


We both paused and took a breath as the tension started to ease a little. I'd made my offer; there wasn't much left to say.


I heard the smirk as she said, "...Did you quote Wicked at me?"


I blinked.


"Maybe a little. Did it work."


"Not really," she snickered. "Are you sure the concussion's worn off?"


We laughed, but a noise outside drew my attention. "I have to go. Don't panic, it's just my mom coming to visit. Take your time and think about everything. Let me know your decision. I'll talk to you soon."


"Love you, hun," she said. "Be safe. I will get back to you."


"Love you too," I said. "Keep alert, watch your back. Bye, Ava."


"Bye, Celie. Don't take any shit from Strahm."


"Oh, I won't," I laughed, and hesitantly hung up the phone.


For the last day or two, I've been making plans. Scheming is probably the better word. Violet has agreed to begin some of my packing for me until I get out of here. I've made the announcement that I'm leaving to everyone, while they were all here. Angel looked like she was going to explode, but she didn't dare say anything in front of my mother, Violet, and "Detective Eric Riley."


Of course...leaving them also means I'm leaving the friends I've made. Detective Goldman, and Father Kelly. But it's the Twenty-First Century; I'll be able to still keep in touch with them.


Now there will be even more friends to make. I have Zeke and Vi already.


And according to a comment left on Zeke's last post, I'll have Ava too.


And if everything goes to plan, there'll be many more after that.