The Tragedy of Power

by Ian Withrow

  “Oh...”

  Lauren furrowed her brow.

  “Was... Is everyone ok though?”

  “A police officer was injured, not severely, as were several protesters.”

  Lauren mulled over the news, uncomfortable with the idea that more people were hurt because of her.

  Noise blared suddenly from the living room as one of Dustin's companions turned on an old television.

  “... coming to you live from outside the security fence put up by the police here in St. Louis. Lauren Corvidae, miracle healer, has been taken by federal agents from the scene of a peaceful rally. Law enforcement officers were seen in this exclusive cell-phone video clip carrying what appeared to be her unconscious body into a house on Brine Street. Corvidae, of childhood fame, reappeared in the public eye less than 96 hours ago and has already been taken into custody in what some are calling a government kidnapping. This on the heels of a 28-hour marathon of selfless...”

  “Turn it off,” Lauren's rage-filled shout drowned out Kent Dailey's voice as a waterfall drowns out a stream.

  Dustin, in his first visible show of emotion, recoiled from her sudden change in volume and body language. His hand drifted to his holster but he threw out a hand in the direction of his partner and repeated her instruction.

  “Dan, cut it!”

  The TV, and the house, fell silent. Dan looked confused, an expression of innocence on his face like he was being framed for a crime.

  “What?”

  “Don't ever turn that man on again in my presence. He is a liar, a fraud, and a bastard.”

  Lauren's anger glowed beneath her cheeks, lending her skin a reddish glow as she spoke through gritted teeth.

  “Calm down, ma'am,” Dustin began to speak with all the mannerisms of a seasoned hostage negotiator.

  “I will not calm down! That man, that man destroyed my family!”

  “Ok, Lauren, Ok, we understa-”

  “Swear it!”

  “Ok. I swear it.”

  Dustin's willingness to give his word took her off guard and her anger lost some of its steam.

  “I just need you to calm down ok? How 'bout something to eat?”

  Oh hell no. Was he implying she was being unreasonable because she needed to eat?

  “What because I'm being a bitch?” The question was no less loaded, and no less dangerous, than the Glock he had on his hip.

  Her tone was softer, but her posture threatened violence. Her shoulders were squared, her head low, and even her wings were poised as if to strike.

  “No ma'am,” he said, unafraid. “But I could sure go for a snack.”

  “Well I'm going to bed.”

  She pronounced her will and promptly stormed off into the bedroom she had seen earlier, slamming the door behind her in a fit of childish anger.

  She immediately regretted it, feeling overly hostile and knowing the man hadn't meant to offend her.

  Worse, she was starving.

  The bedroom was small. It held a low dresser, a simple, utilitarian bed with an ancient-looking floral bedspread, and a night-stand with a short lamp on it. The only other feature of the room was a small window, offset from the bed a ways and covered in another thick curtain like the others in the apartment.

  Lauren's stomach growled angrily. She had nothing to silence it with, and too much pride to ask. Instead, she pulled off the heavy bedspread. The thick layer of dust made her sneeze, and she promptly dropped the blanket to the floor. Thankfully, there was another comforter beneath the first, and a pair of decent sheets below that. She had just crawled beneath the covers, building a nest for herself and settling into it, when a soft knock came at the door.

  “Come in,” she grumbled. Still sour, but feeling foolish for her outburst earlier.

  It was Dustin.

  “I brought you a sandwich. It's peanut butter and jelly.”

  He stayed in the doorway. She could imagine his massive frame filling it comically, but, determined to uphold her pride she didn't look.

  “I said I wasn't hungry,” she lied defiantly. Her stomach gurgled again in protest, and she hoped the thick covers masked the sound.

  “Well,” he said in a tone that suggested he was smiling. “Just in case you change your mind I will leave it here on the bedside table.”

  His loud footsteps thumped across the room and he set down a plate with a huge, mouth-watering sandwich on it.

  He stood over her for a moment, as if he wished to say more, and then turned to leave.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, if only to satisfy the manners her parents had taught her.

  He paused, but pretended not to notice and kept walking out.

  No sooner did the door shut than she sat upright and devoured the sandwich like a wild animal. It was divine; and he had made it just the way she liked. Loads of peanut butter and only the faintest accent of jelly.

  She chuckled to herself around a mouthful of peanut butter, her dad hated “unbalanced” sandwiches like this one. At least this guy knew what was up. Thinking of her parents put her back on edge. She hoped they were ok. She worried about her father. Had he made it somewhere safe? Should she try contact him? Could she?

  Laying back down she contemplated the changes in her life, to include this latest development. It felt surreal, like a television drama.

  In her tired mind, blacked out vehicles and dark sunglasses mixed and mashed with bonfires, thick primeval forest, and crowded city streets, only to be replaced with thoughts of the looming presence of her new guardian.

  Still, though, she thought as she drifted off, maybe he's not all that bad.

  Lauren was jogging barefoot through the Shawnee, her feet impacting lightly on the packed earth and springy moss. She wore a simple tank top and a pair of yoga capris, perfect for the cool, late summer weather.

  She knew this trail, though she couldn't remember exactly where it let out of the forest. Her pace was leisurely, and she took in the familiar sights and smells of the deep woods.

  The citrus smell of crushed pine needles beneath her feet combined with wildflowers, filling her heart with peace as she breathed deeply.

  “Lauren,” a familiar voice called from just ahead, around a soft, slow bend in the trail.

  She quickened her pace. Who was that? Why did that voice tug so strongly on her heartstrings?

  A little of the warmth left the air with a cool breeze from behind her. It raised goosebumps on her skin and brought with it the faintest smell of rain.

  “Lauren!” This time there was no doubt in her mind, it was Erin.

  Lauren broke into a sprint, tearing off down the trail and calling for her friend.

  Strong gusts of wind picked up, turning the trees beside her into wildly dancing columns of green and brown. The first fat drops of a summer squall struck her back, stinging from the force of the gales.

  The curve in the trail seemed to extend further, a never ending spiral that wound tighter and tighter. Her feet thumped hard on the dirt of the path, kicking up bits of stick and moss in her wake.

  The voice continued. It called to her for help, and despite her break-neck speed it seemed to be getting fainter and fainter.

  “Erin!” she tried to scream, but her throat was tight and the word lacked the volume she needed to overcome the cyclonic winds.

  The rain fell like bullets now, and her footfalls were splashes in an infinite puddle of mud and tangling tree roots.

  With another shout she burst through the last of the trees. The forest ended abruptly at the edge of a huge cornfield. The dry stalks were well past harvest-time, looking like a forest of dull tan sticks a few feet high. In the center of the field, only a hundred yards distant, was a large, two-story farmhouse. It was old, with faded white paint and large bay windows at each corner of its front. An old, decrepit wrap-around porch sheltered a massive wood door.

  Erin was nowhere to be seen.

  The door slammed shut in the distance, propelled by the howling, still
fierce wind.

  “Erin!”

  Her voice was a snowflake in a blizzard, impossible to distinguish from the storm around her. If anything, the winds howled louder in response.

  She resumed her sprint, legs aching and lungs burning. As she strode among the cornstalks they brushed and scratched her legs, rattling like the exposed bones of autumn.

  Ozone filled her nostrils, and lightning flashed around her as she crossed the last few dozen feet to the porch. Taking the stairs three at a time she slammed into the door, gripping the handle and trying to pry it open.

  The wind was pressing so strongly against the door that she struggled to even separate it from the frame. She clawed at it, finally managing to slip her fingers into the crack around the door jam, and pulled it open. Her scraped, bloodied fingers left bright red streaks on the chipped paint.

  She forced herself inside, the door pushing her a few feet into the room as it slammed shut against her back.

  The noise of the wind was quieted, but only just. The inside of the room was comfortable and well furnished. Warm natural wood accented neutral earth-tone walls and a dark, deep-grained wood floor. Bookshelves lined every wall of the massive sitting room, each filled to the brim with books.

  “Erin?” Lauren called out loudly. Her voice had returned, and without the storm to drown her out her voice carried well.

  Only silence answered her.

  Lauren felt the oppressive emptiness of the house as a growing weight on her shoulders. Driving her posture downward until she was creeping from room to room like a field mouse in a library.

  She began to examine the first floor. There was a large, well-lit kitchen with massive storm windows and cabinets full of every kind of cereal she could imagine. Further exploration was halted by a noise from upstairs. The sound of running feet and a slamming door.

  “Erin? Erin!”

  She searched desperately for, and finally found, a tall winding wooden staircase. She climbed the stairs as fast as she could, coming out on a landing with only a single door at the top. The door had faded brass numbers on it, and an all too familiar handle.

  Her sense of uneasiness grew.

  The howling of the wind outside took on a long and mournful character, altering in pitch and intensity as she listened.

  “Lauren!”

  The voice, which came from beyond the door, startled Lauren so badly she squeaked in momentary terror.

  “Lauren help me, please,” the voice sounded afraid, like Erin was hurt and crying.

  Fear was replaced by urgency and Lauren grabbed the handle. It was locked. She beat on the door, screaming Erin's name until her fists were bruised and her throat was hoarse.

  She sank to her knees, looking at her hands. The bruises deepened in color, turning purple and then a blackish color tinged with green. Her nails were still broken and her fingertips bloody from the door downstairs. Her shins still bore the scrapes and scratches of the cornfield. Even her feet were bruised and battered.

  A loud click dragged her from her horrified inspection of her growing injuries. With a look of disbelief she stared at the handle of the door as it slowly turned. The door popped loose, a tiny crack appearing next to the frame.

  Lauren pushed her pain aside and yanked the door open.

  Lauren rushed inside, lost her footing on the wet floor and fell, jarring her wrist painfully. Her hands slipped on the slick floor as she tried to stand and she stared horrified and the flood of crimson covering the tile. She couldn't see Erin right away, from her vantage point she could only see her pale arm hanging over the side of a deep, cast iron bathtub. Her wrist was laid open as far Lauren could see.

  No, not again, Lauren thought to herself. Her mind started to shut down. She had been here before, seen this before.

  She stared, entranced, at Erin's arm, too afraid to look over the edge of the tub at what she knew she would find. There was a rushing in her ears, like the roar of a waterfall. Her heart pounded in her head and felt like it would beat out of her chest.

  As she watched, thick red blood began to spill over the edge of the tub as if someone had left the faucet on and the drain plugged.

  She scrambled backward, banging against the now closed door. She turned to face the door, which now locked from the other side. Her running clothes were gone, replaced by an unforgettable garment. Her slinky, light brown dress smeared blood across the floor as she struggled to stand.

  She grasped at the door as the crimson tide slowly rose. One inch, two.

  Splits began to appear on Lauren's arms, her own blood springing forth amidst a burning pain.

  Tearing at the door she finally managed to get it open. Blood rushed out of the room as she retreated to the landing and slammed the door behind her.

  Turning, she pushed against the door. She was painfully aware of the slow trickle from beneath the seal.

  Lauren backed away, unable to comprehend what was happening. She tore off down the stairs, stumbling as she did and nearly falling twice.

  When she reached the living room, Lauren made a beeline for the front door, throwing it open with a crash. A gust of wind nearly knocked her backwards, and it tugged painfully at her wings. Even so, she had to get out.

  She ran across the porch, then out into the yard, fighting the storm. The winds were so fierce they ripped some of her feathers out, sending dark shadowy shapes out into the howling fury.

  Above the howl of the wind came another, more animal noise.

  The howls of wolves filled the darkened skies, at least a dozen separate animals.

  Lauren froze, rain battering her like hailstones and the wind throwing her hair and feathers around chaotically.

  A flash of lightning illuminated the cornfields. She could clearly see the dark, sleek shapes of the wolves. They were coming from every direction.

  “Lauren,” the voice was even closer, whispering in her ear.

  Lauren awoke, screaming. Her eyes were wide with terror, she clawed at the now-suffocating embrace of the blankets and sheets covering her.

  It was dark, and for a moment she didn't know where she was. So absolute was her terror that she simply sat weeping and tried to remember how to breathe as her heart threatened to explode.

  “Lauren,” the voice wasn't Erin's, but it still startled the hell out of her.

  “It's ok, it's just me.”

  Dustin.

  He was sitting quietly in the total darkness, he had pulled up a chair at the foot of the bed.

  “W-what are you doing in here, why are you here.”

  It was impossible to read the man's tone, and the darkness hid his face and masked his body language.

  “You were screaming. I'm sorry. I can go if you would prefer, I didn't mean to disturb you, I just ...”

  Lauren waited, but no further words seemed forthcoming.

  “No,” she finally said. Deep down, it was comforting to not be alone. The nightmare had felt far too real.

  “Ok.”

  The pair sat quietly as the silence lengthened. Finally Lauren could take it no longer.

  “I'm sorry,” she said softly.

  “Why would you be sorry?”

  “I worried you,” she continued, feeling guilty for keeping him awake. “I'll be ok, I think. I've had these nightmares almost every night since...”

  A lump formed in her throat and her half-dried cheeks were wet once again with tears.

  “Since Gabriel d-died. Now Erin's gone too and I just, I don't understand. What did I do wrong? I miss them so much...”

  Dustin was silent, but not in a judgmental way. He was a patient stranger, a vigilant statue with an open ear.

  “Since Erin, it's gotten even worse. I see her every night.”

  Dustin shifted slightly, and she knew his dark blue eyes were looking at her, she could feel his gaze.

  “There was nothing you could have done for your little brother, or for your... friend.”

  “That's not true,” she was becoming h
ysterical, her voice high and tears forcing her to stutter. “A-at least n-not for Erin. I could have stayed, I should have been there. I betrayed her.”

  The guilt in her voice was palpable, and it filled the room.

  Dustin seemed to choose his words carefully.

  “I... do not envy you, but you should not blame yourself. You could not have saved your brother, you yourself said it doesn't work on your family members except for John.”

  “My dad, except my dad's side,” Lauren interrupted softly, but turning her thoughts to him she became even more distraught. She might never see him again.

  “Yes, ah, your dad. As for Ms. Engle, I... can't speak to-”

  “Stop,” her voice cracked on the simple word. “Please stop. Can we not talk about her please.”

  He nodded, stopping mid-sentence at her pleading.

  “What do I do?” Lauren asked him finally, leaving it to him to interpret what exactly she was asking for help with.

  He sat quietly a moment before answering.

  “About the nightmares? Or about your abilities?”

  “Either. Both, maybe.”

  Chapter Eleven:

  The sun creeping over the horizon found Lauren standing on her hotel balcony. She was looking down at the streets of Sarajevo. The faded scars of past war dotted the growing city, tiny reminders in a sea of optimism and peace.

  She clutched a mug of hot tea in her cold hands. Steam carried the scents of warm peppermint and chamomile to her nose and calmed her frayed nerves and worried mind.

  She relished the silence and the stillness. The rest of her entourage must still be asleep. She thought about her new companions. Since St. Louis she'd been accompanied by a small army of handlers “provided” by the State Department. Security officers, public relations managers, official press representatives, even a liaison from the United Nations.

  It was a circus.

  At least Dustin is still with me, she reminded herself.

  A cool breeze floated over the red-tiled roofs of the still sleeping city. It encircled her and sent a shiver through her body. She'd had to modify her wardrobe, favoring strapless dresses and warm leggings these days due to her... unusual requirements. She sighed, unfortunately dresses and leggings were not ideal winter wear.