REESE

"Damn…" He muttered as that slick bluegill fell from his hand. It earned a snort from Boone who was grazing nearby under the shade of a great big oak tree. "Awful funny ain't it? We've not had much luck today and the first one I nab get's free like that. Rookie mistake." Reese reached for the plastic red coffee can, 'Folgers' it said, and snapped off the lid to reach inside and pluck out a worm. He quickly set the hook with the fresh bait and cast the lure out into the somber expanse of the pond. The bobber floated, Reese felt his mind drifting away into thought while his eyes watched for movement, he wondered what his life might be like in another ten or twenty years... would he still do that work down at the parts store? Would the soothing voice of his maw still be able to be heard? He didn't want to think about what the world would feel like if his Granma- "Ugh, hell, stop Reese. Stop." He swallowed hard, sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

Boone lifted his head and set his gaze on the tall figure of his owner. Another internal dilemma? The animal could feel the uneasy rhythm of his heart - he could hear the sigh - and Boone often felt that the boy's hair looked like a tasty carrot at times. But that wasn't the point right now. He walked towards Reese, inhaling the dust that rested near the bank of the pond and nudging his boots, pestering him for attention with a (initially) gentle nip on the arm of his shirt. Reese was pulled out of the doom 'n gloom by the sounds of movement from Boone and that nip to his arm; Reese felt okay. It was alright now. Nothing would come after him. "Oh Boone. That kind of pinched but compared to the other times you've bitten me it's alright." He patted the space between the animals ears with a large hand, spattered with a bit of blood from catching himself with a hook. "Shoot. I think my lines stuck in a log or something, see that there?" Reese pointed out to where the bobber had planted itself and was prepared to never move again but it really made no difference to the horse, "Guess I'm going in. I just replaced the line, that's Grandpa's bobber and I'll never hear the end of it if Granmaw learns I broke another pole."

Enjoying the cool, though a little warm, sensation of the water swallowing him up as he waded into the pond was pleasant. The bobber was quite a bit farther out than he had thought which was honestly quite odd as from the bank it seemed close enough. The further he went the further the bobber seemed to drift. Before he knew it the water went from his knee, waist and nearly up to his neck. Had the pond always been so big? So deep? Deep enough that when he strained his eyes to look through the murky film there seemed to be a pitch black hole underneath him. Reese stretched out a hand to finally get ahold of the bobber - this felt like an endless quest. A bit ridiculous is how he felt right about now. "Boone?" A splash of water had him thinking the horse was coming into the pond but as he turned around there was nothing, not even Boone. There were no trees, no grass, no sun. A cry of panic erupted from his throat and he belted out the horses name, "BOONE!" and he began a delirious swim towards the imaginary bank just as he was pulled under the water.

Enjoying the water?

Reese was terrified to open his eyes. He couldn't breath, his chest shuttered from the impact of being pulled under and pond water rushing up his nose. His hair fluttered above him in a unusually calm motion that looked like waves.

Your hair. It reminds me of a dry forest that finally bursts into flames with a bit of ill intent. Or carelessness, whichever comes first.

He finally opened his eyes and found himself in a place that looked no different from the other times before when he had dove into the pond to swim. It's safety was a mirage. Reese could not speak but he did hear the disgusting voice. The tones of it were so guttural, so weepy and nearly so pathetic that he felt a mockery of sympathy and hatred for it. His emotions made him feel a deep, intense disgust for this thing that he could not see and had not spoken to.

Hating me already? It's alright. I am very used to it. Child.

'Child!' Reese tried to move away but found he was held in place. 'The child of WHAT? Of you? What the hell are you? Where's my damn horse?' His lungs began to heave inside his chest and his body started to feel weak.

Of me. Yes. I see we don't have much time to talk... your still quite weak. You'll find out that weaknesses can be delectable though. You may always hate me, which I think you will, but just know you are Famine.

Reese figured this was the most narcissistic thing he had ever met. It was full of twists and turns, lies and deceit. 'This is insane. Backwards. YOU are lost. Famine? Who the hell, you know what, just let me go!'

I was prepared to give you a creature of my own creation for this physical plane you call earth. I will not. I have watched that animal you have now from birth and I have chosen him for you. Famine with a living, breathing, thirsting animal quite amuses me. Child, look for me no more.

Reese violently coughed as he was pulled from the water by the collar of his shirt. Boone had done it and apparently had been trampling up and down the edge of the water once he saw the boy disappear. "Gah! Shit!" Reese collapsed on his back, rolling over then propping himself up on all fours as he dry-heaved. Boone nibbled a bit of his hair... "Carrot boy?"

𝕁𝕠𝕙𝕟

Flies will land on anything and anyone - Cow butt. A TV screen. A rotting corpse. Hot trash. Your face.
John recoiled and swatted the air as his fellow sanitation worker came up behind him to grab some trash bags.
"Don't worry bro, you'll get used to the smell!" Zach chuckled. If it weren't for the happy wrinkles around those familiar brown eyes John could have sworn his friend was coughing instead.
"Ugh - are you not seeing this?" Feigning outrage, John pointed at a group of flies crawling up his arm. "These flies are treating me like trash."
"Suck it up, boy!" Zach played along and slapped John's arm, scattering the vermin. "I guess you must've spilled something on your sleeve when you threw one of the bags. It can happen from time to time, which is why you gotta throw the bags like this."
It was John's second day working for New York City's sanitation department, thanks to his friend Zach who scored him the job. For a job that dealt with waste disposal it paid remarkably well and it was the first time in his life that John felt like he could maybe make this work.
John watched as his 5"6' companion with over ten years of experience swung bag after bag into the gaping maw of the truck, then diligently followed his example until they could do it in unison. Once their stretch of the street was finished they returned back inside the truck and drove on. The city streets were quieter than John was used to during the day, now it was almost after midnight and they had until morning to get back to the centre to deliver the smelly goodies.
As he started thinking about what changes may come in a few months' time, a subtle vibration against his chest alerted him to an incoming phonecall. After taking one hefty glove off and tugging down his face covering, John reached inside his worker uniform and pulled out his phone.
"This can't be good..." He muttered upon seeing the caller ID glowing on the screen. Zach briefly cast a worried glance at him but held back from asking.
"... John?" The shrill voice of a young woman was on the other end of the line. A fear that was uncharacteristic of her, John knew.
"Yeah, I'm at work right now. What's wrong, Leah?" In contrast, John betrayed no emotion in the depths of his voice, but he had to turn his face away from Zach's scrutiny.
"It's your mom - Mrs. Sanson..." Leah whispered and breathed heavily - or was it static? "You've got to come here, John... Right away."
"She can't ask this of me. I saw her yesterday." John responded, but it was too late. The call dropped and with it his stomach. He had a few strange phonecalls in his lifetime, but none that felt so wrong. So personal.
The truck stopped, more trash was waiting to be picked up.
"Everything alright?" Zach finally asked. John shook his head, but it was an involuntary movement, like swatting flies.
"Zach, we've been friends for how long?" He asked, shoving the phone back inside his uniform and putting the other glove on.
"Uh, almost ten years now, I think?"
"Ten years, huh?" John nodded slowly. "Sounds about right... Well, I guess it's time I told you the truth about my family."
"Your family?" Zach narrowed his eyes. "What, your not the great-great-great- whatever of some French executioner guy?"
"That -" John raised a finger for emphasis, "that part's totally true, actually."
"So?"
"So, the call I had back there was from a nurse who works at the city's psychiatric hospital where my darling mother is a patient. Something happened over there, I don't know what."
"OK... Then go check it out bro, I'll cover for you. Get my little brother to do it." Zach shrugged; he was concerned about John yet surprisingly unfazed about this new revelation. John knew Zach had his own fair share of family drama, and he appreciated the blessing of being understood.
"You sure about this?"
"Hey, you've been working harder than me, and I know you'd do the same for me if it was my mom in the hospital or somethin', you know. I won't tell nobody, bro."
After a sincere "bro" handshake and "thanks bro" exchange, John quickly slipped out of his sanitation worker uniform, left it for Zach, and once outside he slapped the side of the truck like it was a pale horse heading off into the night. Zach saluted him one more time with a small honk and a thumbs up through the window.
Truthfully, John was starting to feel nauseous, and it wasn't from the trail of stink left behind by the truck. He wanted badly to finally make this work, to finally feel like the ground beneath him wouldn't give way like it always does. This better be the first and last time, he mumbled to himself as he let down his long black hair to run his fingers through. Minor stress relief in the absence of smokes.
It was sometime around 2am now and the chances of flagging down a cab was slim, but that didn't matter. John knew his trash pick-up route passed by the psychiatric hospital anyway and it was only a short walk from there. Despite his giant vampyric stature and intimidating expression, John was still on edge. He had been jumped before, specifically by drug addicts who fear neither God nor man when they're desperate enough. The streets were utterly deserted, however, not even the rats were stirring. The eerie quiet was almost more disturbing than getting jumped. The sky above was pitch black - moonless and starless.
The psychiatric hospital was a tall, unassuming cream-coloured building, with small square windows that looked down into the street like empty eye sockets. All the lights seemed to be out, except for the ground floor reception area which was bathed in cold white that was a tad too bright.
Nurse Leah Summers was pacing around the lobby by herself when John entered.
"John!" She rushed over, almost bumping into him. They weren't that close yet - John and Leah - but if they had been, he wouldn't have resisted the urge to hold her tight and brush her long black hair, as black and long as his.
"Leah, are you okay? What's the matter? How's mom?" He blurted, his eyes darting around at all the strange people gathering around them.
"Don't worry about me." Leah sniffed and gave him a small apologetic smile. "Mrs. Sanson wanted to see you very badly. We tried everything to pacify her but nothing worked..." She trailed off, remembering something that didn't make any sense to her. Something that couldn't be possible...
"Take me to her and let's get this over with." John said gently, and followed her into the elevator. "So, who were all those people in the lobby?"
"What are you talking about?" Leah blinked at him. John stared at her, trying to read her expression, but there was no hint of mischief in her eyes. She really had no idea. John felt the blood drain from his face as the elevator went up.
"It's a joke." He said dismissively. "Mental hospital, you know. I see dead people and all that..."
"You are unbelievable." Leah shook her head in disgust and gave him the most severe death glare he has ever had the pleasure of receiving. It almost made John forget that he didn't hallucinate a whole group of people a few seconds ago.
Walking down the dark hallway with Leah, John saw more of them. Men and women of all ages and races, even children, silently stood against the walls and watched the couple as they passed, their steps echoing against the hard floor. Leah was oblivious to the strangers and John tried his best to ignore them too.
He decided he'd attempt small talk to lessen the creepy factor, "is it usually this quiet around here?"
"Not usually." She replied simply, then slowly came to a stop and stared across the hall. "You know where her room is, don't you?"
"Like the back of my hand, why?"
"Just go." Leah gestured tiredly. "I'd prefer to stay out of this from now on. I hope you'll understand."
This is not like her. Leah is not herself today and nothing makes sense anymore. John felt as though she was breaking up with him, and they weren't even a couple. He did have feelings for her and every time he was with her he was on his best behaviour. But perhaps his biggest fear came out to be true; dating the girl who looks after your clinically insane mother can't be good for the relationship. And yet, Leah didn't turn around and leave. She stood there, hugging herself and shivering from the cold. It was then that John realised how unusually freezing it was, he could even see his own breath when he sighed.
"Here." John said, passing his bulky leather jacket to her. Leah was slightly taller than the average American woman in her 20s, but even so, John's jacket made her look tiny. He took the chance to wrap it around her like a warm blanket and she thanked him, sounding a little kinder than she did before.
There was a man standing guard next to the door to Mrs. Sanson's room. John leaned in and stared at him in the dim light, trying to make out whether he was real or not.
"Help you, sir?" The skinhead guy scowled, apparently offended.
"I'm John, Mrs. Sanson's boy. I don't remember seeing you around here before." Said John.
"I work the night shifts." The guard answered with zero inflection. "You may go in, sir. Mrs. Sanson is expecting you."

Once John was inside his mother's room, he could have sworn the temperature dropped down to near freezing. His breath came out in white puffs and his hands were turning numb. It was like being inside a meat freezer.
He peered into the darkness and instinctively groped the wall for a light switch, only to find that it didn't work.
"Momma? You in here?" John called out.

Come to me, my son. Follow the sound of my voice.

He couldn't see anything at all and he couldn't help but feel how wrong it was. Where is the glow of the city lights in the window? Where's the flicker of a digital clock or something? Anything?

Without a light, you fear that you will stumble in the dark. Be not afraid, my son, for you are the darkness itself.

The voice was strange yet not unpleasant, possessing both male and female characteristics. It was impossible to locate its source and follow it as he was commanded - the voice was all around him.

Suddenly, John saw a pale grey figure before him, taller than even he, wearing a cloaked hood and robes of uncertain fabric that cascaded down to the ground. Thick swirls of white smoke snaked around its legs, reminding John of those liquid nitrogen tricks he'd seen at a death metal concert before. Now he was sure he was dreaming.

"Who are you? Where's my mother?" It was all he could ask.

She was only a temporary vessel, like the others that went before... War. Pestilence. Famine. They are your true family now.

Slowly, the figure approached John, towering above him. In its right arm was a scythe - the classic weapon of choice he immediately knew belonged to the Reaper. Was he dead? Is this the end?

Though you have tasted the bitter fruit of mortality, you are neither living nor dead. You are Death, the fourth Horseman, who will bring the final end to this wretched world forever.

As John listened with horror and rapture, he realized that the scythe had now materialised in his grip, downsized slightly to perfectly compliment his height. He opened his mouth to speak, or perhaps to scream, but no sound came out. Beside the tall figure was a ghostly-looking horse with empty eye sockets and a long mane that was made of the same white swirls of smoke as the ground under it. It was still as a statue, unnaturally so.

John...

The being spoke, though it sounded nothing like his meek little mother, there was a horrifying sense of familiarity there. It stretched out its long arm and with a bony finger lightly traced John's cheek. He couldn't dare to recoil.

Forgive me.

Suddenly, a bright flash of pure white light replaced the darkness that was before. John instantly dropped the scythe and shielded his eyes, genuinely afraid of being blinded. There was a distant scream, like a woman falling down a deep well, and then it was all gone.
John rubbed his eyes and looked around. It was a normal room now - momma's room - just like it was yesterday. The bedside lamp was on, the digital clock next to it was flashing 00:00 in bright green numerals. On the bed was his mother lying peacefully in her old nun's habit. Her eyes were closed and the corners of her mouth were curled into a smile.
"Momma?" John whispered, coming closer to her. He touched her hands, which were folded over across her stomach. The skin was cold. He shook her slightly but there was no response. Mrs. Sanson was dead, and she was at peace.

Charani

Ignoring the horse, Charani quickly learned, was futile. Not only was it big, tall and muscular, but it had a temper and would not be overlooked. At first, she'd tried to simply walk past it as if it didn't exist, hitching her purse higher on her shoulder as she made her way to her Kia. She was going to pretend there was no fiery, demonic horse in her front yard, speaking of war and duties. No sword lying on her couch and a memory of a man who was apparently her father. Even thinking the word left a bitter aftertaste.

It was just a nightmare and none of this is real.

Except apparently, it was. The horse nipped her side rather rudely when she went to open the car's door, leaving what she was sure was going to be a bruise. "Ow!" Jerking away from any more bodily harm, Charani turned towards the beast and planted her hands on her hips, purse falling to hook at her elbow. "Look, I don't know what kind of hallucination I'm currently having, but I'm over it! You can take your creepy vibes and go back from whichever pit in my mind you came out of!" For a second, she thought about whacking it on the nose with her purse, like she would a feral dog. But the purse was expensive, and she had a shift to get to. Shoving past a bulky shoulder while trying to avoid the flames dancing along its mane, she was rather unprepared for the sharp, painful bite to her backside.

The pain and indignation created an unforeseen fiery rage that colored her vision, hotter and more intense than anything she'd ever experienced. The firestorm of mania inside her wanted nothing but violence.

Had her focus not been on the horse staring back at her she'd have heard the sudden cacophony in the small neighborhood. A couple of street cats began screeching at one another, claws and fur flying. Her neighbors, a sweet old man and his wife, suddenly came to blows between screaming profanities. The friendly game of streetball between children erupted into riotous disorder. In every house along her lane hostility ignited.

"There you are."

Fire licked from her fingertips at the esteem in the horse's voice. There was the feeling of a volcano about to erupt inside of her, like if she didn't let the pressure out in some way, she was going to do something terrible. But if it was going to happen, she was going to aim all that rage onto this stupid horse.

"Be careful, War. It is yet too early to release all the conflict and struggle you carry. The time will come. For now, look what you are causing."

It took her a moment to turn her gaze from him, and when she finally did horror dawned on her. She could hear her neighbors, but she could see the kids, howling and biting and kicking like animals. "What are they doing?! Hey, stop!" Running towards them, still yelling, Charani could feel hot tears pooling in her eyes as she watched the chaos. In the blink of an eye the horse was in front of her, stopping her mad dash.

"Focus! If you do not tame the fire, it will burn everything. Control it."

Blinking the tears from her vision, Charani looked down at her trembling hands and saw bright flames crawling around her fingertips like a living thing. For some strange reason she could smell the blood on the air, hear the crunch of bones and tearing of flesh. Almost taste the spite, the wrath, the excitement this release of hostility had caused. What was worse, was that some part of her relished it. The unsettling thought doused the fire inside. What was left behind was despair, something inside of her crumbling. "Oh God, what have I done." The horse only huffed softly, nudging her this time rather than biting. "What am I?" Voice trembling, she dropped on the spot, hand covering her mouth as she watched the children blink awake as if from a trance, many bursting into hysterics.

"As I have told you, as your father told you, you are the Horseman of War. It is time you accept that."

"Horsewoman." Charani muttered distractedly, barely more than a whisper. There was a longing to go help, but an even larger part feared she'd cause more damage. It also seemed they either could not see her, or only saw the' human' her since none of the kids or the adults hurrying from their homes in various states of distress were screaming at the sight of the demon horse. "So, I'm what? The Red Rider? One of the harbingers of the Apocalypse?" The bitterness, as did the color, drained from her face the horses' silence. Still on the ground, she whipped her head around to stare at him in horror. "No!" The red horse gave a mean snort and turned to walk placidly back towards her house. Charani shot one last aghast look at the carnage she left behind then scrambled to follow.

"What if I don't want this! Can I give it to someone else, someone whose better equipped to handle all the -" She couldn't finish the sentence, swishing her hands in front of her as if to encompass all her bitter anger towards the world. Again, there was no answer. Instead, the horse butted his head against her door and knocked it open. She should be angry about it, but frankly she felt she had more important things to worry about. "Wait? Does this mean the apocalypse is actually a thing? As in demons, and death, and the end of humanity? Oh god, does God actually exist!?" There was a faint ringing in her ears and heat at her fingertips. Looking at them, they were glowing red. It seemed it wasn't only anger that caused it; fear was another.

"It all exists, and you are a part of the Great Plan. Or you will be, if you stay alive long enough to see it through."

Hooves leaving burnt patches in her carpet, the horse made his way through her living room as if he owned it, not caring that every time his tail twitched something else would get singed. Charani followed behind him, frantically putting out the small fires. She wasn't materialistic by any means, but for the first time in her life she had stuff; things that were hers and hers alone. She would appreciate it if her newly acquired pet would stop destroying her things. "What do you mean stay alive? Is that why I'm suddenly this, because something killed the War before me?"

"Your father and his brothers knew their time had come, that they needed heirs to inherit their mantle so the Plan could commence. Not all want to see the world burn, including Hell. The original Four Horsemen were killed by high level demons, and now they will come for you to finish the job. This is why you need to find your new brothers. You are safer, stronger, together."

"Did anyone ever tell you that you talk like some old English scholar? Very unbecoming of a horse of War." Charani was unable to help herself, deflecting to sarcasm in the face of her overwhelming emotions. The horse pinned its ears but didn't humor her. Instead, he turned towards a large map of the US pinned to her wall that Charani had bought not long after arriving in the country. It was a way to remind her that there was a lot of exploring to do, that this was her home now. To the northeast a flame burst to life, charring a hole in the map. "Hey!"

"There you will find your new brothers. Now hurry and go, before they find you."

With that the horse dissipated into a thick, black smoke, leaving Charani coughing. He wants me to pack up and leave? Just like that? It was crazy, improbable really. She'd only recently been promoted in her dream job, had a house of her own and was finally happy and settled. But what would be the cost if she didn't? More outbursts like the one on the street, with people going for one another's throats simply because she couldn't rein in her temper? Someone actually being killed this time? Feeling nauseous, Charani moved around her house, picking out everything she might need for a lengthy trip north. She had no idea what to expect, except the unexpected. The sword was the last item she grabbed, wondering for a moment if it would be better to just leave it behind. But something wouldn't let her, as if the blade was calling out.

After three trips to her car, Charani stopped at the map and took a few pictures, googling the town where the hole sat. Six hours from where she lived, so not terrible. Wiping the tears that tried welling up yet again, she took on last look at her home, vowing to come back one day. And with that she locked the door and turned away from everything she'd ever dreamed of having. I hate this. The bitter thought was loud as the young woman dropped into her Kia, pulling from her driveway. She didn't notice the snarling from two feral dogs as she drove past, tearing at each other.

The trip out of her city was long and filled with traffic, but she was able to breathe easier and hit cruising speed once on the highway. Rolling down her window and turning up her music to try and think of nothing, the bass of the song began sounding suspiciously like hoof beats. "I need to name you." She told the horse, who was running easily along the side of the highway.

His flames were leaving a trail of destruction in his wake.

REESE

Few things could have startled him more than his horse talking, but it surely was up there, high on the list. Reese leaned back on the heel of the ragged square-toed boots (which were sopping wet an making that awful squelching sound) and swooped a piece of red hair from his eye, combing a hand through the bright red beard. "Did you really just talk Boone...?" Reese inhaled and chewed his lower lip with hesitation. No response. "I feel like a fool. Boone," Reese got up from the dirt with a heavy sigh, "I think there's a hell of a storm comin'. I can almost smell that fresh sweet scent that hangs in the air before it rains. Except it's fake an this rain'll sting." The leaves attached to the tree's around him shuttered and rustled with the wind, "Even the trees know it. I'm worried about them... I've got a feeling whatever it is won't be kind to them. Hell, it won't be kind to anything. It's givin' me an awful aching feeling in my soul, horse. Worst of all is that I think I'm having a part in it." Every single word rolled off his tongue with that heavy, twangy, rich Appalachian accent. Reese had been made fun of it by outsiders before. Never could he understand their dislike for the way he sounded - was there not anything sweeter to the sound of a child's ear than to hear its own mother's voice? One who's voice was just like his. Reese never talked with uncertainty, though he may have felt it inside sometimes, his words came out with a deep tone and sure manner.

Boone raised his head with a shake of that black mane, casting dirt about. "You always git caught up in your thoughts Reese. So don't be flattering yourself." He did it. Boone talked. Again! "Sonovab-" Reese felt like falling on his knee's again but caught himself, "I'm starting to wonder what was in my grits this morning. Alright, you can talk. And again I'm starting to wonder whether you'll be a friend or foe now that you can." Boone ignored the boy. "I suppose it's on your time when you talk? That's nice." Reese picked up his fishing pole, coffee can, little tackle box and glanced one last time out at the pond. Every now and then a fish or bug might cause a ripple to form and lazily fade out, bullfrogs chirped in some magical location unknown to us humans no matter how intensely we followed their sound or shouted, 'I heard it here!'. Dogwood, oak, maple, mulberry - they all rested here. They'd been resting there for centuries. Reese loved it here so much. You could even see a bit of the rolling woods-dotted hills behind the gaps of tree branches. 

He swung himself up into the saddle and turned the reins toward home. "Goin' home Boone. I don't feel right in the head."





(Reese'll head to Salem in my next response!)

𝕁𝕠𝕙𝕟

"You could have just told me." John mumbled to no one in particular, burying his face in his hands as he sank into the armchair.
His mother's body lay on the bed opposite him, covered from head to toe in a white sheet. Why did they have to do that? John wondered. Seeing his mother like this only made it worse, more real.
Casting a glance at her bedside table, he saw a framed photograph. His mother's wavy brown hair danced around her smiling face while she held onto her hat with one hand and wrapped around a ten year old John's shoulders with the other. Some distance behind them was the Cathedral of Notre Dame with its tall gothic spires, flying buttresses and flocks of tourists wandering in the midday sun. That was in the early 2000s when they flew over to France for a visit, presumably to connect to their ancestral roots. It was the only trip they ever took together, and his mother was never the same since they returned the US. John never did figure out why she changed.
Why was this the photo momma treasured the most? He couldn't even remember that day, or who captured that moment.

Suddenly the words he heard before repeated again in his mind:

War. Pestilence. Famine. They're your true family now.

"I'm so sorry, John." Leah gently squeezed his shoulder, bringing him back to the current time. "She was your only family, wasn't she?"
"I don't even know anymore..." He answered quietly, shaking his head. It wasn't in his nature to control the process from thought to speech, even if what he said made no sense even to himself. Leah didn't think to judge him for it, but John secretly feared he was starting to lose his mind. In a psychiatric hospital, of all places. It must be infectious, like a good hearty laugh. John almost felt like laughing, until he recalled a video he saw online once, of people in those laughter therapy groups, and imagined himself one of them. Hi everyone, uh, my name is John, and uh, I'm the Horseman of Death. HAHAHAHA! (The group laughs along, slapping their knees and wiping their tears of joy). The very thought of a group of people laughing at each other was John's ultimate nightmare. I would rather have them all commit mass suicide right in front of me.
... Woah, what?
He shook his head.
"Here - thanks for the jacket." Leah said, returning the black leather mass to him.
He felt the inside of it with his hands, comforted by the remnants of Leah's warmth. "Not cold anymore, huh?"
"John, I..." She began, nervously looking behind her to check if anyone was there. She then quickly grabbed another armchair and sat down next to John. "Before your mom passed, she told me to give you this."
John squinted at the piece of paper Leah unfolded and carefully placed in his hand. "What's this - a one-way train ticket to... Salem, Massachusetts? How did she even acquire this?" As soon as the words left his mouth, John couldn't help but feel disrespectful talking about Momma like she wasn't part of the conversation - she had always taught him that was rude whenever there were more than two people talking. "I'm right here, son!" She'd say after giving him a light smack in the head, in front of his friends. But dead people don't count, right? Momma never told him about that.
"Thanks, I guess." He mumbled. What the hell am I supposed to do in Massachusetts?
He was about to fold it up and shove the ticket in his jeans pocket when Leah tugged him by his shirt sleeve.
"Wait - look at the date that's printed on it," she pointed impatiently. "It's today, John."
John stared at the numbers and nodded, but didn't understand at all why it mattered. To tell the truth, he had no idea what day of the month it was, except that it wasn't yesterday anymore, so he took Leah's word for it. "That's interesting." Was all he said.
"You're not going?" Leah asked. The hint of fear in her voice forced John to finally look her in the face properly. Is she losing her mind too?
"What, are you nuts?" He frowned. It's the first time he has ever talked to her in a rougher tone, and he corrected himself immediately. "I mean - forgive me for my choice of words here - but I can't up and leave. Jesus H. Christ, I have a funeral to arrange and I don't even know where to start." He spoke as though it was a stranger's funeral, not his own mother. It couldn't be her.
"Hey, it's okay. I'll help you take care of all that." Leah gently promised, unfazed by his words. "Your mom didn't have much going on in her life besides you."
John straightened in his seat and focused on Leah, trying to read her eyes. Although, that's not exactly what he did. He couldn't read people so well, and could sometimes be naive as to their true thoughts and feelings. But what he did have was the power of his penetrating gaze. He couldn't see shit, but shit floated up to the surface if he looked at someone a specific way. He disliked using this intimidating tactic on a woman he had feelings for, but he knew her well enough to tell she was hiding something from him. Has been since the phonecall at work.
What he could not anticipate, however, was that Leah was not at all intimidated by his stare, as most people are. She thought it was kind of hot, actually. She looked away before he could notice her cheeks change colour.
"There's something you're not telling me." John realised. "Isn't there?"
Leah stood up to leave and John followed her. His instinct told him to reach out and grab her, stop her, make her look at him and answer him clearly. It would be so easy. But Momma taught him never to treat a woman like a rag doll, especially if you're a big strong guy. "If a woman wants to go, you better let her go, son." She'd say every time there was a domestic dispute scene on the TV. "You wouldn't do that to another man, would you? He'd slap ya silly. Goodness knows, if women could..."
As it turns out, Leah stopped herself from leaving, no coercion necessary.
"You're right." She admitted, turning to face him. "There's more I should tell you. I don't know why I have to be involved in this right now..."
"Involved in what?" John gently prodded, hoping to make her feel safe to confide in him. "Are you in any danger?"
Leah looked down for a minute, took a deep breath, and bravely met his powerful gaze. "Meet me in the parking lot outside in about fifteen minutes, after the end of my shift. We'll talk in my car on the way to Penn Station."