A New Beginning

Broken Angel

"Noooo! No, no, no, no."

On a moss-grown, slippery ledge behind the tallest waterfall in the Midwest, where Roanoke Ridge meets Roanoke Valley, you cry out your pain hunched over a wrecked leather suitcase that belongs... belonged to your father. A broken figurine in one hand, a smudged cloth in the other, once white as snow. Your fathers handkerchief, with his initials embroidered. The figurine, a wingless angel carved out of oak. A hand-made gift you were to receive on the day of his scheduled arrival in Saint Denis.

You run your thumb over the wooden surface, exploring and acquainting every bump and dint. The dress is of the same design and pattern as your favorite dress when you were little. The wispy fringe and French-braided pigtails. The book in her arm. You, his little angel, some sixteen years ago.

The overall level of detail. It must've taken him so long.

You rummage through sliced-up bags, purses, and satchels, soiled garments, toiletries, various trinkets and knick-knacks. Patting the cold, wet ground with flat palms, searching and searching with teary eyes and trembling fingers, until you find one of the wing pieces. The other remains lost despite your best effort, making sure this little angel remains broken forever. You put the found piece where it belongs, a silly and futile thing to do as you have no means of gluing it in place.

Behind the thunderous waterfall you drown in memories inescapably flooding your mind. Memories that might someday put a smile to your face but now all they do is give you pain.

Why does it hurt so much, to lose a loved one? Perhaps it is because even though the person is dead, the love you feel for them is still very much alive. The comfort which their presence used to bring is forever gone. Their voice can no longer give you solace, and you will never again feel the heartening warmth of their embrace. All that is left is their name and time on this Earth chiseled in stone and a heart filled with love that has nowhere to go.

The heavy footsteps that has been in the background, sometimes close, sometimes faint, now draws near. You hear the squish-squish of boots against moss as Arthur squats next to you.

"I miss – I miss," you sniffle through hitched breaths, "I miss him. So much."

You long for your father's arms around you. Rocking you back and forth as he tells you that this too shall pass. Assuring you in that calming, mellow tone of his that everything will be okay in the end.

"I never got to say goodbye. He just – taken from me."

He sits by your side in silence. A minute? Five? You wish he would say something, anything. Perhaps he deems it not his place to speak at all of your father, whom he once beat half senseless. Yet, you wish he would.

"We should – I'm sorry, <y/n> but there ain't anythin' here."

"If you'd known h-he was my pa, would-would y-you-"

You ponder how to voice the question. You wonder if you can at all. When you hear a lengthy, deflated sigh, you know for sure.

"C'mon, let's go."

You bring with you the mementos of your father but leaving behind the rest of his belongings with a reluctant heart. All of costly value is gone, and what remains is either shredded beyond recognition or caked in what is snot and dirt at best.

You fall behind. Not only because a heavy chest makes for slow, straggling steps, but also because the path leading outside is narrow and slippery, with the occasional drop in the terrain. When you finally have your feet on steady ground, the manhunter has disappeared from your view.

There are traces of a recent camp site at the ledge overlooking the river down below. You swirl your foot in a pile of charred wood where the campfire had been, lifting your eyes to the magnificent view. It's the perfect place to spot and fend off potential intruders, which, if the many bullet casings strewn about are to be an indication of, had gone from potential to very real indeed.