As The World Turns Cold

Broken Fragments Remain

"You can't be here!"  Jacques Baudelaire screamed.

Whatever sanity he had left had been put on hold by Mercy's appearance.  He was frantic, skittish even, looking everywhere he could but at her.  His eyes kept roaming over the windows of the houses on the other side of the street.  Mr. Baudelaire was paranoid, believing that anyone could be watching.

"Diabhal!  I didn't ask for this you hear me!  None of it!"

"Sir, you need to calm down!"  Rogue hissed through hushed words.  No sense in shouting to draw attention.  Jacques Baudelaire had done enough of that. 

Mr. Baudelaire moved to shut the door, uttering prayers as he went.  He was acting like he'd seen a ghost.  The ghost in question was none other than Mercy herself and the thought made her feel ill.  No more than seeing her father threatened with insanity did anyway.

Rogue pushed off of the doorway, moving too quickly for Mercy's father to stop him.  His arms shot out to stop him from slamming the door on them and Mercy took the opportunity to make a run for it.  She slipped underneath Rogue's arm, crossing the threshold and stopping before her father. 

Jacques stopped his struggle with Rogue upon seeing his daughter, or the ghost of her, standing in front of him.  He stumbled back, knocking into a table and spewing the contents.  Mercy winced as the mosaic lamp fell, crashing and shattering on the floor into tiny pieces.

Rogue stepped in, closing the door behind him.  As he did so, Mercy rushed to help her father.  She reached out a hand to offer support, but he pushed it away, refusing her help.

"This can't be happening'.  This isn't real, I tell you."  He wept, the sound cut at Mercy's heart and she ached not only for herself, but the shell of man that was her father.

    "I want to sympathize with you."  Mercy stated, feeling her own eyes brimming with tears.  "But I can't. Whatever you are going through, I've suffered equal, if not more.  What they did to me, what I will not speak of, was enough to drive me to welcome death, to beg and plead for an escape."  She paused, anger apparent in her voice as she refused to let the tears fall. "Yet I'm here, papa, I'm no ghost, try as I might."

    Mr. Baudelaire shook his head, unbelieving of her words.  A quick glance to her right showed Mercy that Rogue was keeping watch through the window.  If anyone had been alerted or worried about Jacques Baudelaire, there were no signs to speak of yet.

    After several moments, Mercy's father stole a peak at her, and when he caught her eye, this time he didn't look away.

    He was worn out and haggard-looking.  Mercy knew that there was only so much will to fight in this man and he'd used up most of it as soon as they arrived.  Her father drew in a sharp breath.  "I didn't want them to take you.  I never wanted it."  He paused, wiping furiously at his eyelids as more tears leaked out.  "I fought for you for years.  I begged them with all the money I owned and everything I had, but they wouldn't take it!"

    Mercy stilled, bracing herself and staring daggers at her father.  "Did you fight for me?  I never heard of it!  In the beginning, I thought you would come back for me.  Imagine how I felt, captive for so many years, tortured far more times than that, when you didn't show up."  She braced herself against the wall behind her.  Mercy closed her eyes, regretting this trip.

  What had she expected to happen?  That she would walk in and everything would be okay?  And where was her mother, her sister; where were they?

Mercy was aware of Rogue watching her; she could feel his gaze on her, urging her to open her eyes.  She did just that and saw that Rogue had stepped closer to her.  He was beside her, ready for her to lean on if she needed.