.:The Illumination of Sorrow:.

THE CONCIERGE

I have been in Sorrow's kitchen and licked out all the pots.

Then I have stood on the peaky mountain wrapped in rainbows, with a harp and a sword in my hands.

Zora Neal Hurston

.::.

Before her mother threw her off a dock with intentions of drowning her, Olive Downes, like most people, considered herself a decent human being.

Now, sinking fifty feet underwater and breathing in several gallons of brine, she's not so convinced.

Sure, she's killed more people than all of the worst death row felons combined, so this little mishap should be dismissed as a mere annoyance rather than any cause of actual distress. But nowadays who gets tied to a chair and sent tumbling to their doom? 

And by their own mother, for Pete's sake?

Her slow death was minor compared to the revelation that maybe she really wasn't a good person.

And maybe she deserved this.

And maybe she never was.

Bean, wherever he is, would label my situation as a 'major turning point,' Olive thinks, staring into the darkness of the bag tied over her head. He liked to use phrases he found in his history textbooks and shared them with her when he sauntered home from school. That was the part of her day she cherished the most - watching Bean's eyes glow when he taught her about the Civil War and the assassination of Franz Ferdinand. She didn't mind learning secondhand as long as Bean remained passionate about his schoolwork.

Before they absconded (Bean's word) their tiny apartment, Olive even went so far as to always make sure she screamed into her pillows quietly enough to not disturb his studying. She figured her therapy shouldn't hinder his bright future. 

Because that would just be selfish.

She discovered scream therapy shortly after Bean introduced her to his good friends Arthur Janov and Sigmund Freud for inspiration and she never looked back. After several months of practice Olive certainly didn't consider herself a professional screamer, but she liked to think when the need arose she would be primed and ready.

That's my problem, Olive holds her breath, I like to think, but I never do any actual thinking.

Bean, like any good brother, supported Olive's coping mechanism by ignoring it, using his calculus homework as a buffer whenever she crept into her bedroom and locked the door. He pretended her muffled groans were the usual leaky gas pipes, saving the two of them much embarrassment when she burst out ready to tackle the world's issues once more.

Unfortunately, there are instances when no amount of preparation can sit in for the Real Deal.

Like now.

. . . . . . .

"This is the fanciest hotel in the city, Ollie. How are we gonna stay here?" Bean eyes the looming hotel with equal parts distrust and curiosity. He trembles and tightens his backpack straps even though they're already pulled taunt.

Olive watches the entrance, eyes narrowed. "Quad expects us to hide out in shady motels in the next city over, not the Ritz. She'll check those places first."