Aveline and the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse

Part 1 - Falling

Usually, falling from a bridge into a cold, muddy river would be where your story ends. But for me, it was just the beginning.

*

In hindsight, going to the bridge late at night, in the middle of a particularly heavy rain storm, with lightning turning the sky and river into some kind of mad freeze-framed vista, thunder rebounding off the hills and valley; it wasn't the best time to be wandering out alone.

But hey, my being out at night is nothing unusual. It's not like I'm a bad kid or anything. I try to do the right thing. I just don't sleep at night. Ever. Oh - don't get me wrong - I do sleep. During daytime. It's always been that way, and to be honest, it sucks.

The problem comes down to this: when I sleep, no else does. While I might sleep like the dead, anyone within fifty feet of me wakes from a nightmare of Blair-Witch proportions. Usually screaming. I had no idea - at the time - why this might be so. To be honest, I was so used to it (and those nightmares never disturbed me), I didn't think of it as anything but normal. What did bother me was the impact it had on my relationships with those people I would like to have called, if not family, then at least good friends. Without fail, whether it be foster parents, care home workers, social carers, fellow orphans, good samaritans or (on one memorable occasion) a whole school class on a field trip, the bizarreness and frightening experience of sleeping anywhere near me was sure to wreck any chance I had of a normal, settled life.

People were quick to work it out. What happened after a few days or weeks of living in a new home normally went like this: Tired, frightened and confused 'responsible adults', sometimes accompanied by equally frightened and upset children my own age, would call me in for a 'family meeting', where they would skirt around the subject of me giving them really bad dreams, without actually using the word 'paranormal'. Not once. Ever.

I mean, it's not exactly the kind of thing sensible middle-class people talk about in their kitchen, right? 'Hey, kid, we really like you, but when you sleep, and we sleep at the same time, things get kind of freaky, know what I mean?' No-one ever gets to the point. Instead they skirt around it, trying to say '...it's not you, you're really nice, it's just not working out for us', while at the same time finding obscure ways to say '...it's not us, it's you. Big time.'

So, from the age of eight, I switched my days to nights, and solved that particular problem. Brought a whole heap of others though. Yeah, you could say I'm weird, but I'm fine with that. Even earning the nickname 'The Vamp' at school was okay by me, and I even went a bit goth as a kind of nod to those who thought it strange I slept at recess, and went home straight to bed.

Oh, and I should mention my other bit of weirdness - I have heterochromia iridium. It means my eyes are different colours. My right eye is a reddish brown, but my left is a blue so bright it looks silver in sunlight. Pretty cool, right? This either fascinates or puts people off in equal measure, and I can use it to good effect if I want. I'm known for an awesome put-down stare if someone irks me too much. I'm told it makes those receiving it feel like death taps them on their shoulder then breaths down their neck. I tried it on a friend once, because she told me too, and all she could say for two hours afterwards was '...don't ever do that again.'

So, what else? Oh yes - let me describe myself: I have long straight black hair and I'm tall for my age - almost six feet - and fairly slim, although I've always had what my case worker once called 'good muscle tone', and a less kinder person once referred to as looking 'manly'. My skin is pale and I'm blessed with a clear complexion, and I never seem to get a tan, no matter how much sunlight I get. I never get sunburnt either, even though I love being out in the sun. I don't smoke, drink or do drugs.

There, satisfied?

Why am I telling you all this? Because your life flashes before your eyes when you die. Duh. I guess those were the important bits.

Which brings me back to the bridge. It was one of my favourite places to go when I wanted to get away from the isolation of the home. A building housing twenty kids and supervising adults can be a lonely place when they are all asleep, so to find some life, I either wander downtown or, like tonight, to the bridge, to watch the cars go by and the tugboats plough up and down the lazy waters like phantoms in the night.

It's at times like this I get philosophical, leaning over the rail, staring into the languid waters and analysing myself. Usually I'm seeking some self-confirmation that everything is okay, and that things will work out right in the end. Well, tonight was one of those nights.

*

One minute to midnight.

One minute to go and I will turn eighteen, and my time at the home, and foster care in general, will be all but over. Free to do what I want, how I want, and where I want. The start of a new life, in fact, with me in control.

Thirty seconds. Tomorrow I'll look for a place of my own. Spend some of the savings I inherit from my parents estate, left to me when they died when I was five. Enough to buy myself a flat and continue my education, if I wanted.

Ten seconds. I watch the second hand of my watch tick down to midnight. As it reaches the twelve, I smile to myself and say out loud, "You see girl? You can beat your demons."

The next thing I know I'm being grabbed from behind by strong, vice-like arms, which lift me up over the rail, and a snide, inhuman voice whispers in my ear, "That's what you think, missy!"

And I'm thrown over the edge, into the void.

*

I was pretty pissed off by that, I can tell you.