Vengeance

06

Seraphim's eyes fly open. The world around her spins as she struggles to get a grip on her surroundings. The blood rushes in her ears, sounding like a hundred beating drums. The scars on her body sear as if fresh wounds.

There are mornings when she wakes without nightmares. They are few and far between, but on those mornings, she can, for a few precious moments, pretend its two years ago and everything is as it was. But only for those moments, then reality sets in and the illusion is shattered.

She rolls her head to the side and glances out the uncovered window. There is the barest flicker of light in the sky. The morning is young, Seraphim would guess it is no later than five.

There's little use in trying to go back to sleep. If she even manages, she'll just wake up in a hour or so, tormented by more images of her "death". Seraphim crawls out of bed. She stretches her arms over her head and dips it to one side than the other, working out the kinks. The throbbing in her scars has faded. She rubs at the one marring her face, subconsciously.

Seraphim bends down, snagging a fresh pair of clothes from the open duffel bag on the floor. She disappears into the bathroom. When she re-emerges a little while later, she's dressed in a plain blue tee and a pair of faded jeans. Her soaked platinum strands cling to the side of her face. Pearls of water trickle down her cheek and neck before being absorbed by the collar of her shirt.

By now the fathomless black of night has absorbed a tarnished golden hue, the first herald of a new day. Seraphim plops down on the floor next to the window. She gazes out at the worn brick buildings covered in graffiti and the deserted basketball court.

***

2018

Seraphim stares out the window at the ripe green pasture that surrounds the country home. Alan bought the house after "retiring", seeking to divorce himself from the chaos of the city. Neither she, nor Angel thought his move out here would last a year, but it had. He'd bought the house as a fixer-upper, something to keep him busy and he'd restored it to its former glory.

She can't understand how he endures it, the relentless quiet. The night is so devoid of sound that Seraphim is surprised one's inner most thoughts can't be heard like screams against it. The peace forces her to remember and the last thing she wants is remember.

The distinct slam of the front door, followed by muffled conversation in the entryway, confirms Angel's arrival. Right on time, too.

For the first two weeks, he refused to leave her sight. He remained seated at her bedside, in an uncomfortable wooden chair pulled from the dining room, holding her hand, stroking her forehead, whispering promises of safety.

If it weren't for Alan he would have surely collapsed from exhaustion or malnourishment - or both. Seraphim couldn't watch him wilt away at her bedside, his eyes alive with hope. He needed rest, real rest, and she needed a reprieve from his suffocating optimism. Seraphim insisted he needed to go home and reluctantly Angel departed from her side.

He still visits, everyday, after work, like clockwork. The bedroom door opens. Seraphim turns her head towards it even though she already knows who she'll find. Angel flashes a small smile and pushes the door shut behind him. He undoes his blazer and unravels his tie. Angel drapes both over the dining chair, still unmoved from where he set it.

He sits down and leans forward, resting his elbows on the mattress's edge. His hand finds Seraphim's resting idly at her side. Her forefingers and thumb are heavily bandaged, having sustained a stroke from Deathwave's katana. Angel cradles the limb gently, afraid of causing her pain. He caresses her unbound knuckles with his thumb.