Callahan: A Gothic Tale

When Beauty Fades

7 When Beauty Fades

She recalled her glib, elegant movements upon her landing atop Vera Manor's second floor, proceeding down the creaking staircase, panther-like, effortlessly silent until it became her turn to pounce. Those moments of dewy morning quiet, investing her trust in this woman, whose hair was as light as her heart was dark. She looked the part, walked the walk, talked the talk—so why was it then her memory was fragmented, her encounters spotty, and why was it she woke as if repeating the day before, but with mysterious manifold injuries upon her forehead, nape of her neck, and willowy arms?

As she found herself under Charity's tutelage once more, this time in a dreary silver-stone manor—perhaps Castle Braith in Scotland?—she overheard her would-be murderess' words. "Just a colt," the words echoed throughout, "an inexperienced orphan, with nothing to her name..." How could the woman say such things about her? But what if—her thoughts turned inward, as they often did—what if Charity was right?

She tossed her own mahogany curls past her shoulder as she placed the hands-width mercury-tipped knife in her palm from whence it had lain on the knotted table beside her, throwing her arm back, hurling the weapon, hearing it whistle as it flew, whooshing through the air—

Landing on the bullseye sixty feet away. Or more. She was never great at spatial awareness, even though she had quite the scientific skillset (or so she would like to believe). As if a pupil, she swiveled, her curls floating about her, seeking praise from her would-be mentor. "How'd I do?"

Upon which, she felt the steely talons of the blond crunch atop her shoulders, herself gasping in pain, startled by the physical intrusion as the blond twisted her arm behind her back as she cried aloud. "Charity, what're you—why?"

"You're shiny and new, but that fades, my dear," Charity responded menacingly, now meeting her eyes as she stepped forward, inches away from her own melanin visage. "And when that day comes, he'll run straight to me—" Producing an identical knife to the one thrown earlier, she threw it towards its target, splitting Macy's own knife in two, causing it to melt onto the marble flooring, drip by steady drip...

One Week and Five Days into Quarantine, 4 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge

Macy bolted up in bed, having had yet another nightmare in as many days. Charity accosting her in Vera Manor's bathroom, catty "Gossip Girl"-style. Charity stalking her vis-à-vis her crow bird messenger that did her bidding. And now, Charity metaphorically ending her life by medieval-style love triangle competition. She sighed, massaging the pressure points of her visage. Enough already—

A buzz emanated from her phone, startling her. Glancing at her home screen, she noticed it was Mel. "Scythe's allergic to Jell-O." Macy bit her lip and smiled, glad that her sisters were making slow but steady progress on their temporal plane toward vanquishing Scythe. All she herself had, unfortunately, were vivid hallucinatory nightmares of the woman who tried to end her. Not to mention a halfway done buttercup-yellow knitting project and a periwinkle-hued yoga mat. Hardly useful in mystical combat.

There was no use pretending to sleep; she would be haunted once more, and she preferred anything to that, at least in this particular moment, at this witching hour, at this precise minute-to-the-second. Having managed to slip herself out of the linen sheets without waking Harry, she tiptoed to the kitchenette's walnut table, where she turned on its dim under-cabinet light, proceeding to make herself a strong cup of drip-roast coffee.

4:10 am, Autumn 1994, Ambient Lounge

Piping-hot coffee and knitting accoutrements in hand, she studied the length of the ambient lounge. Where should I sit? She didn't want to risk waking Harry in case he needed to rescue her from whatever came their way. He had to keep his wits about him for the both of them. The floor? No. That was for yoga. Could she do yoga on the mat and knit? She brushed that thought aside. Even for her, that involved far too much multi-tasking.