Shadows of Darkness

2. Pain

Her weary eyes fell shut again, and her shuddering veins pulsated through her limps. The unrest pain hugged Cyan tight, squeezing around the wound. Perhaps she didn't heal from Bill Watts's dagger completely. Maybe her heart rotted.

It had been three days since Cyan, John, Angelica, and the Watts boys ran from Colt, a heartless land of West Texas. They had left misguided trails and crashed in a new state every night. First, they landed in Florida, but Cyan had no recollection of hours, minutes, or seconds. Tears blurred events as though the whole world was flooded. Gushes of breaths in her gaping mouth quietened the surroundings. The second night was four hours in an airport lounge in Pennsylvania. She was the Watts boys' luggage, dragged and turned, unable to move, think, or speak on her own. Tonight was another bed in an unknown house far from Colt. Luke had to carry her inside when the cold froze her as Hector did. She refused food but allowed some fluid to be the tears for mourning Everett. Rolling into a ball, Cyan hold Evil. Yes, Evil loved Everett, too. And now they must endure living, knowing he wasn't going to be on the horizon.

Her heart went on searching for Everett's grave. The ache stirred the hollow chest, throbbing and numbing her entire body when she thought of him. Sorrow filled her dreams, escaping her closed eyes. Sometimes, she heard him whimper. The messages were never words but his breaths. It became harder every single second to keep going, and she was already nauseating spinning on this pitiful carousal. Her hands dug into her skin, for just rubbing was ineffective now. The unstoppable flows soaked a pillow below her cheeks while she writhed in the unbreakable certainty.

You promised. This was for both Everett and Hector. Especially Hector. He didn't stick to the plan.

"Cyan..." John's voice warmed her head. His hand on her face rendered some comfort, which she ungratefully ignored. Sobbing was her thing now. Cyan was too weak, tired, and uninspired to be a jockey, a scientist, a daughter, or his Guile. She was too broken to be living.

The touch disappeared with his sigh, and the sound of his footsteps slowly faded from the room. This was their thing now, and Cyan should get used to it. In the end, John would leave her, too. Everyone would, leaving her here alone to console the insensible, stupid Evil. She shifted on her back, looking heavenward, forcing the surging tears back into her puffy eyes, and thought perhaps she should try. John was a good father, and he didn't deserve an incapable, inconsiderate girl-version of the Watts boy. Then Everett's mischievous grin blushed her cheeks from afar, and she recoiled against the reminisces of his lips, reaching for the memories she could never touch. The fear of forgetting his face startled her empty chest. But the healing would make sure it hurt eternally.

Everett died, and it was because of Cyan.

Another set of footsteps approached the bed. Cyan jolted up to her elbows, anticipating a person who always manifested at the chaos of her breathing. David Watts, a stranger still, appeared in the plain darkness. Something about him brought succor and elevated her from resentment. An unnamable connection drew Cyan to her mysterious painter, and she felt, it did the same to him. When he was near, she was relieved. And before her, he was eased. David sat on the bed like he had every right to be by her side, to look at her, to make it all better, to fix the stain of tears as he did to the canvases. "Go to sleep," he whispered, his voice a demand, order, request, trust, desire, and a bearable certainty—all at once in a gasp, while the warmth of his palm spreading across her skin.

An immediate solace collapsed on her. She complied.