The Reaping (The Fahllen #1)(28)
Author: M. Leighton

I reached out to touch one ruby petal, barely able to feel the satin texture against my fingertip. They were so beautiful and they smelled so good. I cupped one scented blossom in my hand.

Anger welled within me. How dare they? On the worst day of my life, how dare they be anything but black and dead? How dare they be beautiful and vibrant and alive?

My fingers closed around the delicate bulb until I felt it crush against my palm. Perversely, I felt a little bit better for having hurt it—like I was hurting.

I looked around at all the floral arrangements. Dozens of varieties covered the ground for ten feet in every direction. None of them deserved to live and shine; they should all be dead and lifeless, like me I felt dead and lifeless.

Bitterness poured through me, warring with my ever-present anger. My right shoulder blade stung as my emotions churned. I felt a thousand things at once and, at the same time, nothing.

I opened my hand and looked down at the pulverized rose bud. It lay limply on my palm, black and dead. I closed my eyes against the rage, concentrated on pushing the fury back down inside me.

As I struggled, I felt the pull of something familiar and powerful, something that tempered the explosiveness that swirled within me. I opened my eyes to Derek. He had materialized in front of me on the other side of the casket.

He was wearing his customary black attire, which was depressingly appropriate for once. But this time he wore a dress shirt and slacks topped with a duster, also in black. His pale gray eyes glistened like sparkling drops of silver in his bronzed face.

He cleared his throat and brought me back from my musings. It was then that I noticed the backdrop was dark as well. Behind him, all around the grave, were dead flowers. All the arrangements that had been vibrant only moments before were dead, their edges black and curled. The grass was dead, too; it made a brown circle that radiated out from the grave site.

“What happened?”

Derek shrugged. The casual gesture was belied by the deep frown of concern that etched his brow.

“Are you going to be alright?”

A derisive snort escaped. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Look, I—”

“I mean, why wouldn’t I be alright? I’m a probably-cursed, possibly-dead, fire-wielding, plant-killing, ghost-seeing orphan with a second skin. Why on earth wouldn’t I be alright?” Though I knew he was only trying to help in his backward way, I couldn’t help the sarcastic, near-hysterical bark of laughter that followed my bitter diatribe.

“I know how much you’re hurting—”

“Oh, you do, huh? And just how do you imagine you know how I feel?”

“We’ve all lost people we love, Carson,” he snapped then, as if he immediately regretted it, ran his fingers through his hair in frustration, pulling several glossy strands loose from his low ponytail. “Just trust me. I know more about what you’re going through than you think.”

I glared at him as long as I dared before looking away. I stared at the rose in my hand. I wanted to crush everyone and everything around me, just like I’d crushed the rose. I was seething on the inside.

Then a butterfly lit on the devastated blossom. As if I wasn’t there and the rose wasn’t dead, it fluttered its blue and green wings delicately then settled onto its perch.

My father’s voice rang in my head, as clearly as if he’d spoken it aloud. I love you, Butterfly.

And then the dam broke.

An unbearable weight pressed in around my heart. My ribs felt like they’d explode. The first sob was torn from my lungs as if by force, but the rest flowed from my heart like a haunted river.

I fell to my knees. Though it was blurry through the tears, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the butterfly. I was struck by how appropriate Dad’s nickname for me had suddenly become. Gone was the ugly caterpillar. She’d been sacrificed to make room for something new—a butterfly, one with a deceptive beauty. Her light colors are a shimmering camouflage for the darkness she carries. Death travels beneath her wings and sadness shines in her wake. Time is her enemy and the shadows haunt her. Butterfly indeed.

I don’t know how long I cried, but the butterfly never left its perch. It stayed with me until the rose slipped from my fingers when Derek picked me up to carry me to his motorcycle. He straddled it and sat me on the seat between his legs, my calves draped over his left knee and my head on his chest.

I don’t know how we got back to my house that way, but we did. I vaguely remember him carrying me in, laying me on my bed and pulling the comforter up over me. Nothing seemed hardly real or very important. There was mush in my head and rot in my chest and I just wanted to escape it all.

I remember snatches of time, little bits and pieces, like a disconnected slide show. At one point, I opened my eyes and looked out the window. I saw only darkness beyond the curtains, curtains that some kind soul had left open. I closed my eyes and went back to sleep, thankful that at least my strange and troublesome dreams were on hiatus.

The next time I opened my eyes, I saw bright light and smelled bacon. I knew I needed to get up and face the day like the near-adult that I was, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I pulled the covers over my head and lay still until I drifted off into that strange place between sleep and wakefulness, the place where there are neither dreams nor conscious thoughts, just…quiet nothingness.

I heard voices several times. Leah, Dina and Bruce Kirby, Derek, others I couldn’t readily identify, but I thought I recognized. There were a few light knocks at my door, followed by the offer of food, drink, an ear, a hug. Every voice sounded worried, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. The only thing I cared about was in the ground at the cemetery. Everything else was just…less.

The next time I woke, I saw that the bright light had darkened as dusk crept in. So I slept.

At one point I felt a cool hand on my brow, pushing my hair back soothingly. The bed dipped as someone sat beside me. I was relieved to hear Leah’s voice. She whispered to me, too low for me to make out the words. I thought she might have been praying, though that was a bit odd, even for Leah. After several minutes I felt three warm, wet drops touch my cheek followed by her lips as she kissed the spot where her tears had fallen.

After her weight left the bed, I heard her scurrying quietly around my room, opening and closing drawers. When she returned to the bed, she whispered soft, soothing things in my ear, something about getting me into more comfortable clothes. I vaguely remember her taking off my suit jacket, leaving me in only my tank top, and sliding my pants off and replacing them with silky pajama bottoms. I didn’t hear her leave the room; I think I was asleep before she got up off the bed.