"I'll go get it." He swallows back the don't follow me that all too suddenly wants to come after. "I'll be right back."
The bags are just under the kitchen sink, but once there he leans on the counter, hands curled along the edge as he stares down at the dull Formica surface. He considers what he knows.
Helen Watson died much earlier than the others. Alex was the most extraordinary candidate Lethe had seen in years. Both girls were small, underfed from too little food and too many drugs. Despite her training, Alex had invited a connection with the Bridegroom in search of answers about that town girl's death. Neither Alex nor Hellie had the strength to do enough to shatter a solid wood bat into fragments, enough to beat five men unrecognizable, enough to leave blood and bone and brain matter congealing into a sludge on a countertop much like this one.
Alex was extraordinary. Alex could see ghosts. Alex could...
Lethe kept records of possessions by Greys, candidates turned untenable, going insane and destroying their rooms, attacking caregivers with the kind of strength that defied belief. Going catatonic afterwards, locked inside their own skulls, unable to be questioned. It's the last part that makes him wonder if he's wrong, if the pieces coming together in his head are taking a shape that should be different. That he wants to be different.
But Alex had never been ordinary. Not in all the months he'd known her--if he'd ever really known her at all.
Darlington gets a bag from the box under the sink and shakes it open, the plastic making a rattling noise that sparks a sleepy huff from the living room, Kirby waking briefly in his kennel before settling again. He goes out of the kitchen, through the living room, down the hall, into their bedroom. Alex is still there, slight and dark-eyed and wary.
"She was left-handed," he says, each word heavy as a stone. "Helen. Hellie. Wasn't she?"
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2020-06-06 07:38 pm (UTC)The bags are just under the kitchen sink, but once there he leans on the counter, hands curled along the edge as he stares down at the dull Formica surface. He considers what he knows.
Helen Watson died much earlier than the others. Alex was the most extraordinary candidate Lethe had seen in years. Both girls were small, underfed from too little food and too many drugs. Despite her training, Alex had invited a connection with the Bridegroom in search of answers about that town girl's death. Neither Alex nor Hellie had the strength to do enough to shatter a solid wood bat into fragments, enough to beat five men unrecognizable, enough to leave blood and bone and brain matter congealing into a sludge on a countertop much like this one.
Alex was extraordinary. Alex could see ghosts. Alex could...
Lethe kept records of possessions by Greys, candidates turned untenable, going insane and destroying their rooms, attacking caregivers with the kind of strength that defied belief. Going catatonic afterwards, locked inside their own skulls, unable to be questioned. It's the last part that makes him wonder if he's wrong, if the pieces coming together in his head are taking a shape that should be different. That he wants to be different.
But Alex had never been ordinary. Not in all the months he'd known her--if he'd ever really known her at all.
Darlington gets a bag from the box under the sink and shakes it open, the plastic making a rattling noise that sparks a sleepy huff from the living room, Kirby waking briefly in his kennel before settling again. He goes out of the kitchen, through the living room, down the hall, into their bedroom. Alex is still there, slight and dark-eyed and wary.
"She was left-handed," he says, each word heavy as a stone. "Helen. Hellie. Wasn't she?"