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"In time they could not even fly after their hats. Want of practice, they called it; but what it really meant was that they no longer believed."
͟͟͞͞➳

Eyes of a storm.

She'd just turned this man into the epitome of a cliché. Much to her chagrin, he wasn't hideous. Upon observation he was
striking, a cobalt shirt accented those eyes, with a material that cinched broad shoulders and fitted a long torso.

The rolled cuffs revealed strong forearms inked in tattoos against bronzed flesh. Curled, jet-black hair framed a sharp ovate face and a narrowed nose to a cupids bow. Slung through one ear was a gaudy—rather informal— silver hoop.

He couldn't have been more than a few years older than she. At the very least, an acquaintance of Angelica's.

She refused to be cowed. However if she applied anymore pressure against the counters edge, she'd surely bruise her spine. She clenched her jaw. "Come to taunt me as well?"

He smirked as a muscle feathered in his jaw, ever observative as he towered over her. "You're quite brash."

No shit.

The peculiarity of his stare glimmered with seemingly a sharp intellect. It made her shift under such scrutiny. "What do you want,—seriously?"

"Simply your company." He nodded pointedly at her apparel. "I see your tastes do not conform to the rest of the lot."

"How observant of you." Alex crossed her arms, hardening her stance. "And you deduced this by this encounter with me?"

"Your attire speaks volumes, love."

"My dear cousin set this up?"

"As simply a guest here, I assure you I wouldn't partake in such... frivolity."

"So, you do know her?"

"Vaguely."

Her brow furrowed angling her chin away from him now speculative. "How do you know the Darlings?

A roguish smirk played at the corner of his lips. "Connections." He tilted his head as he appraised her with an arched brow. "Now answer me this and I shall abide by your wishes to leave. Your accent is, uncommon for a Darling."

"Less cockney?" she imitated him with a lilt of her voice. "I'm American. Let's just say I'm related through marriage and the rest is a shit slide of dysfunctional, hmm?" Alex didn't wait for his reply as a headache had started to form. She found herself suddenly tired; bone deep tired. Today alone had taken a lot out of her. Mentally she couldn't handle anymore.

  She squeezed her eyes shut brow crinkling as she rubbed her forehead. "And I... really need to go."

  As she skirted around him, a hushed laugh swiftly followed. "It was a pleasure, love."

Unlikely.

She took the steps two at a time, relieved he hadn't bothered to follow. In another setting it would've taken another thirty minutes of goodbyes before actually parting ways. A laughable characteristic that was displayed in Hollywood films featuring "oakies" as redneck inbreds.

These socialites likely assumed everyone in her state lived on a farm too. Hillbillies from the boonies or drunkards.

Admittedly she'd miss this fall when the local orchards opened for the pumpkin patch festivities, to hiking the scenic trails through the coppering trees with friends. The cooler evenings ending with a frozen cocoa in her favorite bookstore.

The ache of home grew ever more raw as reality settled in. Everything thus far was different. From the customs and mannerisms to even the scenery. Regardless of where she originated from these people didn't know her, their judgement having already casted her as a commoner below them.

  It was frustrating as it was disconcerting.

As she tossed herself onto the bed, clutching her crimson jacket as a keepsake, thoughts of James flooded her mind. She had discerned a subtle inflection in his English, hinting at a well-traveled man manifested in the nuances of his accent—oddly old-fashioned in his formality.

As her eyes traced the intricate moldings of the ceiling, she considered giving him a fair shot at the next party. It couldn't hurt.If Aunt Marietta didn't exile her after tonight's events.

Hopefully she gives me a pass, just this once.

After dragging herself from the bed she dug out a pair of sweats, wool socks and a thicker hoodie from her suitcase. Adorned with a hand-made quilt as a gift imbued with the comforts of home. Yet she found herself unable to put away her clothes, as if they would be tainted once stored alongside her new attire, losing the essence of her humble beginnings.

Her wet clothes and mothball blanket stayed balled up beside her suitcase. Tomorrow she'd find a bathroom to scrub off the grime of travel and present herself as less of a disheveled charity case.

After kicking off her boots and throwing on the warmer layers, she curled beneath the blanket, breathing in the scent of home as the faint ebb and flow of voices resounded below...

  She was alone.

A wrought fence of iron framed the vast field. Tomes scarred with hundreds of obituaries picketed the grassy knoll.

The skies were a mournful grey, casting the walnut casket into shadow above a freshly dug grave.

As the last of the cars departed, she dispatched herself from the threadbare of trees. Having waited until the last possible second to bid goodbye.

The chairs for the viewing had long vacated to attend the wake she'd absconded from. Wishing to avoid interactions to reflect on memories and exchange incessant condolences.  The cake to be served would sour in her stomach before re-surfacing from acidic bile.

The winds howled as if in sorrow, lifting the hems of the black dress that adorned her petite frame. The long curls lifted in the breeze as a single tear trailed down one ashen cheek.

The last few days had visibly crippled her.

"I miss you," she whispered, as if they could hear the deepest pain, reminiscent from the tears of blood that dripped from her trembling hands. The bone white knuckles visibly shone from the death grip she had on the thorned white roses clenched between her fingers. Only after a deep breath did she finally relinquish hold, the winds stinging the raw cuts in her flesh, as she placed the flowers atop the gilded casing. A silent, subtle nod of goodbye.

Soon, they'd be buried in the earth six feet under. Not even a smile could be feigned even for her. "Grandma... I'm not as strong as you think."

There, she'd finally said it.

Grandma.

   The grief compressed like a weight slowly crushing her lungs from the inside and making it near impossible to breathe.

How to define a love that transcended emotion. Nothing she could depict could even come close to describing it. Gone were the hugs laced with a vanilla floral  perfume dabbed on at an ornate vanity the elder had treasured. The aroma of fresh apple donuts to permeate the early mornings. The antiques and porcelain china collected from travels in her youth that she'd expanded upon in her adventurous stories.

The woman had had a sharp wit and canny warmth that opened her home to others. Blessed with the richest laughter that lifted even the darkest of spirits.

Eyes of a cornflower blue that softened her delicate features, with hair that gradually frosted and prompted the senior ladies to inquire upon what hairdresser she used. Despite her late seventies, she'd aged gracefully, hinting of a former youthful, audacious beauty. Even as the lupus and sicknesses gradually stunted her passions like quilting, and gardening. Wild plants on the front entry porch left to wilt as the hospital visits became a reoccurrence—

Even then, her resiliency had remained. Until one night, the light she'd left in the world was snuffed out. Alex had felt it the moment those liver-spotted hands regained a strength that had long been absent.

Then, at 82, Kathleen White passed in a hospital bed with a peaceful smile upon her face.

After, Alex had refused to have an open casket in an attempt to preserve the last living memories of the woman she'd been.

As the trees rustled a sendoff, drops of rain began to fall. She sniffled, wiping away the droplets with her hand coming away with granules of a gritty residue.

"What... is this?"

Alex looked up at the skies. No, not rain, she realized.

Ash.

It fell in clumps, the world before her morphing as a violent maelstrom of winds tore the flowers, the petals instantly blackening into a shriveled heap at her feet. Writhing beneath the ash, maggots suddenly wriggled up from the soiled graves, multiplying in droves.

Deprived of the lung capacity to scream, she took off in a run as a whisper icy as winters breath pierced her ears.

"Run, run, run, little bird." 

  No, no, no!

  The voice was back.

Her feet pounded the ground as she broke into a run, but suddenly, a gaping chasm opened beneath her. She was plunged into the abyss, the stormy skies shrinking to a mere pinpoint above as she fell. She'd barely grasped a pocket of air before she found herself lying in a dark, slickened pit. Deep embedded roots like skeletal hands, allowed thousands of insects like that of beetles and centipedes to pour through. Layers of mud cascaded down upon her, stifling the air in her lungs to scream.

That's when she realized she was being buried alive...

  "HUH!"

Alex awoke to nearly lurching off the bed, hadn't she caught herself in time. Her back slicked with sweat, trembling fingers scraped the matted strands of hair from her face. Taking a long deep breath she fought to steady her nerves as her heart erratically beat against her rib cage.

"I-It was just a dream," she whispered shakily, taking notice of  the shadows that poured into her room. She crushed the heel of palms into her eyes as if to will them away, having to remind herself it was just a figment of her imagination brought on from emotional trauma, just as that eerie voice. That they weren't real.

  It was just a nightmare.

  Slowly her eyes eased open, only to witness the skies outside easing on the horizon, pulling back the chasm of stars as they began to fade.

It was dawn.

As the suns light began to eclipse the horizon, her breaths gradually evened.

  Before movement out of the corner of her peripheral caught her eye.

  At first, she thought it was a smoky tendril like that of the shadows...

  But no, this was a physical light.

Frowning, she turned just as it flailed out of sight. Swiftly following was a sharp hiss and an audible, thud.

"Ah! Damned rubbish lying about. Bunch of pillocks."

Aunt Marietta?

Her brows furrowed. Yet unable to stifle her curiosity, Alex found her wool socks padding silently against the floorboards as she crossed the room. Chewing her gum in deliberation she ultimately curled her fingers around the edge of the doorframe before leaning in to peer over.

Dressed in a satin, periwinkle robe with locks twisted up in a clip was Marietta Darling. "Wankers." She was hunched over, manicured hand braced against the wall as her slippered feet brushed away a few slats of wood. "Can't wait to rid of all this old junk, finally."

Alex's brows furrowed. The party had long ended. Judging by her apparel was she simply an early riser or perhaps excessively particular about cleanliness?

As her aunt straightened with a string of expletives, Alex watched her swiftly surveil her surroundings before hurriedly rounding a corner at the end of the hall.

Don't do it, Alex...

But why did she seem in such a hurry? Alex held solidly still for a minute the remnants of her dream having entirely dissipated as her
curiosity deepened.

"Forgive me, grandma," she imparted softly before she followed.

Her pace quickened as she carefully maneuvered around fallen debris, noting the decorations that spoke of eras long past stripped from the walls. With each step her heart rattled in her chest in trepidation.

  "I really shouldn't be doing this," the words fell from her parted lips in a whisper, as she reached a narrowed stairway, realizing this would lead to the third floor—the area Angelica explicitly stated was off limits.

Was this where Aunt Marietta's room was? Curiosity began to overshadow the anxiety gnawing at the back of her mind. With a deep breath, Alex took the first cautious step up the creaking stairway, her heart pounding as she inched closer.

Countless times in the past, trouble had quickly followed whenever she acted on impulse. But with so little left to lose, Alex reasoned that the worst-case scenario would be getting kicked out onto the streets.

As she reached the final step, she pressed herself against the wall, moving stealthily into the enclosed hallway.

The ceiling descended lower, the air thick with a musty odor. The walls were covered in waxen floral wallpaper, known as "flock wallpaper," a renown popular velvety texture and intricate pattern for the Victorian decade. Dust particles floated visibly in the dim light cast by wrought-iron wall sconces, their warm glow adding an eerie charm to the narrow, timeworn corridor.

  Alex had to stifle a sneeze as she blinked, her shoulders straightening as muffled voices audibly grew louder, ahead.

A synchrony of sounds sharpened from an ajar door on the far left, tugging at a nerve deep within her. Gritting her teeth against the rising urge to flee, she braced both sweaty palms against the dust-laden walls, feeling the grit under her fingers.

Leaning in cautiously, a sudden jolt shot through her, as if an electric current had sparked every one of her senses at once.

No...

  The answer became glaringly clear in an instant. Against the wall stood a machine, its blinking monitors connected by a tangle of tubes, each one pulsing with a rhythmic green wavelength that echoed the steady beat of a heart. The machine was linked to a frail figure lying beneath a stark white blanket on what looked like a hospital bed transplanted into this forgotten corner of the house.

It was a petite elderly woman. Beside her, Aunt Marietta stood quietly, her face unreadable, alongside a brunette travel nurse dressed in periwinkle scrubs. The sight struck Alex like a blow, leaving her reeling with a flood of questions. Was this the hidden reason behind the third floor's restricted access?

More importantly, who was this woman? Alex found herself slowly backing away, her heart pounding, before turning and retreating hastily to her room. A new, pressing question now consumed her thoughts: What had she truly gotten herself into by living with the Darlings?