Black Mist: Budding [on hiatus]

7. Broken

The winter night breezing through the open window snipped crisp and cold, the kind of thin, icy air that makes it hard to breathe. It did little to cool Alastair's body and his temper as he rummaged through his dresser, slamming drawers. The situation was his fault, but that didn't make him any less angry; in fact, it fueled his rage. He had never felt so worthless, alone, and disgusted with himself.

Alastair couldn't believe he had been the only one to stick around earlier, wanting to see if the animal was okay. It wasn't. And neither was he. He could barely look at his mom, he was so ashamed. He had to get out of this place. He had to get some air. He had to get more Amp. His skin itched with the need for it.

He loaded anything else he could fit into his duffle bag and headed for the door. As he crossed the living room, his mother pleaded with him to stay.

"Please don't go, Al." She was crying now, her anger dissolved in tears. "We can get through this together."

"I'm sorry," his voice was hoarse. "I have to go."

He shook his head and reached for the door. There was a thud outside, like a bag of potatoes dropped after being carried up three flights, which made him flinch and pull back. Their apartment building was always quiet. Even though they were in the East Village, which was a pretty youthful neighborhood, most of the tenants in the building were older. So strange noises from the hallway were unusual, especially at this late hour.

He looked over his shoulder at his mom, who shrugged. Alastair was on edge, and he didn't want to throw open the door without caution. He peeked through the eyehole, but all he saw was the dingy turquoise hallway lit by a flickering bare bulb.

His mother stood right behind him now, laying her hand on his back. "Open it," she whispered. She sounded tense as well, and as he placed his hand on the knob, he felt hers gripping the back of his shirt. Neither of them said it, but Alastair knew they were both thinking the same thing: his drunk dad had reappeared again and passed out on their doorstep.

As he pulled open the door, a figure flopped forward into their entry, naked and bloody, covered loosely by a large wool coat. Alastair straightened up in surprise. He was sure it must be dead from the grotesque purple lump on the side of its forehead, but a low moan rumbled deep from its gut and blood bubbled out of its, no her, mouth. Alastair gasped as he realized he knew this pitiful creature, whose left eye was swollen and puckered. She was barely recognizable.

"Rose?" he croaked, hoping for some response. There was none.

"Al, you know her?" his mother whispered over his shoulder.

Alastair nodded slowly. Rose was exposed. This was not the way he imagined seeing a girl naked for the first time. This was not how he wanted to either. He flipped the arm of the coat across her, effectively returning her to a modest state.

He leaned down and lifted her, turning to his mother, "We have to help her."

"In here," she answered evenly, all of the earlier strain between them gone in an instant.

Alastair carried Rose into the bathroom and set her gently in the tub, murmuring in her ear. Then he turned and strode out of the apartment, the door clanking shut behind him.

Rose was startled awake by the cold enamel tub against her bare skin and Alastair's whispered promise that she was okay. She was dazed, unsure where she was or how she got there. Lukewarm water swirled with rivers of orange-red to make peach, and Rose was braced by two strong arms under her own.

"Come on," grunted a woman's voice. "Up you go."

The woman peeled the coat away once Rose was steady on her feet. She leaned her head forward against the tile wall to keep herself up. The shower was gentle, pouring warmth down her back. Rose opened the one eye she could. There was so much blood.