𝐌𝐀𝐃 𝐈𝐐𝐬 || five hargreeves ¹ [REWRITING]

[ 𝟎𝟎 ] 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐝

[ DALLAS, TEXAS — 2039 ]

VIOLET PORTER SHOULDN'T HAVE PERISHED THAT DAY. A bright and beautiful Monday morning, the Dallas air feeling just a touch fresher than usual when Violet and her wife, Reagan, basked in it on the porch. Their conversation went as per usual before the latter had to report to their small town's diner for work.

Nothing was out of the ordinary from the moment Reagan clocked in to the second she clocked out. Wait on tables, deliver the food, refill the drinks. If anything, it had all gone a little too perfectly besides the man who'd stopped in for a cup of coffee. He wasn't a regular, so Reagan assumed he was from out of town, probably passing through. Whatever the reason, he wasn't too keen on striking up a conversation about it.

But he didn't occupy her mind on her drive home; she instead wondered what Violet made for dinner. She mentioned that morning that the tomatoes in the garden were ready to be picked and Reagan had been dropping hints about her cravings for her homemade pasta sauce. Their anniversary was coming up, too.

When she pulled into the driveway, she could see the kitchen light on through the living room window, the curtains open and flowing with the gentle evening breeze, and she smiled. Stepping out of the car, she hoped she would hear whatever beautiful jazz that Violet had decided to blast while she cooked. It wasn't like they had any neighbors to yell at them for it.

There was no music coming from the house.

That was the first thing that unnerved Reagan. It was unlike Violet to break a routine. Even if she didn't cook, she never left the house quiet at this time. The woman stole a glance at the small white-painted elevated gardens that lined the side of the house. None of the vegetables had been picked yet.

Violet loved that garden more than she did herself — and sometimes Reagan believed she loved it more than she did her — and she rarely forgot to harvest the ripe foods.

Reagan felt something sinking in her gut and the hair on the back of her neck raised as she looked around at the vast field that surrounded their little farmhouse. There was something even more eerie about there being nothing noticeably off about the area. But she could feel it in every cell in her body.

Something was terribly wrong.

Her body almost refused to move from where she stood in the driveway. She could see that the front door was slightly ajar, and she knew that Violet wasn't the only person inside of the house. Whether Violet had opened that door for them or not was something she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Reagan was more than aware of the abilities she possessed — they'd been there since the day she was born — and she feared a day like this would come. A day where she would have to use her powers to protect the love of her life from danger.

"Vi?" Reagan called out, praying that her trembling voice would carry through the open living room window. She flinched at how loud her voice sounded in her own ears, which were buzzing with the rapid boom-boom-boom of her own heartbeat.

There was no vocal reply, but she could have sworn she heard the unmistakable sound of one of the dining room chairs scraping across the hardwood floor. "Violet?" Reagan shouted her name, this time more firmly.

This time, she was met with a piercing bang that made her head ring.

A gunshot.