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MERCY / PRELUDE, AN AUTOPSY
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JULY 1, 1994 ━━Outside of the hospital there is a storm raging, violent and obscene as lightning streaks the sky, leaving blurry residues of light, reminiscent of a god's potency. The blonde woman with the cherub-like infant in her arms looks out the window at the dark and hostile sky, and takes comfort in it. She holds the boy close, tells him, your father loves you, and wishes that the sky could reach down and embrace her. The little girl in the corner of the room watches her mother hold the tiny child whose hands grapple like vines. There's nothing akin to resentment in her eyes, and when her mother calls her over, displaying an uncharacteristic amount of affection, the girl thinks that her brother might be a miracle.
On the other side of the country, thunder roars overhead, making a new mother's skin crawl. There's no comfort in storms, only superstition that runs deep. Bad omen, the woman mutters under her breath. She holds the infant closer to her chest, running a tender hand over her child's dark head of hair. The baby's eyes are dark like coal and far too acute for a newborn, but her mother takes comfort in nothing else but her. There's no one else in the hospital, just the two of them and so much love that it's suffocating. But they leave as soon as they are discharged, exiting the room that brandishes the number 4.
Bad omens everywhere.
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