A/N: Readers, I am so sorry for the long delay in uploading. Although I completed writing Rogue during my school holidays, the next few chapters needed to be edited a little before I was happy enough with it to post. Unfortunately, the hectic first few weeks of my final year of high school got in the way of editing. Now, I am pleased to say that I've managed to do the mini-edit on the last few chapters, and can now upload. Since this is the last time I'll be uploading, I'd like to thank you all so much for all the support and advice I've been given over the months it has taken me to write this. I love you guys! This chapter will be dedicated to the Procrastinators' Thread, where I, surprisingly, wrote most of Rogue. Thanks for all the Word Wars, letting me bounce ideas around, fangirling and just being some of the most awesome people I've had the pleasure of knowing :)
Here's the long awaited conclusion. I hope it is worth the wait!
Chapter 14 – Funeral
Leto tied the belt of Sera’s black dress, numbly adjusting her own dark clothing in the process. Her body felt numb; red, puffy eyes and an ashen complexion were the results of crying the entire night. Brian, not fully grasping the idea that Ouma was gone forever, tugged on her sleeve as he nagged,
“Why do we have to wear this clothing to see Ouma?”
Leto brushed his question aside, squeezing him in a tight hug as she bent down to his level,
“Brian, Ouma has gone to sleep for forever. You won’t be able to speak to her anymore,” she tried to say the words as gently as she could, but fresh grief caught in her throat at each word.
“So why do we have to wear this if Ouma can’t see it?”
“To show we’re sad that Ouma is gone.”
“Oh.”
The street was packed with cars. It seemed as if everyone that Ouma knew turned out to say farewell to her. Holding Sera and Brian’s hands, Leto walked up to the stoep. A few older men stood outside, talking softly between puffs from cigarettes. She nodded in greeting to them and walked through the front door. The house was filled with hushed conversation. The few women who weren’t hurrying about carrying food and tea to the living room, sat absorbed in reciting prayers or discussing Ouma. Unsure of the proceedings, they hung around the passage. For the first time, Leto felt like a stranger in Ouma’s house. She only recognised a few of the people. One of Ouma’s cousins gave her a quick, sympathetic pat on the back, but other than that she went ignored. She stepped into the space between a doorway and the wall, where she’d be out of the mourners’ way. The house felt strange, so full of people she had never seen before. She noticed an unusual, sweetly burnt fragrance in the air and saw that, for some reason, all the reflective surfaces in the house had been covered up with newspaper. A group of women shuffled past her, some of them nodding at her. She wondered if any of them were actually sad that Ouma was gone. None of them showed it.
With Brian and Sera in tow, she wove a path to the kitchen. It was slightly emptier, and she found faces that she recognised even if she couldn’t put a name to them. A kettle, blowing out steam, boiled water for cups of tea. Leto sat at the table – at her place at the table, the place Ouma always set when she visited – and watched the steam rise until it bloomed against the ceiling. It was stranger still; Ouma hardly ever drank tea.
“Here you are,” said someone softly, tapping her shoulder. “My mom said I should look out for you. How are you doing?”
Leto gave Zahra a small smile,
“Not very well....The house is so full of people, but it still feels empty.”
Zahra nodded her head sympathetically,
“It does, doesn’t it? Would you like to go and see her?”
“See her? Am I...Am I allowed to?”
“You are. I’ll go with you.”
Leto took a deep breath, holding herself together and followed Zahra to Ouma’s lounge. Women, sitting against the wall and also reciting in murmurs from small booklets, lined the room. The strange, sweet smell was strongest there. Two, softly glowing sticks of incense were the source. At the centre of the room was what threatened to break her down into tears.
A white figure lay on a bed; rose petals were scattered on the sheet covering it. Leto stepped forward, uncertain. Zahra tilted her head towards the figure, indicating to Leto that she could go closer. Trembling, she reached out and touched the edge of the sheet. One of the ladies sitting against the wall got up and stood next to Leto.
“Would you like to see her face? To greet her?”
“Yes please, Aunty.”
The woman lifted the sheet, folding it back gently. Leto stifled a gasp at Ouma’s thin face. She looked heartbreakingly peaceful, with her eyes closed and a soft smile on her face. Leto felt her barriers collapse and tears poured down her face. She squeezed Sera’s hand and felt Brian hold tightly to her legs. Someone led her away from Ouma, so that her sobbing wouldn’t disturb the other mourners. She was sat down on something soft and given a cup of tea once her sobs died down a little.
“Thanks,” she muttered, hearing her voice sound strained and clogged.
“It’s nothing,” answered Zahra. “My mom said I’m supposed to look after you.”
She handed Leto a wad of tissues,
“It may not seem like it now, but it will get easier as time goes by. It’s best that you let out everything that you’re feeling and cry, since bottling it up will only make it worse.”
Leto gratefully accepted the tissues, using one to blow her nose.
“Drink your tea, sit here and recover. I’ll come and call you when the funeral proceedings start. Or would you prefer it if I stayed here with you?”
“It’s okay. They’ll need your help in the kitchen or wherever. I’ll be fine.”
Zahra looked at her hesitantly,
“Are you sure?”
“Ja, I’ll be okay.”
Zahra left. Leto got up from where she sat and took a better look at the room she was in. It was Ouma’s room. A shiver passed through her as she walked to the dressing table and let her fingers brush against the different objects. A string of prayer beads – a tasbeeh, Ouma called it –, a nearly-empty bottle of perfume, and an old-fashioned hairbrush. The room still held onto Ouma’s scent. She tapped the glass surface and watched as her fingerprints appeared then faded away. The room was darkened by clouds that blotted out the sunbeams which shone through the windows moments before. She clicked on a lamp and noticed something under the layer of glass. A group of photos. One was black-and-white, showing a couple in wedding clothing. The woman’s face was graced by a happiness that she couldn’t seem to believe, and the man barely contained his joy in a small smile. Ouma and her husband. Leto couldn’t remember his name, but she knew that he had been killed during the Apartheid struggle – widowing Ouma not too long after their marriage. Her gaze travelled to the next picture. It was like a bolt of lightning struck her heart.
The photo showed Leto, no older than eight, holding her mother’s hand. Her mother, heavily pregnant, was caught in a laugh. It was taken in Ouma’s kitchen, and Ouma was in the background. Leto couldn’t remember who had taken the photo, or even when it was taken, but just looking at it threatened to bring back the tears she just dried. She was tempted to lift the glass and remove the two photos, but changed her mind. Even though she knew that Ouma wouldn’t have minded if she kept the photos, it felt wrong. She would wait until Ouma’s will was sorted out, and ask the heir for the photos. Surely, whoever it was, wouldn’t be so cruel as to deny her them.
She picked up her cup of tea, now cooled sufficiently, and drank it to calm herself down until the rest of the funeral proceedings continued.
***
Leto sat at the kitchen table, feeling utterly drained. She didn’t have the strength to stand and watch the funeral come to an end, so she rested her head against the wood. She heard it happening, the sound travelling through the passage. The final prayers being read, the scraping of chairs as everyone stood to say their last greetings, and a few muffled sobs. Leto wondered if she should cry some more, but all her tears were spent and it left her empty. The void at the centre of her chest was even bigger and, strangely, heavy. She didn’t think anything would fill it. Brian clambered onto her lap, distracting her momentarily. Any moment and she’d hear the procession leaving the house. Sera kept glancing down the passage, wanting to join the other mourners. After a sigh, Leto told her to go. She held Brian close to her and bowed her head as the sounds of the procession leaving filtered to the kitchen. Despite her deep sorrow, she knew that Ouma could rest.
Another cup of tea. Someone placed it on the table in front of her. Brian was asleep against her. The men were returning from the graveyard and women bustled about the kitchen, preparing tea and some snacks. It was too lively, too busy, after something so tragic. Too noisy. She wanted them all to shut up. She felt like yelling it out and making them all go away, but she had no energy. They had no right to be in Ouma’s kitchen, talking so much.
“Lung failure, the doctor said,” she heard someone say.
“It’s such a shame,” another answered.
The conversation moved away. It was hours before the kitchen was empty of everyone besides Leto, Sera and Brian. The afternoon sunbeams that fell in through the windows were weakened by approaching rainclouds.
“How fitting,” she thought melancholically. “Rain on the day of a funeral. How unbelievable and cliché, but downright fitting.”
She felt Brian’s small body shift under her hand. His body suddenly spasmed as he let out several coughs in a row. Leto froze as fear seized her. It couldn’t be. Not Brian also. The thought was like electricity. Before she knew it, she had Sera by the hand and was out the front door. She ran to her own home, her heart pounding. Brian shifted in his sleep, unaware of his sister’s panic.
“What’s wrong now, Leto?” asked Sera, blinking up at her. “You look so scared.”
“Um. It’s nothing. Help me get Brian to bed. I don’t think he’ll wake up until morning,” she didn’t want Sera to worry.
She sat next to Brian as he slept fitfully. His forehead was hot with a fever. She clasped his small hand in hers, worried. She fed him dry toast and weak, black tea but he barely swallowed any. There was a bottle of Panado syrup in one of the cupboards, but it was dusty and the label so faded she could barely make out the name, let alone the instructions. The facecloth in her hand seeped water warmed by his fever. Often, he let out a cough that filled her with fear.
She checked on her sister. Sera had fallen asleep on the couch, tired from processing her grief. Leto covered her with a blanket before going to rinse out the facecloth.
The door slammed open. Pa frowned at Sera’s sleeping form and dropped into a chair instead.
“Where’s my son?” he asked gruffly. He glanced at Leto. “Why are you not in your school clothes?”
Leto dropped the facecloth in the sink.
“It was Ouma’s funeral today,” she murmured.
Pa huffed in reply,
“Bring Brian here,” he demanded. “I want to see him.”
Leto didn’t answer. She stayed at the sink, afraid to move. Pa glared at her, got up and stomped through the house until he reached to room where Brian was asleep.
“LETO!” he yelled.
She cowered. The neighbourhood was busy. People would be returning from work. They would hear her scream if he hit her. Then she remembered. The one person who cared was gone. She was all alone.
Tentatively, she made her way to where Brian was. She knew that Pa would blame her for Brian getting sick. With her eyes closed, she wished for protection against her father. It didn’t come.
She tripped over something lying on the ground, bumping her head on the floor. Automatically, she curled in a ball, shielding her head with her hands. The first blow split open her knuckles, making her gasp with pain. She cradled her hands on her lap, her head bent in submission. Even the small agony was almost too much for her to handle now.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I tried my best.”
“Sorry? Did you say you were sorry? What else are you sorry about, huh? Are you sorry you got so many people dead? Your Ma? That old boyfriend of yours who had his brains blown out? Now Brian?”
Each accusation was accompanied by a strike of his belt against her unprotected back. The pain blurred her vision, but she was still coherent enough to respond.
“Brian will be okay if you let me take him to the doctor.”
“No. You will stay here and don’t ever touch my son again. Do you remember how your Ma died? How she was killed? Do you remember?!”
Shivering, she answered in a whisper,
“I remember.”
The memory flared before she could stop it. Walking down the road, on the way to the library. Chattering about her new teacher at school, and how she was starting to like Maths. The warmth of her mother’s hand in hers. Content that nothing bad happened in the world, and all the gossip the neighbours told and the news they saw in the papers were just stories. Fairy tales to frighten children into listening to their parents.
Until they took that shortcut. The shortcut with the picture on the wall. She could still see it clearly. Silver stars, sprayed on the dusty grey bricks. An S-shape. Then the way that the clouds suddenly blocked out the sun and she shivered. She remembered moving closer to her mom, to the OMO-scented safety of her mother’s arm. Hearing the heavy footsteps. Getting pulled away by someone not much bigger than her, her eyes shielded by that same someone. The argument that followed and ended in the click of a trigger being pulled, and a gunshot.
Looking up at the person who had kept her hidden from the thugs. She knew his face from school. If she remembered properly, his name was Aaron. After that day, he helped chase away the nightmares of her mother’s death.
Her fault. The words revolved around in Leto’s mind, etching in deeply. It was her fault her mother died. She couldn’t escape that harsh fact.
But she could escape her father. She could still get Brian to help. If she got Brian to a doctor, everything would change. It would not be another stain on her conscience.
She lifted herself, first into a sitting position, then dragging herself up.
“I’m phoning the police,” she said, incoherent and soft at first.
“What?”
“I’m phoning the police,” she repeated, more clearly. “I’m not taking this anymore. Every moment you spend hitting me, Brian suffers more. He’s going to the doctor and I’m taking him.”
Instead of cowering when she heard the belt racing to meet her cheek, she held out her hand and caught it. She wasn’t anywhere near strong enough to rip it from his grasp, and the sting burnt her palm, but it bought her a few precious seconds. Long enough to race towards her room. She slammed the door closed, pushed her bed against it and searched for what she needed. The money was still in its hiding place. No longer caring about the possible consequences, she pulled some out. Enough, she hoped. To get herself, Sera and Brian to the hospital and get a doctor’s help. Shaking with adrenaline and the pain of her injuries, she closed her eyes and listened.
It didn’t take long until she heard the front door close with a bang. She was safe – the mention of the police got her Pa uneasy enough to leave. Still, she took a massive risk. There was no way for her to actually phone the police, but it worked and that was important. It took her longer than expected to clear the door. Her body responded sluggishly as she tried to get it to work. The adrenaline that had kept her going drained away, and she found the world spinning as the pain wove its way through her. She staggered and fell onto her bed. The hard mattress, pressed against her face, steadied the world. She could hear the raindrops, the sound of Sera sobbing quietly and Brian coughing. It seemed impossible for her to get up, but she knew she had to. She had to get Brian to a doctor.
Someone knocked on the front door. The hammering, sounding dim through the pain, was insistent. Her name was being called. She recognised the voice.
“Warren,” she replied weakly. She cleared her throat; Warren would never hear her.
“Sera!” she called more audibly.
A tear-streaked face peered into her room.
“Sera. Warren is at the door. Open it for him and bring him here,” she gasped the instruction.
Without hesitation, Sera and fetched Warren. Their hurried conversation was muffled by footsteps.
“F***,” Warren swore when he saw Leto. He cautiously slipped an arm around her waist, helping her sit up.
“What happened to you, Leto? Who did this?”
She shook her head, unable and unwilling to answer.
“Later. Get Brian,” she mumbled.
“What about you? I can’t leave you alone like this.”
“Please, Warren. Get Brian. I can’t...I can’t let him die.”
Uncertain, Warren disappeared with Sera. A moment or two later – Leto could barely tell through the haze of pain – he returned carrying a limp bundle. Brian.
He’s got a hectic fever. How long has he been like this?” he muttered.
“Since earlier, but he’s been sickly for longer,” she murmured in reply. It was too long for someone so young.
“I need to borrow your cellphone,” she said.
He handed it over without a word. She knew what number to dial and punched it in. There was an answer after a few rings.
“Hello? Who is this?” asked Morné.
“It’s me, Leto. I’m in a bit of trouble and I need some help,” she said. “Can you come over to my house. I...I need to get to the hospital.”
“Why didn’t you call an ambulance? Never mind, no time for that now. I’ll get there immediately. What’s your address?”
She told him. She could hear him muttering it to someone else. Probably Jeff, the driver. She waited until he finished, then added something else.
“Morné?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t worry too much about me. It’s not me that needs treatment. I’m okay,” she lied.
It was still raining when the car pulled up outside Leto’s house. Morné leapt out of the car and ran towards the house, but froze when he saw Leto’s condition. She stood, just out of the rain, cradling her brother who was wrapped in a blanket. Her face was swollen in places, turning blue and red. Warren was next to her, holding Sera’s hand.
“Oh God...What happened to you, Leto?”
She shook her head and lifted up Brian.
“Please, he needs a hospital,” she said.
Brian let out a cough that shook his whole body. That was all Morné needed to convince him.
“Let me help you to the car.”