Joshua Graham - Terminus

Hope climbed out of the bed, put on the soft white robe she’d try to keep away from any of the blood—no sense in ruining it—and looked for something heavy enough to smash the mirror.

An odd euphoria rushed through her, lightening her mood, making her heart beat rapidly.

It’s almost over.

Maybe that’s why she seemed almost excited.

And in the privacy of her locked hotel room, she would not fail again.

There.

On the polished desk sat an antiqued brass paperweight that looked really heavy. She lifted it: it was. This would do nicely.

She wound back her arm to hurl it at the mirror—

A knock on the door.

The paperweight slipped out of her hands and hit the floor with a thud.

“Room service,” a woman’s voice called out. But she hadn’t—

She opened the door to find a young lady standing there with a white paper bag in her hand.

“For you, ma’am.” And she left.

It was from a pharmacy. On closer inspection she saw that it was in fact a prescription for Hope Matheson. She tore the bag open and found a large orange vial with a safety cap, on its label her name printed along with the name of the drug Zolpidem Tartrate (Ambien) 10 mg and the instructions: Take as needed.

As needed?

There must have been at least sixty pills in the bottle.

Had the front desk managed to find a way to get it for her after all?

Perhaps someone was looking out for her.

Someone who understood her pain.

LENA KNEW WHAT SHE’D DONE wasn’t appropriate. Helping Nick complete his assignment didn’t represent the best method of ascertaining his capabilities or loyalty.

Having shed the appearance of the hotel’s housekeeping staff, she strode out into the lobby turning more than a few heads, men and women alike. The whiny little human had been the low-hanging fruit among Nick’s three assignments, the one he was close to completing without her delivering the pills. But she wasn’t going to take chances with so little time before the Cabrillo Stadium event, just days away. Anyway, Morloch need never know about her helping Nick. As long as the goal was reached, what did it matter how?

Evaporating from physical perception as she walked through the exit and onto the sidewalk, Lena paused. Something didn’t feel right.

She’d been watching Nick carefully since he brought Hope to the Broadmore. Though he denied it vehemently, he fancied this mortal. That was why he’d hesitated to help her meet her demise. And of course he lied about it. Lena expected nothing less from angels of his stock. They were not above subterfuge, something Lena had good reason to know all too well. That made him the perfect candidate.

With one leap, she launched herself onto the hotel’s roof. It was only a few stories, nothing like a New York skyscraper but a fine spot for perching invisibly while she thought about angels who lied, angels who got entangled with humans…

This had to be a passing thing for Nick. He couldn’t be developing genuine feelings for a human. How could a superior being see humans as anything but barely sentient mammals? Cruel, filthy animals.

A sharp pain burrowed into the center of Lena’s ribs. Odd, she rarely felt pain. And it brought an irritating wetness to her eyes.

“Oh, my Lord, Punkin’!” George Walker stands at the open door and drops his lunch pail. He rushes over to his nine-year-old daughter, who sits alone at the kitchen table, dabbing cuts on her bruised face with a white towel stained with blood. “What in the world happened to you?”

“Nothing, Daddy. I… I just fell down, is all.” She tries to smile but winces in pain. She’s never been a good liar anyway.

“Where’s your momma?”

She points at the closed bedroom door.

George takes the towel, rinses it, wrings it, then gets down on one knee to gently press it against a swollen bump above her eye.

“You so brave, Punkin’. I’m proud of you. Now you can tell me the truth.” Tears stand in his eyes as he struggles to be strong for her. “It was them boys from school, wasn’t it?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“I said, you can tell me the truth.”

“I am, Daddy. Wasn’t no boys this time. It was Courtney.”

“Big fat Courtney?”

“She and her eighth-grade friends. They see me coming home, minding my own business, then they go and say I’m a freak and ask me, how come no one ain’t never seen your momma—you even got one? And Courtney says I got one all right, she went and married a nigger.” She puts her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, Daddy. I hate that word, but that’s what they say.”

George pulls her tight into his arms.

“Don’t you pay them girls no mind, you hear? They just need some proper education. Don’t pay them no mind, and—”

“I did like you told me! I kept walking. But then Fat Courtney smacks me upside my head. I still didn’t say nothing, just kept walking even though the slap hurt. But then she goes on, hitting at me and saying niggers and white folks ain’t got no business making freaks like me for babies and she won’t shut up and…and…”

Holding her arms, George leans back and looks her straight in the eye. “You didn’t. Did you, Punkin’?”

“I didn’t mean to, I swear.” She sniffles, holding back a sob. “I just tried to give her a little shove ‘cause she was all up in my face, spitting when she talked. But she fell down real hard and started cussing at me. That’s when I knew I done wrong, so I held back how mad I was, like you always tell me to, and I didn’t fight back. I just waited till they finish whupping me, then ran home.”

George scrutinizes his daughter. “You hurting anywhere? Anything feel broken?”

“Nah, Daddy. You know they can’t really hurt me—not that bad, anyway.” Her head slightly bowed, she glances up with a little smile he doesn’t like. “But I can hurt them.”

“No, sweetie. Don’t even think about that.”

“Why, Daddy? I ain’t the only one, they do this to all the black kids in town. And just because I’m mixed, different, they do even worse to me. I hate ‘em!”

“Now, Punkin’—”

“I do, Daddy. They’re so mean.”

George takes another look at her bruises and cuts. The bleeding has stopped, the swelling has gone down a little. Still on his knees, he hugs his daughter and nods to the sofa.

“Come on, let’s sit.”

A moment later, she’s leaning into him on the comfortable old couch with its plump stained cushions.

“You know, those mean kids? They all the Lord’s children too, Punkin’. And even though they do some pretty rotten things, they all been made in his image.”

“You saying God’s mean?”

George laughs, something he’s done rarely since her mother got so sullen and quiet.

“Oh, no. No, that ain’t what I mean at all. I’m saying everyone’s got some good in them deep down because we all made in His image. The bad stuff? That’s just garbage we picked up—from our parents, from our bad choices. That’s in our nature too.”

“Is it in my nature, Daddy?” Her eyes meet his, desperately seeking absolution—for what, George cannot fathom. “Am I just like them—you know, deep down?”

Before he has to answer—which he’d rather not—the bedroom door swings open.

“Enough, George!” Lucretia stands there, flaxen hair flowing past her shoulders like sunlight, lovely features marred by her perpetual scowl. “Are you just going to coddle her like that until she becomes as feeble as you?”