M Sellars - Harm none

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

She released her grip on me then stepped back unsteadily and shot Allison an embarrassed glance. “You wouldn’t have a tissue then, would you?”

“Sure I do,” Allison soothed and slipped an arm about her shoulders. “Come with me.”

Ben and I stared after them as Allison led Felicity down the hallway adjoining the living room. Considering the circumstances, I figured they would be gone for a while.

“Jeezus, Rowan, I’m sorry,” Ben sympathized as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I never thought…”

“Neither did I,” I echoed as his words trailed off. “Neither did I.”

The blame and self-accusation had finally completed its rounds, starting with Cally and ending with Felicity. Of everyone involved, she understandably took it the hardest. It was nearing midnight before we finally left Ben and Allison. All four of us were emotionally drained and physically exhausted, but the two of them were getting along much better than they had been when we first arrived. The cathartic episode left Felicity red-eyed and fighting a sinus headache, but in a somewhat selfish way, I was relieved that it was now over. Whether the police wanted to believe it or not, there was still a psycho out there, and I was certain he was preparing to kill again. I needed to be able to apply all of my attention to figuring out who he was before that happened.

“So I guess I managed to make a complete fool of myself this evening,” Felicity lamented, eyes shut, head tilted back on the headrest and rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“I wouldn’t say that,” I consoled. “You just did what anyone else in your position would have. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “At least Allison and Ben are straightened out.”

“Yeah. I think they’re pretty clear on the subject now.”

We continued on quietly, and I hooked a cautious left through the flashing yellow light at the intersection, speeding onto the highway in the direction of home.

“I guess I owe you an apology,” I finally announced.

“For what?” She was still massaging her sinuses, head back and eyes closed.

“For not being prepared,” I explained. “For not knowing how it was that you really felt.”

“How could you have known?” she half asked, half stated. “I told you I was fine. You aren’t a mind reader.”

“I’m a Witch. I should have sensed that something was wrong.”

“You’ve been preoccupied lately,” she admonished. “You can’t expect to be able to do everything.”

“I can at least expect to be sensitive to you and your feelings,” I expressed, glancing over at her.

“Don’t beat yourself up over this, Rowan.” She opened her eyes and looked at me. “Take it from someone who’s been doing just that. It won’t accomplish anything.”

I paused for a moment, pondering the wisdom of what she had just said. “I just wanted you to know I love you,” I whispered.

“I never doubted it.”

Darkness.

Cold, lifeless, complete darkness.

Falling.

Screaming.

Silence.

Light.

I’m standing somewhere. I’m standing nowhere.

There is something in my hand. I look down and notice that I am holding a cane. My hand is encased in a white glove. I am dressed in white.

Formal.

A white tuxedo with tails.

“ Hello, Mister,” a small voice calls from the void.

I turn to find a small child. A young girl with silky, strawberry-blonde hair tied up with perfect, white satin bows. She is dressed in a lacy, white, party dress and Mary Janes. She’s looking up at me with large, curious eyes. She holds out her tiny, gloved hand to me and then waits.

I take her hand.

A scream.

Silence.

The young girl is tugging on my coattail.

“ Give him the tickets, Mister,” she tells me.

“ What?” I ask. “Who? What tickets?”

“ Tickets, please.” There is a faceless man standing before me.

In my hand, I hold two smooth rectangles. I turn them over in my hand. I don’t know where they came from or why I have them. I can only assume that they are the tickets the man wants.

At first glance, they appear blank.

At second glance, they appear patterned.

At third glance, they appear familiar.

I look at them closer.

The Seven of Pentacles.

“ Mister, give him the tickets, or we’ll miss the show.”

The young girl continues to tug on my coattail in frustration.

“ Hurry.”

I give the faceless man the tickets. I don’t know why.

We are sitting.

We are in a theatre.

Seats seem to extend forever into the shadows. They are all empty. The young girl and I are the only audience.

There is a program in my hands. It is printed on a single sheet of fancy paper and folded in the center. The symbol adorning the front of the page is the Seven of Pentacles. I begin to peel open the crisp parchment.

“ They’re starting.” The girl nudges me and points to the stage before us.

I look up. The tall vermilion curtain is swinging open slowly. A grey mist is beginning to spill from the slit forming in the center.

The curtains are open wide, suddenly, as if they had never been closed.

A faceless woman with strawberry-blonde hair, dressed in elegant white lace is standing center stage. She is flanked on her left by a faceless brunette and on her right by a faceless blonde. They are all dressed alike.

The grey mist spills over the edge of the stage and is filling the theatre. It hangs wetly around my ankles, creeping incessantly up my legs.

A scream.

A splash of red spreads across the breast of the woman at center stage, and her body heaves violently as a gurgling voice calls out, “Why, Rowan, Why?”

I try to get up. I can’t. The cold grey mist has crept up over my knees and into my lap. It is holding me in the seat. I can’t move.

I look over at the young girl. She is staring intently at the stage.

A scream.

I look back to the stage. I don’t want to, but I can’t help myself. A crimson stain bursts forth on the chest of the faceless brunette woman. She begins crumpling to the floor, shrouded in the mist. A new voice gurgles, “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…”

The mist has made its way farther up my body now. It floats about me mid-chest. I look over to the young girl. I expect her to be completely covered in the paralyzing fog.

She isn’t.

She looks back at me curiously as the fog licks at her but never touches. I open my mouth, but I can’t make a sound. She turns back to the stage.

A scream.

Blood, thick and red, flows from the chest of the blonde, quickly forming a Pentagram, then blending into a formless blotch. She begins to slip downward into the fog, her gurgling voice reaches my ears, “Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”

The woman center stage is still standing. She continues to shake violently, her head rolls forward, and a face forms where there had only been void. Her eyes open, and she looks directly at me. She begins to slide away into the grey mist, and her mouth begins to move, “Why don’t you stop him, Rowan?”

Her body disappears. Standing in place behind her is a hooded, robed figure, a bloody dirk held firmly in his grip. He looks at me, then to the young girl, then back to me again. He appears faceless, but even at this distance, I can see his eyes.

Cold.

Cold, grey eyes.

The thick fog erupts before him. A plume rises quickly, then dissipates, falling back to the floor almost as quickly as it had risen, leaving behind the lace clad form of yet another young woman. She screams.