p s y c h o p o m p o s

ONE LAST CARESS
another time, another place. awoken by screams: chilled regurgitation of grievances and raw heartache. it's a girlish throw of the voice, and lydia jolted awake. wake up, wake up, wake up. it's a mantra. a small voice had lifted from the murk of night. it's familiar voice, it's cadence been a scathing caress, burning her ears for a great deal of time. it is only now the heart softens, fractured by the pain in this voice. she stood, she remembers standing. she remembers being hauled from that thin veil of slumber. she remembers death; she remembers tears. she remembers loss. she does not want them. no. it belonged in the past. it was supposed to remain buried. it was supposed to be forgotten. it was a cruel thing to ask of her self, or even to suggest to her young. but it was the only way. she'd found herself, she pulled and pried at the shattered make of her heart. her pain had been revealed to those children, and now it was time for the grieving to cease. it was time for fresh starts and moving forward.
Behind them lay a trail of tears.
Behind them was ...
Nothing.
The children -- oh, but they weren't that young now, were they? -- were kept, hidden. they were a cahce of beloved treasures. she'd not have them be seen, not yet. and so, prodding them into the underbrush, the thickets, she guided them. and, after the oxblood rouge of her eyes counted their heads -- one, two, three and four -- her movements guided her into the orchard. it smelled the way a gateway ought to smell. there, lingered in the air laid traces of other strangers, other lost souls. it was a familiar desolation. she found some measure of confidence, some hope, in the discovery of the orchard. the night had come, thriving and hungry. even with the warmer months having arrived, there still carried some chill to the air. and it drew her thoughts back to that night. she wished nothing more than to forget. and at the very least, their arrival bade some freedom from the torment. no, instead of painful memories, her thoughts would pass onto the matter at hand: where in the hell they were, and what laid ahead.