Lockie's Late

She’d been gone longer than her parents expected. As soon as that damned creak in the door sounded, they were on her with their chittering jaws and reaching fingers. But as Lockie stepped fully through the doorway, moving past her mother and father as if they were strangers seeking to turn out her pockets of their precious metals, no questions assailed her ears. In lieu of questions came gasps. She took herself in a deliberate hurry over to the fire in the hearth at the heart of the room, as if another second of not doing so might’ve killed her. But she did not sit, and instead chose to lean over the fire, her arms stuck to her sides.

    She knew it was coming. Already she could feel their interrogations on her as thick as the muck that had flattened her brown hair to her face, made heavy her shirt and trousers, and colored them all a pale, sick green. She could hear their questions, their opinions, their judgements, all before a single word passed their lips. And she was sure that whatever they ended up saying or doing would be far worse than her own conjuring. As fine a pair as they were, her father Nox and her mother Stephanis, nothing could’ve prepared them for this day. If they thought that they’d given her a rightful helping of tongue lashings before tonight, this was what all that had been leading up to.

    The fire crackled and smacked. Thin trails of delicious-smelling smoke wrapped around the wood walls, which were decorated with furs and heads of various foul carnivores and exotic game, providing the humble abode with a coziness that some castles struggled to boast—Darkcholy especially.

    Lockie wished the fire to be the only thing she ever heard again, resolved to never having speak to her parents, nor for them to speak to her. It was like that most days: them speaking to her, never listening. But she supposed it was this way with most parents and their kids. Most kids had naught to say but demands and fathomings too far removed from reality that they themselves could struggle with their significances. But she wasn’t a child anymore. And she’d also supposed that parents would listen more the older their child became: how sorely had she been mistaken. She’d imagined it before, and here the silly thought was with her once more, as firelight shifted heavy shadows over the dead things plastered around her. If only her parents could sew onto themselves an extra ear or two from their trophies, well she would have no problem getting them to listen then.

    Then again, she hadn’t always been the most gifted at talking to her parents anyways, she didn’t know many her age that were. So, who’s to say she would be able to rally up enough of a conversation to keep pace even if given the chance? No, she would have to make do with stilted, one word answers and questions. They’d gotten her this far, so how bad could they really be?

    She shook her head, then looked over her shoulder. First she looked at her mother, then at her father, then across the table and down to the floor in front of his boots.

    Nox was the first to leave the doorway, while Stephanis slowly pushed the door shut.

    There goes the silence, Lockie thought. She felt the unmistakable froth of tears in her eyes, and a jolt in her heart. Oh, it’s coming now.

    Stephanis stared at the burnt and chipped wood of the door, both hands set firmly onto it as if she expected it to be able to absorb some of her emotions, whisper something in her ear, or at the very least continue assisting her from becoming horizontal. It was pointless counting the amount of times a day she did this, especially when she was anxious or upset, and Lockie suspected now she was both. Her father had given up on trying to understand or correct the behavior, and if she was being honest, Lockie had drawn near to doing the same.

    As Nox’s boots clod across the dirty floorboards, Lockie turned back to the fire. One of her soiled hands had found its way to her mouth, and two of its sticky fingers and a thumb retreated inside, dirty fingernails scraping against her teeth. Horrified at what she had done, yet again tasting the awfulness that was this slime she was wearing, she yanked her hand away, then stuffed it in her pocket.

    She heard her father pick up his tankard from the table behind her, then take a long drink. The long, coarse hairs of his mustache played across the rim of the cup like the bristles of a busy broom. Even with his drink drunk, still she heard the soft scraping. This was something he’d done ever since she was a child. He had told her it helped him think in times when he needed to do nothing more than just that, think. If only she’d had the wherewithal to shave that damned thing off ages ago, perhaps she would be getting out of this predicament without so much as a grumble leaving his naked lips.

    The fire popped, and a fat spark leapt onto Lockie’s arm. But she moved not an inch.

    Some pain, she thought. That’s it, some pain. It’s no more than I deserve, of course…Then again, perhaps more is precisely what I need.

    She heard the legs of the chair behind her scrape awfully, as her father pulled it away from the table. And as he lowered his heft down into the chair, an awful groan came from the burdened wood too. He always sat in that damn chair. Hours after supper, and sometimes until the early morn he would sit there, scraping his mustache across the rim of a cup. The chair reminded her more of him than he did himself nowadays—smelled just like him too, sometimes better. She didn’t have to look to know that her mother still hadn’t left the door. She would often imagine what they’d do if they came home to discover the door or the chair or both were missing, though those fantasies never ended well. So here the five of them were.

    The prickly scrape of facial hair halted.

    She didn’t know why, she was the furthest thing from cold, and she’d done nothing but wish for the inviting silence of the crackling fire, but Lockie’s skin grew cold as the sound of the fire again took sole ownership of the home.

    “There’s some stew left here for you, should you be hungry for it,” grunted Nox, as if each word came with the price of a knife jab.

    Lockie’s jaw trembled, and tears finally came to her. She had managed to avoid shedding a single one until now, not because she was stronger or more numbed to the situation than anyone else, but because there had been too much else to consider. Tears had been a luxury she couldn’t afford. She stared deeper into the fire, leaning toward it more, while heavy drips of ooze fell from her like rotten rain.

    The soft shuffle of her mother’s shoes came to her ears. She had left the door in record time tonight. Occasionally, Stephanis would forget to eat, and either Lockie or Nox would have to try feeding her at the door. It was all the three of them could do just to make enough metals to keep them going day to day. Nox enjoyed work more than he did being home, so he wasn’t the issue. And Lockie, she was paid rather handsomely to safeguard a local troop of children—well, as handsomely as one can be paid for such work in one of the Copper City’s slums. It sure as shit beat some of the other jobs women her age found themselves the proprietors of, and for not much more than she made. Stephanis was the family’s faulty link in the chain. It was anyone’s guess what her mood would be like day-to-day, some days she was as right and plain as she once had always been, while others it was useless even trying to talk to her, forget seeing her about and working.

    The fire popped a second time. Lockie’s eyes swam in firelight, tears, and shadow, as another spark hurled itself onto her—she was standing much too close to the hearth. No flinch.

    “Not hungry, eh?” Nox asked, shifting himself in his chair, and coaxing out another groan from the worn-in wood.

    Lockie nearly leapt into the fire, as Stephanis set a hand on her shoulder—she hadn’t heard the rest of her footsteps.

    “A change of clothes then?” asked Stephanis. “A bath?”

    Her mother’s voice sounded far away and unurgent, as if she were speaking from atop the city’s wall to her far below about how last age it had been a tad cooler around this time. Lockie didn’t hate much about her parents, she didn’t hate much at all. Everyone and everything had its troubles, its nicks and rivets keeping it from being wholly and eternally pristine, righteous. But there was one thing she hated with a passion as great as the Sun burned fair skin: when her parents offered indifference in the face of something that demanded not only concern, but careful concern at that. Her predictions had been right thus far, what they actually said had been worse than what was in her head: her father had offered her stew, and her mother had spoken to her as if they were acquaintances saying a passing hello.

    More tears. More damned tears. Actually, now that she thought about it, she hated two things.

    “Fire won’t dry those up, you know,” Nox said with a grumble, blowing air through his mustache. “Nor will they douse it.”

    A third moan of his chair meant he had leaned back over the table. Stephanis was gone from Lockie as swiftly as she had arrived, and without turning her head, Lockie could tell she was heading to fetch a bucket of water. The dull clank of spoon and bowl sounded from the table at her back, and heavy elbows plunking down over sturdy wood. As her mother rummaged around their kitchen, tossing pots over pans, and sliding away crates and barrels, her father studiously slurped down spoonful after spoonful of what at this point must’ve been cold vegetable stew. It sounded like he was stabbing down to the bottom of the bowl, as if the stew still needed killing, or there was something better at the bottom that he fervently wished to unbury. A bucket of water should’ve been the easiest thing to locate in a kitchen, but not her mother’s. She said the disorganization soothed her, brought down some of the volume in her head. Lockie just assumed that was an excuse not to have to be tidy, and to never get rid of anything.

    Pang, slurp, pang, slurp.

    The warmth and light of the fire had dimmed a touch, and with each pang of kitchenware and consecutive clatter of spoon into bowl, the soft crackle from the hearth was covered up again. Then there came a twinge of pain from Lockie’s stomach. She clutched at it with both hands, and the urge to vomit consumed her. But she swallowed that urge right back down. She’d rather die than do that. A strange feeling rolled over her as if she were a beach’s shoreline under siege by an angry current, it was as if someone had lifted her by her toes and shook her out like a dirty rug. And while she couldn’t quite put her finger on it exactly, it felt like something inside of her had not only just been lost, but replaced.

    There were no firm accounts or records of what was to become of her, what was going to happen. All they had to go off was what they heard their late neighbor had just gone through, it wasn’t going to be a pleasant experience—damn the finer details. Although, that was the scariest part about the whole thing: not knowing what was going to happen next or when.

    Pang, slurp, pang, slurp.

    A sharp pain behind her eye made Lockie scream internally, and she bit through her bottom lip to keep it there. The fire was eating the last of its wood, and the house was well on its way to being enveloped in absolute dark.

    Pang, slurp, pang, slurp.

    Lockie spun around, glaring at the hulking, shadow-draped figure that was her father slouched at the table. In one hasteful stride, she made it to him, then flipped the table over. A chorus of clanking and crashing sounded, as plates and cups and stew alike all found out what it was like existing on the floor for a change. Nox didn’t flinch. Lockie stood over him, her chest heaving, hands balled into shaky fists. He had his spoon still in his hand, and a slow patter of stew was dripping off the end of it. She hadn’t smelled it until now—the only smell she’d been able to make out for the past hour was the horrid stink she’d been covered and filled with. Come to think of it, why in all the stars in the sky hadn’t they said anything about the smell? She knew they smelled it, they had to. There were probably people down the street that had, and were out there now searching for the rotting carcass of some animal that had gotten run over flat by the wheels of a wagon, or perhaps shut between a door or window.

    Here some more pain was coming, oh was she spiting herself now for wishing for such a thing a moment ago. It had been a fine enough thought before, sure, when she had control over it, when it had been her choice to stand so near the hearth. But now, now she had no idea when the pain would come, nor how intense it would be—and she was feeling no better with it being a part of her. Still she wished for her life to end. Still she couldn’t fully dismiss the all-consuming feeling of oblivion and despair, as they were stuck on her like her jellied clothes.

    Stephanis finally came back with a bucket and a brush, setting them down at Lockie’s feet. Nox stuck the spoon in his mouth, cleaning what was left of the stew there.

    “Go on then, better wash up before you eat,” Stephanis said, wiping her hands on her sleeves.

    Lockie moved only her eyes to look at her mother, her shoulders squared, teeth clenched, face and neck as hot as boiled water. Stephanis was crying silently. Lockie wouldn’t have known it had she not looked, but she was crying alright. Her eyes flicked back to her father, and he too was crying, spoon still stuck in his mouth.

    “Don’t worry about your father and I,” said Stephanis, a hesitant hand reaching for Lockie’s grimy cheek. “You were right to come back home.”

    Nox chewed on the spoon, refusing to meet Lockie’s eyes, staring down at the mess on the floor that she’d made. “She’s right.” He stood from his chair, then sauntered over to the side of the room where their beds were.

    Lockie went to speak, but her mouth froze, and her tongue swelled. Her eyes bulged, and her arms twitched and curled over one another like dueling snakes. Stephanis bent over to the bucket between them, soaking the rough brush in the cool, clean water. As Lockie wretched forward, doubling-over, Stephanis squeezed the soaked brush over her head. The viscous ooze clung to Lockie, unbothered by the acute waterfall, while she clawed desperately at her stomach. Knot after knot twisted in her disturbed gut, and she crunched the tip of her tongue between chattering teeth. Blood fell like hammer strikes on molten steel.

    “To the stars we will all sway,” sang Stephanis dolorously, while scratching the rough brush down Lockie’s head and back. “All sturdiness made to break.”

    A hushed clamor came from where Nox had taken himself to the opposite side of the room like leaves being gently tossed about the street.

    The hearth sparkled and flashed with the final breaths of the fire that burned within it, and the house shrank in the present darkness.

    Lockie stumbled away from the harsh brushstrokes of her mother, swiping drunkenly at the vacant air. Incoherent mumbles brewed in her throat, and barely leaked from her twisted, bloody lips. Her heel caught a cup that had rolled behind her, and sent her careening forward at the upturned table. She rolled over it in a terrific clatter, sending another cup and a bowl flying to opposite ends of the room.

    Stephanis hardly moved a muscle, standing there with the ooze-covered brush dripping green water and diluted filth.

    Lockie groaned and gurgled. She had landed on her left arm, and it was bent behind her, broken. Her stomach swelled, and her eyes poured more of the stinking, green slime she was coated in. Her body flailed, writhed, and jumped, breaking more of her bones. As the room became wholly dark, then came the sound of steel being loosed from its scabbard. Heavy, fast footsteps came next, followed by a scream from Lockie, then a scream from Stephanis.