Adelaide

You're eight when the Bad Things start. Your pup Miffy breaks your piggy bank-- the one on the high shelf --the money disappears, and Miffy gets run down, all on day one. You see the way his legs jut at odd angles-- splayed and splattered at his side-- like a photograph, grainy and distant but always there, in your mind. No one knows how the-- gate --got opened.

As for the money, you might suspect your little brother, if you were being optimistic like, 'cause you ain't seen him since... since the thing. His grubby paws were in everything, searching and contaminating with wormy dirt and grime. You hated it, the way he looked so bright and shine, tapped into nature and singing with the knowledge of it. You hated him for that, that power. You didn't want it, just couldn't stand he had it. No one has the right to happiness in this ramshackle town. So you taught him, of cruelty, of obedience, of pain. Nothing major. Just a slip, here and there, a word at the right time. It went on for years. You didn't even know you were doing it, or if you'd ever stop (you'll never stop, not quite). This is your family's legacy: trauma, and the old coal mine out back, long run dry. It's patched together by decaying support beams and good ol' American grit, but that didn't stop the two of you from exploring the nooks and crannies that lined the eerie place, one by one, with only a flashlight to show the way.

There's an entity that owns that mine-- you know that now --that stalks the shadows unheard and unseen, hostile to interlopers and would-be explorers and little children playing hide-and-seek. But before the Bad Things, such was nothing but a fairy story.

Now, you fall spirit-sick at the thought. Your stomach burns and churns acid and bile rises in your throat. With beady, darting eyes and sweating brow you recall that day, when you made the Bad Things come. When you woke the monster up. You was just playing, you and the neighborhood bullies, weren't up to much ill, not when the butterflies lost their wings or the neighborhood cat went a'missing, and sure not when your brother poked that rotting thing with a stick to see if it was good and dead.

It wasn't. Over the mad dash of your friends through dirt and gravel, you heard screams up behind, and worse, the rip-tear-gnash of cloth and flesh and bone. You never looked back. Never went there again. You were too scared of what you'd find, or what you wouldn't.

Little brother's disappearance was the first of many. The cops ain't had no leads cause you never told. None of you. And you pissed the years away, on cheap booze and bad friends and lies aplenty, all the while the clock kept on ticking.

You're wandering the rundown city, half for purpose, half sport. At the corner you turn into the next alley and cut through the worst parts of town, halfway hoping for a fight.

"Ma'am!" a hoarse voice calls from over your shoulder, a good few paces back. Maybe you'll get that fight. "Ma'am, you dropped this," the kid says through the cigarette drooping from his parched lips. He runs up with his shoulders sagging and his head down, avoiding eye contact. It's a small package, wrapped in paper-- brown, like from the butcher's. It ain't yours, but fuck it.

He extends his hand, but pauses. "Do you accept that which is freely given?"

You scowl. Kid must be high. "Uh... Sure...?"

He beams. "Cool, here you go!" The package is tossed into your open palms.

"Thanks, kid," you grumble, not looking at his face any more than he is at yours.

"No big," he says between drags, holding out a bag of white powder, "you want some? Free on your first try."

You laugh. You know better by now than to take candy from strangers. "No thanks, kiddo. I don't fuck with the heavy shit."

He shrugs. "Your loss, Miss--" he pauses awkwardly, and you realize he's waiting for your name.

You don't take and you don't give. You glance furtively at the cross dangling 'round your neck like a noose. "Christina."

"Miss Christina," he amends, "I'm River. Hit me up any time."

River. A pseudonym, for sure. You nod absently and go your way. The weight of the package is heavy, like water-smooth stones.

The rat-behind-the-wall scratch of rage is boiling up behind your smiling eyes, like the whine of noisome insects on a hot, midsummer night. Like the TV when it's been on all damned night, droning away out of sight while you nurse a twelve pack of the cheap shit, but it never quite falls out of the shadow of your mind. It's a little worse each day. A lot worse today.

The teller's rambling about insufficient funds, and you've a mind to sock him in the jaw and crawl behind the counter until you fix this insufficiency yourself. You deposited the check yesterday; there's no way the tap's run dry. But those Bad Things happen in this shit-hole of a town, and more than the fair share find their way to you. Just like magic. You'd think that people'd have a means of handling the matters at hand beyond vague, piss-poor pleasantries with zero obligation, but it looks like you're no better than the rest of the world.

The bastard's rambling about some fine print on a form 241-A on which you signed your life away before the Bad Things hit in full, but long enough after that businesses got to CYA measures. Typical. He gives you a review card and the number for some call center, obviously outsourced. Didn't even get the area code right. You nod, smile, and pad out of the building before you really lose your cool. Through the red haze of rage you see the customary horseshoe on the stoop, loose and inverted. So much for luck.

Well, that leaves the twenty in your pocket and about $250 and change in the cookie jar back home, assuming you haven't been visited by the neighborhood's home invasion team again. Only thing they've never taken is your ma's old iron cross necklace, big and sturdy, that you kept in the drawer by the bed. You wear it all the time now; damned thing must be lucky at least.

Broke as you are, there's no bars in your future, so you stalk home along the well worn paths.

You never bother to check what's in the package. If you don't know what it is, you can't lose it. You've been hit too many times; it's an easy throwaway, in case someone's got a gun. And if they don't, well, then you'll have a good time together, won't you? Hell, maybe even if they do. You've got fewer and fewer reasons to hold back, and more erode each day. It's like lounging at the edge of a cliff, waiting for the ground to give way. You don't have much waiting left to do. You won't even know when it hits until you're already underwater.

You're already underwater. Literally. The damned pipes have burst in the apartment above yours, and your place is flooded to knee level. There's a great, suctioned gushing when you pry open your door that rushes around you and taints the hallway a special shade of shit-stain brown. You shrug and enter, letting the cheap wood flop ajar behind you with a soggy thunk. You pull out a cold one-- which happens to be warm --and prop your feet on the table, knocking aside empty pizza boxes and moldy glass bottles. The neighbor-- red-hat-guy --screams at you through thin walls, complaining about the water like it's your fault. Typical red-hat-guy.

"Feel free to fuck off and die," you mutter, and the form of the package on your table is becoming uncomfortable.

You curse and settle. You don't own a working TV since rats chewed out the cables and fried themselves, but that doesn't even matter, 'cause the town has no reception since the Bad Things started. People have taken to watching the white noise, looking for secret messages in the static. Tinfoil hats. You, you just liked the sound, sweet as a lullaby. But you don't have that anymore-- you don't have shit --so you chew at your cheek, thinking about all the ways this place has done you wrong and drinking the dirty swill until your head hits the reek-of-ass couch cushions.

You wake to a migraine-inducing ringing in your ears that turns out to be alarms, which is a damned sight since no one uses 'em. They can't keep the Bad Things out, not padlocks, not barred doors and plank-covered windows, nothing. So no one bothers. You sure as shit don't.

You nab a glass of water to wash out the cotton mouth, but it comes out rustier than usual. Tastes salty as hell. It's so bad you spit it out all over the dingy wallpaper in one big sputter. It's red. Real red. That's when you give yourself a few good blinks, and you notice. The red ain't just in the water; it's all over you. On your hands and arms, under your nails, dripping from your clothes, coating the soles of your shoes in big, gooey circles. The ringing gets louder. It almost sounds like sirens.

You wash frantically in the shower, but the water spurts out red. One minute. You sponge the floor, but it's stuck. Three. You head out the front door, clothes sopping wet, but your foot catches on something hard. You trip. When you open your eyes, it's to the hollow face of the teller from earlier, dried blood coming from his nose, eyes, mouth, ears, everywhere. He's gray and shriveled. So's red-hat-guy, by the look of things. And you're red-handed as hell.

As you sit in your cell waiting for the chair, you hear the tinkle of olden bells. Memories of memories flood your system, and your ears prick up. Your hair stands on end.

The priest stands outside, head down in solemnity. The guards go their way, but you're still shivering. That damned priest looks up, goldy-locked and beautiful. His eyes snap to yours, and a thousand-fold stars enter your vision. Before you stands your brother, or something like him. Fuck.

"He was my friend," he lilts in pretty, pretty sing-song. He tilts his head, long hair flowing like from a breeze. His eyes rove over your body, searching. They avoid your necklace with practiced ease. "You let him die."

He raises his hand with a flourish, producing the package and flipping it in midair. After a moment, he stops, reaches inside, and pulls out a jagged, neon red crystal. It's overflowing with energy. Even you can see that, and even you know what it is.

"A rage stone?" you ask pointlessly, nose crinkling. You taste static on your tongue, tickling and burning. "That's a cheap price, for a... king?" It's a strange choice, too, considering he knows your name.

"A cheap price for a cheap prize." He shrugs, unperturbed. "You knew I'd get you, Addy." A smile through anglerfish gray teeth. He says your name like it's a proclamation, a condemnation, and for you, it is. "But don't think you'll be off this easily." He nods, eyes trained behind you. You follow his gaze to see a perfect, tiny cake on your cot; blackberry whipped cream tarte. It's a strange shape for fate to take. You look back at him, incredulous.

"Or perhaps your story ends here," he shrugs, smirking, "it's your decision, once again. I kindly offer you a choice."

And with that and a wink, he disappears.

It's hardly a choice at all. You gulp back heartache and tears and piercing regret. With trembling hand and shivering mouth, you take your first and final bite.