Schism
Part Two
02.27.2016

The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot seem to reach an end crippling our communication.

Just a few hours later, they were back on his family?s land, having lunch with the pack. As usual, it was a crowded affair; the jostling and good-natured heckling between the siblings decorating the atmosphere of a cold, clear day with enough colorful punctuation that her lack of contribution went unnoticed, or seemed to.

Beyond the occasional innuendo aimed more at their brother than at his girlfriend, they mostly left her alone to enjoy the afternoon. Her elbows propped on the picnic table behind her, Saila tipped her face back, eyes closed, to catch the fleeting warmth of the sun when it occasionally peeked through its veil of clouds.

Even the jagged snarl of uncertainty had begun to wipe itself from her brow, narrow shoulders just beginning to relax at last, when one of the women-- a cousin, perhaps, though the muse had long since given up keeping track-- jolted her from her quiet reverie.

?Ma wants to see you,? she said with a smile, a young child peeking curiously at Saila from where he straddled his own mother?s hip, one knee angled awkwardly to accommodate her swollen belly.

?Thanks,? Saila replied, raking one set of fingers through her hair with a subtle clearing of her throat before she rose. Swallowing once, she offered the pregnant wolf a friendly smile she hoped was reassuring, hoped didn?t betray the ice water that had just been splashed on her still-nascent sense of serenity. She even gave the little boy a friendly wave, her smile stretching into a funny grin to make him laugh before she turned to answer the summons, seeking out the elderly woman who might one day be her mother-in-law.

Saila should have been ready for what was coming, should have taken a moment to herself to prepare. With every step that carried her closer, she should have been steeling herself against the onslaught, walling off the sinking dread coalescing in the pit of her stomach. But she wasn?t, and she didn?t.

And maybe that, more than anything, was her downfall.

***

I know the pieces fit 'cause I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame, it doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.

Blind with unshed tears and struggling to breathe, Saila barely remembered the transport home. She had the vaguest impression of clutching the braided cord she?d grabbed from her bag, of choking on the words of the incantation. There was the suffocating squeeze that used to nauseate her, and for a fraction of a second she wished wildly that it would just crush her, squeeze the life right out of her, stop her trip-hammering heart.

And then she was back on the porch, gasping. For the first time in ages, the vertigo found her, the wooden plank flooring swaying uncertainly underneath her for a perilous moment or two. A thick sludge of panic clogging her blood stream, it was all she could do to catch herself on the railing, dash inside, a single phrase like bullet ricochet battering the inside of her skull.

I can?t?.I can?t do this.

It wasn?t just the excruciatingly graphic talk of pregnancy and childbirth-- images of Kierra?s horrific experience still tabloid-fresh in her mind-- imparted with the kind of lecherous glee a pedophile displays at a daycare. Not just the talk of ovulation and menstrual cycles and uterine linings and other grotesquely vivid images Saila might have gone her whole life without. It wasn?t the police-interview style interrogation over the minutia of their sexual habits, the humiliating intrusions regarding frequency, position and duration. It wasn?t even the offhanded and seemingly non-negotiable inclusion in the upcoming solstice ritual, described in the same movie-quality detail with flashing eyes in conspiratorial whispers.

It wasn?t any one thing; suddenly it was everything.

It was all of that, every terrifying second of it, and also everything else.

Her age. The house. The bracelet. The ring. The lake. Everything.

Mismatched eyes saucer wide, Saila rushed into the house, stopping short in the kitchen. She only had a few minutes before Coilin realized she?d gone on without him--that is if he hadn?t already. Without looking, she unhooked the bracelet from her wrist, pulled the ring from her finger. Groping around in her bag, she tugged two of the three enchanted cords she carried from its depths, dumping them onto the table alongside the jewelry.

Next came the wallet. Flipping it open, she tugged one of the two identification cards from the clear plastic viewing window, tearing the vinyl in her haste, and slipped the blue credit card from its sleeve. These followed the jewelry and the rope onto the counter, the wallet itself dumped unceremoniously back into her bag.

Hurried strides carrying her into the bedroom, Saila moved straight for the closet. She took only what was most essential, a few pairs of jeans, a hoodie that had been Quinn?s, a jacket that had most likely belonged to Mark or maybe Levi, a handful of shirts. These were stuffed into the mouth of the open bag unceremoniously. Stooping, she swiped her spare boots off the floor, her gaze snagging on the quilt she?d never traveled anywhere without since the day he?d given to her. A strangled sob rising in her throat, she let her fingers sweep its surface once, but left it.

Turning to pull a drawer open, Saila shoveled its contents into her bag, socks and underwear and journals and pencils all tumbling into the mouth of a relatively small sack that never seemed to get any bigger or any heavier despite the sheer volume of things she was cramming into it.

Her vision swam as she gave the room a rushed once over, looking for anything she might have missed. Blood pounding in her temples, booted feet carried her to the bed, sweeping one hand lightly over what had been her pillow. Willing herself not to break down, not yet, she swept the little stuffed toy wolf out from under the tangled covers, stuffing him, too, into her bag.

On her way out of the bedroom, Saila lifted a small cloth pouch off the hook next to the door, slinging the strap across her body so that the pouch itself hovered at her midsection. Cooing gently in a trembling voice, she made her way to Lyric?s cage, carefully transferring the little creature into the pouch. Pushing open the adjacent cabinet, she grabbed food, treats, and a couple of dishes for it. These too got shoved unceremoniously into her bag.

Retracing her steps to the kitchen table, Saila snagged a piece of unopened mail from the counter, fumbling in a drawer for a pen. Scrawling sloppily, she penned her final message, leaving it on the table with the other items before she pulled out the last braided cord and wished herself away.

Coilin,

I will always love you, but I just can?t do this. I can?t. I wish you a long and happy life with a warm and loving wife who knows herself, more than a dozen babies and all the stupid sheep you could ever hope for. Please be happy. Please. I?m so sorry.

Goodbye,

Saila.

Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy
any sense of compassionbetween supposed lovers.

I know the pieces fit, I know the pieces fit?


*****


((OOC: Huge thanks to the player of Coilin for all the contributions you have made to her story. Song credit: Schism, Tool))))

Fall Out
Part Two
02.29.2016

Sal?s map was perfect.

Uncertain at first, Saila found herself understanding it better with each turn she successfully navigated. Were it not for the anxiety building up like so much toxic sludge behind a ribcage gone glass-fragile in the unceasing onslaught of her pounding heart, she might have smiled. This was, under different circumstances, an experience worth celebrating. Her first time ever going somewhere new without getting lost.

The bank itself was a faceless monolith, an imposing structure all arched windows and forbidding-looking columns, like the guard house of a castle plopped down in the middle of the business district. The girl stood outside its doors for a time, watching busy looking people of all varieties moving in and out of its various doors in a fair to steady stream. There was a wide stone staircase leading into the mouth of the building split down the middle by a concrete divider, and this is where Saila sat for a time, the form letter half folded and seemingly forgotten in one outstretched hand.

Dear Ms. DeFortes,

This letter is to request your presence at our branch located in New Haven to complete the Transfer of Ownership Authorization forms regarding one (1) safety deposit box (hereafter, ?the box?) and certain other items left for you by one of our clients. Our office hours are 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. Monday - Thursday, and Friday 9:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. Please check in with our front desk staff and ask to see the Asset Transfer Specialist on duty. You will need to bring with you two (2) forms of identification to access the box. The process should take approximately twenty (20) minutes.

Should you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact us at (866) 123-4567, option 4. We look forward to seeing you.


Sincerely,

Miriam Jackson,
Account Representative


Though she doubted Salvador not in the slightest, Saila still checked the address against the one on the stationery at least a dozen times, more for a reason not to go inside than for actual confirmation. A minute passed, then two, then ten, and suddenly the girl was scowling, forcing herself to her feet. This is so stupid, she grumbled, a muscle in her jaw twitching as she shoved her free hand over her hair once, checking it for general presentability and pushing one loose twist of violet behind an ear. Chiding herself for her cowardice, the girl stood, brushing her clothes with her hands to clear away any imagined specks of dirt before marching resolutely up to the glass double doors and pushing her way inside.

At the front desk, she did as the letter instructed, identifying herself simply by her first name and asking to speak to the Asset Transfer Specialist. Saila had no idea what that title was supposed to mean, but it sounded pretty serious, a notion reflected in the way the gentleman at the front desk seemed to give her a dismissive once over, surveying her dark wardrobe and garishly bright tresses with undisguised disdain. ?Do you have identification??

Saila fished the wallet out of her bag, pulling out the one remaining card with her picture on it. It listed her as Saila DeFortes with a randomly selected birthday in October, because that was the first month she could remember. The man on the other side of the burnished mahogany desk polished to a gloss she could almost see her reflection in studied the id at length as though looking for errors, his gaze sliding back and forth between the little plastic card and the girl before him. Saila drummed her fingertips on the desk?s surface, rocking back on her heels once as she waited for his scrutiny to pass.

Her attention was snagged by the machine on his left, the one he now lifted a cover on and placed her id inside. Consternation ignited in Saila?s unusual eyes -- am I getting that back? Did he just destroy it? and she held her breath for several beats while the contraption hummed and clicked, until a piece of paper with the mirror image of her license on it emerged from one of its lower trays. The man leaned closer, peering at her over the tops of his wire rimmed glasses with her card scissored gingerly between two fingers, as though he found it distasteful. ?And do you have a second piece of identification?? The question was posed in a dry, doubtful voice, dripping with condescension.

Saila took her card back first, her fingers not-so-accidentally brushing those of the man who judged her in the exchange. His lip curled, and Saila grinned despite herself. Probably told him she was pregnant,, the thought rang clear as though he?d spoken it aloud, reverberating in Saila?s mind. She doesn?t look pregnant. The accompanying images were no less unflattering -- her youthful appearance and colorful hair had him pegging her for a miscreant; some streetwalker who had cornered an ?innocent? celebrity and bilked him for money. If the vision of the wolf as she?d seen him on the internet hadn?t flashed through her mind next, Saila might actually have laughed outright.

Thumbing through her bag for the requested second document, she pulled the folding thing Coilin said you needed to move between countries on Earth from its depths and slid it across the oily-slick surface of the desk. This was the one thing she?d meant to return and hadn?t, the night she?d fled, and handling it now brought her a dozen little memories, each a needle sharp pinprick that brought blood -- Japan, New York, Louisiana, Ireland.

The gatekeeper looked down his nose at it and did a doubletake when he saw the name. This one had both names, actually, DeFortes and the other one hyphenated together-- the one that matched and messed up every one of his righteously made assumptions. His mouth twitched like he was thinking about saying something, but as he studied first the girl and then the picture, he folded it closed and slid it back to her.

?Just a moment, Ms. M?Govern,? he said imperiously, and the name made her breath catch in her chest, made her throat go dry, made her flinch, but she squared her shoulders and took a shallow breath, her hands balling reflexively into fists at her sides. He stepped away from her, then, moving to confer with someone standing at a computer terminal not far away. When he returned, that smug look was back. ?One more thing to verify, Ms. M?Govern. There?s a security pass-phrase on this account. Do you know it??

Saila ground her teeth together so hard there was an audible scrape. ?Just ?Saila? is fine, thanks,? she said in a quiet voice that left no room for questioning, her mismatched eyes that much more strange under the overhead fluorescents. ?Or if y?re insisting on a last name, use DeFortes. The pass-phrase?? The girl trailed off, trying to think what Coilin might have set up. Unless this whole affair was just some sort of elaborate revenge torture, it had to be something she would guess. ?Is it? purple??

The man shook his head. ?No, I?m sorry, that?s not it.?. The smile on his face grew by a notch, giving him the look of some self satisfied rat. Saila wanted to wipe that smile off his face with her knuckles, an impulse that surprised her. She took a breath to steady herself, forcing herself to unclench her fists and shake out her hands a little. Thinking back, her mind stumbled on a common thread that had popped up lately -- the lake, the drawing she?d given him, the dance, Japan. She swallowed, and it was like trying to choke down shards of glass, her eyes threatening to film over. ?Uh.? The words were a harsh whisper. ?...Try Wisteria.?

The attendant?s expression soured. Yes, Saila, that?s it. Right this way, please.? He gestured with a beckoning of outstretched fingers and turned crisply, leading her deeper into the bank. Of ****ing course that?s it, Saila thought to herself, trailing after the man she was fantasizing about decapitating, trying to ignore the full body trembling that had started somewhere in the pit of her stomach.

They wound down a long corridor to an empty office, where she was shown a seat. Lacking the resolve to do anything else, Saila sat, sinking into the obnoxiously overstuffed chair. Willing herself to go numb, she waited in silence, one hand folded white knuckle over the other, barely hearing the pseudo-polite inquiry as to whether she wanted any water. Silent, she gave her head a single shake. No.

A few minutes later, a pleasant looking woman with curling brown hair and friendly hazel eyes moved into the office, taking a seat in the only other chair which left the wide expanse of a plain brown desk between them. ?Hi, Ms. M?--I mean, DeFortes. I?m Miriam,? the woman said, extending one hand across the divide expectantly. She wore a plain dark blue suit with a soft pink satiny shell type top, a strand of pearls that were either fake or a family heirloom, and a scent like synthetic roses that made Saila wrinkle her nose just a little. The girl in black just stared at that outstretched hand for a second or two before lifting her own to take it, doing the customary handshake thing despite herself.

Long silvery lashes fluttered once as the two women?s hands connected; bile rising up the back of her throat as her mind flooded with images of screaming children, a barking dog, harsh words with a husband. Squeezing her eyes that much more tightly closed, she took a shallow breath, releasing the woman?s hand to press her fingertips against the center of her forehead, as though she might actually drive the image out by force. ?On second thought,? Saila rasped, lightheaded. ?I think maybe I would like some water afterall.?

There was a flurry of activity as Miriam bustled up from her desk, positively dashing out into the hallway. Saila got the impression the woman wasn?t exactly built for dashing, but she sat quietly with her eyes closed, trying not to touch anything, until the woman returned with a water bottle. Seizing it with two fingers at the opposite end, the girl gave her a slight nod of thanks, finishing almost half of it in one swallow once she?d twisted the cap off.

What followed was a blur of dialogue. Legal and technical terms Saila had never heard and still had no use for. She was only kind of following, her fingers grazing Miriam?s when she reached for a pen to sign her name. It was still an awkward thing, this name-signing, signature writing. Saila wrote well enough when she needed to clear her head or take notes, but when it came to defining herself, affixing a label with which to be synonymous, her fingers became clumsy wooden things, stiff and cumbersome.

The gist of it, as far as she could tell, was that Coilin had .. left her things?

Perplexed, she only barely glanced at the account balance on the statement that Miriam handed her. Money still seemed imaginary, an immaterial thing of marginal relevance. The constant stream of birdlike chattering that accompanied the statement copy was of slightly more interest -- something about opening an account and then making it joint and then adding a third name and dropping the first two? Saila didn?t understand and didn?t care enough to parse it. ?So what y?saying is that this account is? mine?? The assent made her mouth run dry.

But there was more. Miriam turned, bending at her ample waist to unlock a filing cabinet behind her desk. Reaching in, she set a strange looking document and a set of keys on the surface between she and Saila. She was saying something about how highly unusual it was to hold such items for a client but given the circumstances?. and Saila quit listening again, because hearing other women gush about the retired rugby star used to make her laugh, but right now it just made her want to throw up or cry or punch something. She nodded, the gesture as wooden as her fingers had been, absorbing the words without retaining a single one of them.

Wanting nothing so much as to escape, Saila collected the deed and the keys. There was a familiar warmth to them that made her heart somersault awkwardly in her chest, thumping once in a curious offbeat pattern. He?d had them in his possession recently. As recently as this morning, in fact. He did this today. The realization nauseated her, and she finished the rest of the water. Now that she was aware of it, Saila could see it everywhere. He?d been in this office, in this chair, smiling at this woman, holding this pen. She dropped it like it had burned her, rising swiftly to her feet.

?Oh, no. We?re not done quite yet, Ms. M?--I mean, Saila.? Miriam reached across the desk as though to grab her wrist, though Saila had stepped back quickly enough to prevent the contact. ?I still have to take you to the safety deposit box.?

***

An hour later, Saila was back outside. Perched once more on the concrete divider separating the stairs into left and right, up and down, the ongoing sea of busy business people swept all around her, a mindless and maddening swarm like so many buzzing bees. Her expression was vacant, her strange eyes focused somewhere a million miles beyond the items she held in each hand.

In one, a hand-written letter, dated more than a month ago. In the other, a small black box made of crushed velvet, the fabric tickling unpleasantly at her fingers. Its contents had triggered an avalanche of the Irish wolf?s memories, more than a dozen moments lifted here and there from his past sweeping over her like a steam roller. Paralyzed, she just sat there, mute and dumb and staring.

Her gaze kept snagging on the last lines on that single page, her mind rejecting or otherwise refusing to make sense of it.

I?ve always been a believer in the idea of everything happening for a reason.

I do love you,
Coilin

A dawning horror seeped into her expression by degrees, her eyes going wide just as the line of her mouth went slack. Oh **** she whispered, equal parts disbelief and denial, and even as she tried to talk herself out of it she knew she wasn?t wrong. Sick with dread and yet compelled beyond reason by a desire to know, Saila stood abruptly. No no no no no no? Mantra as much as prayer, she shoved both items into her bag in a rush, then bolted for the Inn.