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WC. 542
The wounds were superficial, cracked flesh and tissue already on the road to scarification. Physical impairment had not postponed her return as much as the injured pride lacerating her soul. There were no reasons why, at least none of which she understood. Although the scene had replayed countless times in the back of her mind, Lilin suspected no amount of reflection would ever help her make sense of what had happened. The journey back had been hindered by a mental plague of self-questioning and identity crisis. It was the end of the world as she knew it: where there had once been doubt as to whether her dam had entirely succumbed to insanity or not, now there was nothing but unblemished certainty. So daddy was an assassin and mommy was a madwoman; what a charming pedigree she possessed.
Lightning began to flash in the distance and thunder mirrored her pain and sorrow. After three days of traveling and bifurcation here and there, she could almost smell the place she called home. Nothing had changed, save for an additional two memorable scents that a few minutes later would’ve otherwise been erased by the impending rainstorm. “Lil?” Around the bend appeared the Rottweiler she’d come to love as a brother, followed closely by his brindled protégé. The two-toned girl stopped dead in her tracks, blinking away the tears welling up in two chaotic pools of brilliant blue. They were home. Surprised by their timely arrival and relieved to see them safe and sound, Lilin willingly gave in to their brotherly embrace. Their arrival could only presage a better, brighter future; Barrett would make everything better as he’d done before.
Her assumption was short-lived after the initial excitement passed and their hesitance, especially Grit’s, became far too apparent. “Where’s Barry?” she asked finally, looking beyond their two doggish silhouettes for signs of her landlord and his horse. “Lilin.” Her name was murmured a second time, Axle’s tone of voice morphing into something austere and completely uncharacteristic of him. Her gaze returned to him then, just in time to catch Grit turning his head away from the trio. “He’s not coming back. His great grandfather passed away.” From there, the rest of their conversation became a mixture of thunder and garbled speech. She caught bits of information amongst the cacophony; how delivering the news to her was technically the last contract binding them to their employer, how they had already gathered the rest of their belongings and this was goodbye.
A tear finally escaped her Caribbean blue orbs and just then, a raindrop hit her face. Much to her dismay, they bid each other adieu much too soon. Lilin merely stood and watched them leave under a blanket of downpour- a detail to which she seemed completely oblivious. By the time she made it back to the distillery, his distillery, she was soaked to the core and feeling like she’d been hit by lightning. Sullenly, she climbed her way up the staircase before retreating to her room and slamming the door behind her. Water dripped from the tip of her charcoal nose; a would-be perfect camouflage for her tears had it not been for the raking sobs shaking her body hard as it crumbled to the hardwood floor.