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iamamonsterofverity · 9 months

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🪐 August 📖

It began with a bang.

That's the fifth time I've read the sentence, still not really absorbing its words. In my mind I'm rehearsing what I will say to Henry, when he gets home. Not that I expect his answer to suddenly change since I last asked him . . . but I can still hope.

In reality I'm sitting at the kitchen counter, rolling a crisp green apple in circles with one hand and holding the Astronomy book open with the other. Even though the windows were closed I know it's dark out now because despite the steel walls everything seems to darken. Sometimes I look out and pretend I can see all the stars from my book and even though if the windows were open I still wouldn't be able to and I know it's silly but I still catch myself imagining them like the ones that cover Isla's skin. I wonder where Isla is now, she never leaves the compound so probably in her room. It's times like these when I wonder most how she stays inside, even now I can feel the city pulling at me through the walls, begging me to free it of a shadow.

I check my watch, the cuff of my shirt inching up to reveal the lowest of my black tally marks. Isla's voice drifts in from the other room, even though the words weren't meant for me, and from the nineteen floors below I can hear the layers noise, of voices, the rhythm of boots, the metallic snap of a gun being loaded, and the thousand other fragments sounds that form the music of the Flynn compound. Finally I drag my attention back to the book.

It began with a bang.

The words remind me of a T. S. Eliot poem, "The Hollow Men."

Not with a bang but a whimper.

It is strange how they could be so similar when one talks about the beginning of life and the other about the end, but it still gets me thinking: about the universe, about time, about myself. Before I can stop them the thoughts are falling like dominoes inside my head, one knocking into the next into the next into the—-

My ears hear it before my mind processes it, and instinctively my head flicks up just before the steel kitchen door slides open, and my father Henry comes in. Henry Flynn is tall and slim, with a surgeon's hands. He's dresses in the task force's standard dark camo, a silver star pinned to his shirt, a star that had been his brother's once and before that his father's and before that his great-uncle's, and on, rolling back fifty years, before the collapse and the reconstruction and the founding of Verity, and probably even before, because a Flynn has always been at the beating heart of this city.

"Hi, Dad," I say, trying not to sound like I'd been waiting all evening for this conversation.

"August," Henry says, setting an HUV—high-density UV beacon—on the counter. "How's it going?"

The question is so simple but the answer is so complex, I sigh. I stop rolling the apple, close the book, and force myself to sit still, even though a still body is a busy mind—something to do with the potential kinetic energy, if I had to guess; all I know is that I am a body in search of motion.

"You okay?" asks Henry when I don't answer.

I swallow hard. I can't lie but sometimes it's just so hard to tell the truth. "I can't keep doing this," Is all I say instead. Henry eyes the book.

"Astronomy?" he asks with false lightness. "So take a break."

I look at Henry, really look at him, attempting, somehow, to get my point across without having to use words but it doesn't work like that. I resort to analysing his expression. Henry Flynn has kind eyes and a sad mouth, or sad eyes and a kind mouth; I can never keep remember which one is right. Facial expressions have ways of twisting into an merging with each other that I'll never understand. Emily says that your eyes can be angry even if your mouth is sad or . . . wait which way was it again. Faces have so many features, infinitely divisible, and yet they all add up to single, identifiable expressions like pride, disgust, frustration, fatigue- my thoughts start to spiral, I'm losing my train of thought again, I fight to catch it before it rolls out of reach.

"I'm not talking about the book."

"August ...," starts Henry, because he already knows where this is going. "We're not having this discussion."

I try again, if I'm going to convince him I have to make my case. Let me make my case, I think, just one more time, please, I'm dying here, "But if you'd just—"

"The task force is off the table." The steel door slides open again and Emily Flynn walks in with a box of supplies and sets them on the counter.

She is a fraction taller than her husband, her shoulders broader, with dark skin, a halo of short hair, and a holster on her hip. Emily's walk gives off an air of determination but she shares Henry's tired eyes and set jaw. This is one of the few easy expressions to read because it isn't really an expression at all. Both of their eyes have dark circles and I can hear Henry's teeth grinding subtly.

"Not this again," she sighs like she's tired of this conversation already even though it just started.

"I'm surrounded by the FTF all the time," I protest, hoping to reach at least one member of my now larger audience. "Whenever I go anywhere, I dress like them. Is it such a step for me to be one of them?"

"Yes," says Henry. His voice draws a hard line, one I should stop before crossing. Should . . .

Emily's tone is softer, more mothering. I think that's what the word is. "It isn't safe," she says defending Henry as she starts unpacking the food. She wants me to think well of him, to make sure I know he's doing this for the right reasons. And I do think well of him, very much so but . . . What are the right reasons?

"Is Ilsa in her room? I thought we could—" I cut Emily off

I'm not letting this go so easily, not this time. "Nowhere is safe, that's the whole point. Your people are out there risking their lives every day against those things, and I'm in here reading about stars, pretending like everything is fine." Angry, annoyed, upset, frustrated, mad, irate, cross, vexed, irritated, exasperated, irked, displeased, furious, infuriated, enraged. These words -a whole dictionary's worth- each meaning something just slightly different from the other, run themselves through my mind. Which one is right for what I'm feeling right now?

Emily shakes her head (not patronisingly, it's a sad headshake, I think) and draws a knife from a slot on the counter. She starts chopping vegetables, creating order of chaos, one slice at a time. "The compound is safe, August. At least safer than the streets right now."

"Which is why I should be out there helping in the red."

"You do your part," Henry says. "That's—"

"What are you so afraid of?" I ask. I think when human's say things like this it's called a rhetorical question but I know I'll recive an answer.

Emily sets the knife down with a click. "Do you even have to ask?" It's always like this, she thinks of me as her child, like she's my mother and it's her job to shield me but I'm not a child. I'm not even human.

"You think I'll get hurt?" And then, before she can answer, I'm standing up and slamming the kitchen knife down onto my hand. Henry flinches, and Emily sucks in a breath, but the blade glances off my skin as if it were stone, the tip burying in the chopping block beneath. The kitchen is suddenly very quiet. Good. "You act as though I'm made of glass," I say, un-wedging the knife from the wood block, "But I'm not." I take her hands in mine, copying what I've seen Henry do so many times. "Em,"I say as gently as I can, "Mom. I'm not fragile. I'm the opposite of fragile."

"You're not invincible, either," she counters. "Not—"

"I'm not putting you out there," Henry cuts in, his "hard-line" voice is back. "If Harker's men catch you—"

"You let Leo lead the entire task force," I argue somewhat pettily. I know Leo is different, but not that different. I'm trying to convince myself at this point. "His face is plastered everywhere, and he's still alive."

"That's different," Henry and Emily say at the same time.

(A/N this part is also half finished but again I should get around to it when some of my bigger stories are more complete. Please like, reblog, and comment if you want me to continue.)

#this savage song fanfiction #August Flynn #this savage song first person perspective #monsters of verity fanfiction

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iamamonsterofverity · 9 months

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⛪️ Kate 🔥

I'm restless, I toss in turn, the duffle bag crammed under my shirt jabs my ribs, it's almost time.

Finally, my watch vibrates 11:15, way past curfew but early enough to give me time to do what I need to.

I slip carefully out from under my covers. The bunks in St. Agnes are 4 to a room and I have a top bunk, I wince as the ladder creaks and groans. Susan Brooke twitches, am I made? She tosses her face back into her pillow, safe . . . for now. I check the pocket of my jean jacket for the key I took from Sister Merilee's cupboard during a lecture on finding grace. It's still there, of course it is.

I cracked the window just enough before I went to bed so it won't make that awful dying cat noise. Now I slip out silently onto the grass. Apparently they used to call this the witching hour. According to Sister Rene it is "that dark time when restless spirits reach for freedom". Spirits and teenage girls trapped in boarding schools too far from home. I didn't bother changing into pyjamas tonight since I knew I wouldn't need them.

What I do need, however, is alcohol. Good thing I know where to get it. The sisters quarter's are just across one of the manicured lawns from the dorms. The doors are locked, but I have the master key. Really someone ought to consult Mother Alice—our headmistress/nun whatever—on her attention to security. The first room is the main office where they keep confiscated goods, anything from video gaming tablets, clothing deemed 'inappropriate' or, in my case, a single pure silver lighter.

It only takes me a second of searching before I find the small cardboard box next to Mother Alice's desk. My lighter is right on top along with my cigarettes. It feels better already having it on me again after so long, I light a cigarette and get to work. The box is more helpful than I could've hoped for. I find two bottles of jack and almost a full fifth of vodka.

I pull out my duffle bag and place them gently in. Those are a good find but now for what I really want. Mother Alice's drawer is locked but the key is easy to find, a lump under her otherwise neatly stacked personalised stationery. I frown in disgust at the gaudy gold trim. It's just so ugly that I knock it from the desk, scattering it along with her other papers around the floor.

I put the key into the cabinet. When I turn it, the drawer opens silently, implying it is used often . . . interesting. Inside are three bottles of house red, and a whiskey that looks decades old. I leave the office not bothering to cover my tracks. By the time they realise, it'll be too late.

You're probably wondering why I'm doing this, and it isn't because I'm angry or drunk or mentally unstable. It's because I'm desperate. This is really a last resort. I've already broken a girl's nose, smoked in the dormitories, vandalised one of a kind vintage library books, cheated on my first exam, refused to do my second one at all, ditched every class for a week, and called three of the sisters things I won't repeat here. But no matter what I do, St. Agnes Academy keeps forgiving me. That's the problem with Catholic schools. They see me as someone to be saved. But I don't need salvation; I just need to get out of here. Where is here? We'll get to that later.

For now it's on down the hall to Sister Merilee's office, where she keeps her private store, all the good stuff. This door is open too. Damn, this is just too easy, I muffle a laugh and light a new cigarette. The old one isn't spent yet but I replace it anyway making sure to tap it out on Sister Merilee's religious teaching certificate. My master key belongs to Sister Merilee in the first place so it opens the closet easily. Up to now the bottles have all fit in the bag, but the vintage wine just won't squeeze in. It's okay, I won't be holding it long.

I make my way down the quaint little stone path that goes from the dormitories to the Chapel of the Cross, the mush of the damp grass under my feet, the clinking of the glass bottles and the sloshing of the alcohol mixing in with the sound of the midnight bells chiming soft and low, to make some kind of savage song in the night.

The bells are coming from the larger Chapel of the Saints on the other side of campus. That one is never fully unattended. Mother Alice sleeps in a room off the chapel, I would've liked to burn that building instead but I can't afford to add murder to arson. If this were twelve years ago, maybe I would've risked it, but not now. Then again; if this is like how it was twelve years ago I wouldn't be here.

Would I? I have to admit that even in the few flashes I can remember of my childhood the Harkers were never much of a family. Maybe my father would've shipped me off to baording school anyway. My mother would've protested, the way she did when she stole me away that night, and now she speaks no longer. (I think, I don't really know either of them.)

I quash the nostalgia and wondering before it can swell to much, but I allow myself, for only a moment, to wonder if my mother, the woman my father loved (did he?), had lived, would my father have been softer, kinder, a father. Or was my mother's death just an exuse for him to show his true colors? I'll never know and I remind myself that this is only one branch before I can let the image of a childhood in a small blue house in the tall grass under the bright stars take over.

I let myself into the Chapel and set the duffel down just inside the door. It takes me a second to adjust to the darkness in the chapel. I've never seen it this late and the stained glass is really something, but I can't back out now. It isn't the school's only chapel—it isn't even the nicest—and if the nuns at St. Agnes preach about anything, it's the importance of sacrifice.

A dozen pews are all that stand between me and the altar. I crouch down on the wooden floor, unzip the duffle, and get to work. The night is eerily quiet now that the bells have stopped and my bad ear rings. Absently, I start humming a random hymn I don't even remember the name of, just to fill the void. Carefully I arrange the bottles on the closest pew before crossing to the prayer candles. Beside the three tiers of shallow glass bowls sits a dish of matches, the old-fashioned kind with long wooden stems. Maybe I should take them. Maybe I will. There's relly no point, they'd probably just take them back when I'm caught.

Still humming, I return to the old carved liquor cabinet on the pew (it's a true antique, too bad it has to burn!) and unscrew and uncork the various bottles, spilling the liquid over each seat, doling it out so the contents last. I make sure to save Mother Alice's whiskey for something special. When I'm done I head up to the wooden podium at the front. A Bible sits open on top, and something about it makes me stop. I guess the teachings of St. Agnes have finally gotten to me because I decided to spare the old book, lobbing it out the open front door and onto the morning grass. It's large print and heavier than I expected or maybe that is just my imagination. When I step back inside, the damp, sweet smell of alcohol fills the air. I cough and spit the disgusting stuff onto the chapel's smooth wooden flooring.

At the far end of the chapel, a massive crucifix hangs above the altar, and I can feel Jesus's sad gaze on me, as if he's disappointed in me, and somewhere out there in the multiverse of Kates, I'm disappointed in me too.

"Forgive me father for I have sinned", I think as I strike the match against the ornate door frame.

"Nothing personal," I add aloud as the match flares to life, sudden and bright. For a long moment I watch it burn tendrils of fire snaking down the wood toward my fingers. And then, just before it reaches them, I drop it onto the seat of the nearest pew. It catches instantly and spreads with an audible whoosh. The fire consumes only the alcohol at first, then it takes hold of the wood beneath. In moments, the pews are going up, and then the floor, and at last the altar, soaked with Mother Alice's whiskey.

The fire grows, and grows, and grows, from a flame the size of my metallic nail to a blaze with a life of its own, I can't help but stand and watch as it dances and climbs and consumes everything in plumes of red and orange heat, taking inch after inch until the heat and the smoke finally become too much. Coughing I throw the spent cigarette into the flames and exit out onto the dew-damp lawn. My feet beg me to run but I resist. Instead I sink onto a bench a safe distance from the growing fire, swinging my feet through the tall summer grass.

If I squint, I can see the light of the nearest sub city, a place called Des Moines on the horizon. To me, it's nonsense, but apparently it's an old fashioned name, a relic from the time before the reconstruction. There are half a dozen of them, scattered around Verity's periphery—but none have more than a million people, their populations locked in, locked down, and none of them hold a candle to the capital. That's the idea. No one wants to attract the monsters. Or Callum Harker.

Instinctually I reach for my lighter already expecting disappointment but unlike these past two months it's actually there. I pull it out and begin turning it over and over in my hands, tracing the engravings, to try and keep them steady. When that fails, I draw a cigarette from my shirt pocket and light it, watching the small blue flame dance before the massive orange blaze. I take a drag and close my eyes.

Where are you, Kate? I ask myself, playing my little game. It's something I've been doing ever since I learned about the theory of infinite parallels. That's the idea that a person's path through life isn't really a line, but a tree, every decision a divergent branch, resulting in a divergent you. I like the idea that there are a hundred different Kates, living a hundred different lives.

Maybe in one of them, there are no monsters. Maybe that Kate's family is still whole. Maybe she and her mother never left home. Maybe they never came back. Maybe, maybe, maybe—and if there were a hundred lives, a hundred Kates, then I'm only one of them, and that one is exactly who I'm supposed to be. And in the end, it's easier to do what I have to do if I can know that somewhere else, another version of me gets the chance to make another, maybe better choice. Gets to live a better, or at least simpler, life. Maybe I'm even sparing them. Allowing another me to stay sane and safe.

Where are you?

Lying in a field. Staring up at stars. The night is warm. The air is clean. The grass is cool beneath my back. There are no monsters in the dark. How nice. Meanwhile the chapel caves in, sending up a wave of embers.

I burnt through two boarding schools (metaphorically speaking) in my first year of exile, another one in my second, hoping that would be it. But my father was determined (I have to get it from someone) to keep me away and he kept digging up more options. The fourth, was a reform school for troubled teens, had stuck it out for almost a year before giving up the ghost. The fifth, an all-boys academy willing to make an exception in exchange for a healthy endowment, lasted only a few short months, but my father must have had this hellish convent of a prep school on speed dial, a place already reserved, because I'd been packed off without so much as a detour back to V-City. Six schools in five years. But this is it. It has to be.

Back in the present sirens wail in the distance, and I straighten up on the bench.

Here we go.

Within minutes the girls are pouring out of the dormitories, and Mother Alice appears in a dressing gown, pale face painted red by the light of the still-burning church. A string of obscenities leaves her mouth, I bet she's missing that whiskey. This time I don't bother suppressing my laughter, letting the cackling rise above the crackling flames, barely obscured by the deafening sirens as the fire trucks pull up.

The fire is put out and at last they find me smiling smugly, still sitting on my bench.

"Up girl!" Mother Alice commands yanking me up off the bench and off toward the other sisters, "You've really done it this time. We've tried to forgive you but this time we may not be able to."

Oh No! What ever will I do?

She continues, "At this point I'm afraid even our good Lord may not be able to forgive you." Her voice is stern and sombre like this is a terrible tragedy and I'm sure a more devout Catholic would be horrified but at this point I'm not afraid of Hell because I'm pretty sure I'm already here. So I just nod and say, "I'm very, very, very sorry" so she knows I'm mocking her.

And that seems to do it because her ringed hand comes crashing down hard against my cheek. I don't give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

Even Catholic schools have their limits. An hour later, I'm sitting in the back seat of a police car from the near by sub city, Des Moines, my hands cuffed in my lap. The cuffs are cool and sturdy against my wrists as the vehicle barrels through the night. After a while the comfort becomes crushing and I console myself by reminding myself that they are more to protect the officer from me than the other way around. These cuffs will be my power, a reminder to the driver that I am the dangerous one here.

The car cuts swiftly across the dark expanse of land, its headlights carving sharp lines in the dark land that forms the northeast corner of Verity, away from the safety of the periphery, and toward the capital. Verity while not the largest of the 10 territories, is three days across by car, and we must still be a good four hours outside the capital, an hour from the edge of the waste—but there is no way this local officer is taking a wimpy sub-city vehicle like this through a place like that.

The car doesn't have much in the way of reinforcement, only its iron trim and the UVR —ultraviolet-reinforced—high beams dutifully tearing crisp lines through the darkness. The driver's knuckles are white on the wheel. I think for a moment that I should tell him not to worry, not yet at least, —we are still far enough out; the edges of Verity are still relatively safe, because none of the things that go bump in the capital want to cross the waste to get to them, not when there were still plenty of people to eat closer to V-City. But then he gives me a look of utter loathing and I decide to let him stew.

(A/N this part is unfinished but I will continue it)

#this savage song fanfiction #kate harker #Callum Harker #first person pov #first person perspective #this savage song first person perspective #monsters of verity fanfiction

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