On Her Last Leg / Pride

She was tired. So very, very tired. Devnet sat down heavily on the only wobbly chair in her cramped, damp apartment, her rusty prosthetic leg banging against the warped wood floor with a harsh thwack. Rubbing at the aching muscle in her thigh she leaned back and closed her eyes, her teeth clenched. It would not be long now. He would be here soon. She could feel him, the edges of his thoughts reaching into her head like fingers about to touch a strand of hair on her... Her eyes snapped open and she turned around. Narrowly she surveyed the air behind her, but could see nothing. Taking a deep breath she fingered the medallion that laid at her throat. No, not long at all now. A slight smile played at the corners of her mouth. This time he would not catch her unawares. Let him come. She was ready. * * * Moonlight filtered through the thread bared curtains, washing faintly across the still form lying on the stained mattress in the corner of the room. The shallow breathing indicated one who slept. The only other sound was the faint ticking of a second hand mantle clock sitting on a broken night stand. A shadow freed itself from the far corner, stretching its deformed shape over the room towards the red haired girl lying prone on the bed. It paused next to her, dull red eyes examining her form. She looked so different than she had, just five years ago. She was taller, despite the loss of the leg. Her hair was longer, curlier. Her skin was pale, unnaturally so, and those markings...it wondered if the Master had left those on her when He had taken her leg. It reached out to touch the rust colored dots on her cheek and two deep green eyes popped open. “Hallo Father.” The shadow recoiled a moment only, then surged forward, its mouth opening to emit a voice that sounded of dry, bitter leaves. “Hullo my darling. Doing all right then I see? That's a grand girl you are.” Sitting up in the bed Devnet arranged the covers over her knees, her eyes on what was left of her father. “Yes, no thanks to you.” The shadow that was once Erasmus Caratauc let out a facsimile of a chuckle. “Ahh...but you've been a naughty girl, my darling Dev. Led me on a grand chase you have, and not behaving like a daughter ought to.” For a brief moment Devnet's eyes burned as red and hot as the red star in the sky. She arched an eyebrow. “Oh, so I was supposed to let myself be eaten, is that right? Just go meekly into the abyss...and the monster?” The shadow made the sound of a clicking tongue, dismissing her statement as exaggeration. “Come now, it's not as if you would have felt anything after a wee bit. And it was for the greater good, my girl.” The shadow was broadening itself, stretching to surround the bed...and the girl. Devnet brought one hand up to clutch the bauble at her throat. “And I suppose you had first hand knowledge that it would be over in a 'wee bit' did you? Did your Master promise you? Or did you even bother to ask, Father dear?”she asked, her voice heavy with scorn. “You should know better how to speak to me by now, girlie girl.” the shadow hissed, reaching forward with its pointed fingers towards her head. “I think the time has come for me to take you in hand. No more running for you.” It drove itself into her brain, but whatever it was expecting, it did not get it. Shrieking in pain it pulled back, slinking across the room. Devnet laughed, a low, hollow sound deep within her chest. Pushing back the covers she rose slowly from the bed, advancing on the shrunken shriveled mass. Her eyes wide with feigned innocence she asked, “Whatever is the matter, my dear Father?” The shadow whimpered, trying to draw in on itself. Holding up her amulet, Devnet whispered into it, and held it aloft. The affect on her father was immediate, and gratifying. His howls of pain reverberated through the room. “Your first mistake was thinking I would learn nothing in all the time I spent running, Father. Your second mistake was in thinking I was still the helpless, defenseless child who would allow you to sacrifice her to a Monster. And your last mistake? Was in not remembering that I am your daughter, and you taught me one lesson very very well.” She squatted down on the cool floor boards next to the shadow of the man who had raised her, and almost destroyed her. Her voice nearly a whisper, she said. “You taught me to always make the better deal.” Standing up she threw her arms open wide, her eyes alight with red fire, her voice chanting “Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn” As her voice grew louder with every repetition the wind picked up, blowing with such fierce abandon that the curtains flew off the windows debris swirled around the room. Erasmus screamed and shrieked as a dark torrent of power swirled around him, stripping him of his form. “No! Master! I served you!” Devnet laughed. “Why would he want you when he has me?!” Twirling and dancing about the room now she sang, “Ia! Ia! Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu R'lyeh fhtagn!” With one last moaning hiss the shadow flattened in on itself and blinked out. The wind died and Devnet slumped in the middle of the room, breathing heavily. After a few moments she began chuckling uncontrollably. Wiping her eyes she nodded her head to the voice only she could hear. “Yes, Master. I hear and obey.” Standing she went to her dresser and began pulling out her few possessions for packing, mumbling the word “Babbage.” * * * -Author's Note: This is a story about what would have happened had I never happened upon the Steamlands, never taken the train to Caledon, and never met Ouna, or Nika, or any of the friends who saved me. Please believe me when I say that New Babbage is completely safe from me and my relations.

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The Gas-Lit Garden

by Eppie-In-The-Hellhole

In the gas-lit garden

The moon above doth shine

With a waning luster

From a light divine.

And in the gas-lit garden

The lanterns do too

Adding an eerie nature

And a freakish hue.

For in the gas-lit garden

The strange and evil dwell

A place it seems, a land of dreams

A Heaven … or more often, Hell.

PRIDE

Carnation. The flower of mothers. The flower of Jove. The flower of misfortune. At any time, a single carnation could mean one of these things or all of them together. The flower is a favorite with either sex, finding its way into a bouquet or onto a lapel with equal ease.

The carnation sprang from the coast of the Mediterranean some 2,000 years ago, landing today into gardens the world over. Originally the petals of the flower were a pinkish flesh-color, hence the common name of the carnation sharing its root with the words carnal or carnage. However, over generations of selection and careful cultivation, many different colors have developed, including white, red, yellow, and striped.

The flower is popular enough to be a common sight in plots large and small, public and private, and it is due to this popularity that it might even be found in a small, well-lit space in a garden at night.

The flower is a rare specimen indeed, mostly white, except for a handful of blood-red flecks that shine like copper under the light of an overhead gas-lamp. There are those that know the carnation who might say that such a flower doesn't exist, but it could. And in this garden on a cold day in March anything is possible.

It was Spring 1904. A slight-framed Swiss-born German doctor looked into the mirror before himself in the cramped dressing room adjoining the stage. Doktor Johannes Ghisling was in the midst of the most important day of his entire career. He was slated to give a talk concerning the human psyche to an assembly of his peers, the College of Medicine of the University of Vienna. It was his day.

He would not fail.

Sigmund Freud, that detestable little Jew, had set the world of medical science ablaze with his methods of psychoanalysis, but in the end, it was just a study of words. Some patients, most patients, were too broken to truly understand themselves, and if the patient was at a loss to know themselves, their words meant nothing. Ghisling knew that the mind was like a clock, and the only way to fix it if it breaks was to peer inside.

The workings of the human mind were not some vague and amorphous web of impulses and desires, but rather, the mind, according to Ghisling, was one gear and one function added layer upon layer that turned in tandem to allow humanity to exist and function in the world human beings have made. When a mind broke, thought Doktor Ghisling as he smoothed down his jacket, it was only because the mind has added a gear – of sorts – where one need not exist … or because a proverbial mind-spring or axle had broken. Any good clockmaker would construct a model of a clock he did not understand before attempting to fix it. After all, if the model broke, the original was still intact. And the building of the second clock, the possessing, … the understanding through creation, was what made clockmakers like the Ghislings the best clockmakers in the world. Build a working model of a broken human mind, study it, find and fix the break. Then, a doctor of the mind could fix his patient without Freud's inept conversational fumblings.

Ghisling would show his peers a better ways and means to conquer the realm of the mind. The way to a better tomorrow filled with whole-minded and psychologically fit men and women. A tomorrow made possible through the new science: Ghisling's science of cognitive mechanics!

He adjusted the white carnation on his lapel and pushed his round silver-rimmed glasses up on his nose. The doll was already on the stage, waiting to be wound. Ghisling had played through trial after trial with the infernal machine. He knew it worked, but it had never been tested with the dual-core inserted.

That little wretch Mannechen had dug his heels in perfecting the dual core to Ghisling's specifications, leaving no time to test. His assistant kept sputtering on about loving “the Maker”, about protection, about danger. Nothing a good beating or few jolts of electricity couldn't cure though, to be sure. Leave the pot-belly with enough of a ringing in his ears, and he came around. Ghisling was a clockmaker. He made and designed clocks as his fathers had before him. He did not fear clocks.

As Mannechen could attest quite readily now, clocks feared him.

Ghisling smiled a wide, wolfish-smile into the mirror, his perfectly bald head showing the faintest bit of shine in the reflection. Some powder, just a bit, would fix that. The community had laughed at Ghisling the “Doll-Doktor” for too long. Now, it was time for his revenge.

He left the dressing room and immediately brought his heels clicking against the hardwood of the assembly hall. Around him were his peers. Sigmund Fraud, as Ghisling liked to call him, was not here. Something about a conference in London. No matter. Word would reach him of Ghisling's triumph all the same, and when it did, maybe the imbecile would stay in Britain altogether. The doll was seated in a chair, her tiny frame form resembling in exact detail the girl she was modeled after: Patient 05788 of the Imperial Asylum Budapest. A child the newspapers had named the Grave Girl of Tatabanya.

Ghisling had examined her and her case file at length. It was easy enough to see by looking at her that she suffered from extreme catatonia. She did not respond to voices, to light, or to anything else. She had been found, half-frozen in a cemetery, next to a man the authorities believed was her father in the the town of Tatabanya two years ago. And Ghisling had been sent to study her. Even Freud's methods would not work on someone if they refused to speak.

Other than her lack of will to respond to the outside world, she seemed normal and healthy. Her flesh showed no disfigurement, though her file reported her to be quite bruised at the time of discovery. Her bones were small, even for a child her age, but they appeared normal. Her respiratory, digestive and excretory functions seemed in order, though she had to be force-fed, a process that often left as much food in the child's windpipe as it did going to the stomach. That, and her frame, and probably the condition in which she was found, left the girl unfortunately susceptible to pneumonia and other diseases of the lungs.

Enter cognitive mechanics. Ghisling had poured over what little was known about Patient 05788 in an effort to construct her doppleganger in wax and brass. He knew that if the original would not respond to the good Doktor, her double would be made to. And in rebuilding and understanding her mind through a model, Ghisling could and would understand how to fix the little girl. Leave Freud to his talk. Ghisling would see the charlatan eat his own cigar and urinate tobacco juice.

This was the true science of the mind.

Ghisling patted the mute dummy on the head as he turned to stand behind the podium and speak in his loud, low baritone, his mustache bouncing up and down as he did. “Most esteemed colleagues, today I introduce to the field of cognitive mechanics. Behold,” he paused, sweeping his arms back toward the little doll seated motionless to his right “I give you a recreation in the greatest detail of Patient 05788 of the Imperial Asylum Budapest. As you can see” he continued, as snickers erupted from all corners of the room, the slightest bit of rage building within him as it did “ the craftsmanship on the shell is flawless and almost life-like, but it is the inner-workings of the doll that set her apart from a mere child's toy. For, in her, I have recreated in equal detail, the mind of Patient 05788.” At this, snickers were joined by unintelligible whisperings.

“Let me demonstrate.” Doctor Ghisling went behind the tiny form in the equally small chair and began twisting a key. When it was finished, a click followed the sound of a repetitive 'tick-tock' faintly audible for those nearer to the stage. With the ticking, the doll's eyes opened. They were eyes of black glass, with pale, almost glowing, pink centers.

The doll began in a shaky, recorded monotone “Main core active, dual core present. Access main core? Access dual core?”

Ghisling smiled, handing the blinking machine a small boy doll to hold in its arms. A little girl might be more inclined to talk to a stranger if she had the security of toy. The laughter from the audience died as the girl came to life, as did the whispers.

“Access dual core.“ Ghisling commanded as the doll's eyes eyes flared.

“Dual core access granted.” The doll seemed to sense the toy in her arms and began clutching to it like a blanket.

“How do you feel, little one?” the doctor asked, almost wholly lost in his own glee. She was working.

The doll with a doll did not respond, only continuing to stroke the hair of the child it felt in its arms.

“Answer me, little one! How do you feel?” Again, the little clockwork did not respond. She just shook her head as she raised her eyes to regard the man towering over her. The flare in the eyes grew in intensity. The assembly started into hushed chattering once more, and a nervous energy tinged with a slight impatience began filling the room. Ghisling could feel it. If the doll failed now, he would never have a second chance.

“I said,” Ghisling growled as he bent down to steal the little boy from the automaton's grasp. “how do you ...”

The automaton felt the child … her brother … being ripped from her arms.

“NO!” roared the false-girl, the single word erupting from its mouth like the shell from a moon-cannon in a Jules Verne novel. With a shrill cry made of part wounded lioness, part exploding train engine, the machine shot out of its chair and wrapped its tiny legs against Ghisling's sides as it clutched his neck with its right hand and began using its left fist as a battering ram against the good doctor's face. His glasses broke instantly, and before the doctor or the audience could react, his face was turned into a sea of blood. The spray coated his face, his front, and the doll like a thick crimson paint, and flooded his nostrils like a true Red Sea. The splatter began to rain on the small stage, over the hardwood, and over a carnation that had been pinned to the speaker's lapel before the force of a tiny colliding body had torn the flower free of Ghisling's jacket.

The rain of blood began to leave the otherwise perfectly white carnation with very distinctive, beautiful little crimson flecks.

***

Man's effort to master the world around himself is a struggle as old as time. It is a portion of his character almost as ancient as the pride it is rooted in. At the twilight of the nineteenth century, with almost all other frontiers on Earth conquered, men like the doctors Sigmund Freud and Johannes Ghisling tried, through very different methods, to conquer the last true frontier man saw readily open before himself – the realm of the human mind.

In the Spring of 1904, Doctor Ghisling had been invited to demonstrate a technique in treating the mind that he had dubbed “cognitive mechanics.” Rather than teach his peers, Doktor Ghisling attempted to show them the technique in the flesh, or in the gears, so to speak. In the gears of a little clockwork doll fashioned after an equally little girl. A little girl who only wanted to protect her brother.

A girl the newspapers had dubbed The Grave Girl of Tatabanya.

Failing to grasp what made the girl tick, the physician had stumbled accidentally – clumsily - upon that very knowledge. In his pride, he had shown the medical establishment of his day, that he and his new science were capable of prying words from even the most silent tongues. And in the prying, Doktor Ghisling had shown that a doctor using the technique could open up the secrets of the shuttered human mind. His achievements that day were the talk of the College and the papers for months to come. But his achievements were not quite in the way he might have wished.

If only he had heeded his assistant, or if only he had understood the signs around him. The sign on his lapel. Not a man of flowers, Ghisling had failed to grasp that the white carnation is often seen as a bad omen or representing death among many Europeans in his day. He might have grasped the old wives' tales among some Celtic cultures that a doppleganger, an unnatural body-double of a living person, is seen as a personification of the Ankou. The Ankou is held to be the henchman of Death itself.

And pride, regardless of the culture or person in which it is found, is a sure road to that which the Ankou so devotedly serves.

Unfortunately for him, Doktor Johannes Ghisling was not a man of fables or of flowers. He was a man of science. And he knew that science could, would, and did prove him right. It only cost him his life. Then again, what is life compared to one's pride? That life, in the end, is an otherwise flawless and fragile pure white carnation with its perfection marred only by a few haphazard blood-red specks. A flower that otherwise couldn't exist. It shouldn't exist.

But, it does exist. It exists as a singular specimen that thrives under the light of a single gas-lamp in an open urban oasis surrounded by cobblestone streets on a cool Spring evening. It exists as the type of flower that could only be found … in the Gas-lit Garden.

~ fin

VENGEANCE

The Gas-lit Garden

In the gas-lit garden

The moon above doth shine

With a waning luster

From a light divine.

And in the gas-lit garden

The lanterns do too

Adding an eerie nature

And a freakish hue.

For in the gas-lit garden

The strange and evil dwell

A place it seems, a land of dreams

A Heaven … or more often, Hell.

Aconitum is not a word that would conjure visions of beauty. It does not possess the ready identification for something delicate, like a rose does, nor does it roll off the tongue like a lily. However, this flower can be a number of different colors and shades with a bell shape that makes it beautiful in its own right and more than capable of holding its own against the daughters of the genus Rosa.

 

Aconitum ranges across the globe, but it thrives in mountainous climes, from the Alps to the Himalayas. The most common varieties have deep blue petals. On a small, shaded spot in an overlooked section of a sprawling urban garden, a single perfect specimen of this particular plant seems to drink in the flickering fluorescence of moonlight which adds to the scant lighting provided by gas-lamps overhead.

Under the silvery moon, the little waif's rag-wrapped feet crunched against the snow, leaving faint traces of blood as they did. Ordinarily, this would bother her. How could it not? But the old black beast would soon be upon her if she didn't move quickly. She had no choice. She had to keep going.

The wind was howling, and it tore at her ears and against her cheeks as it did. The blood would draw him if the corpse didn't, but that's exactly what she wanted, wasn't it? She shook her head. One by one, the animal had stolen into her home on nights such as this, removing first her mother, then her grandfather, then her little brother. It had taken all these things from her and more. She didn't have anything else. With luck, she had not roused him too soon. She had to move.

Her home, a rustic little cabin, sat on the outskirts of the village of Tatabanya. The house was avoided by the locals, as it served as a gateway to a land best-forgotten. A nightmarish kingdom of demons and devils that would steal forth in the darkness, with denizens that would arise from within the shroud of night to terrorize and harm.

Much of the world was moving past such superstitious nonsense as fearing what lived in her house. Such monsters could not possibly be real, could they? This was, after all, the Age of Victoria. Men from lands bearing names the little girl would never hear with wonders she would never believe were wresting humanity from the darkness one miracle at a time through judicious application of science and imagination. And yet, in this particular corner of the Austro-Hungarian Empire at the dawn of the year 1888, night still belonged to the fiends. And the fiends' stake in the world lay in the house where the little one lived.

Her grandfather had been, before his death, a knight of old in this fast-changing world. He had pledged a solemn oath to drive off or at least hold back the house's evil. When he died at the hands of the demon, with his dying breath, he made the little girl swear she would protect her little brother. After the old man died, they would be all each other had.

With the shape of a man, the spirit stood over just under two meters in height, an unimpressive number in some corners but certainly taller than most men in this particular part of the world and at this particular time. He was lean of form, with narrow hips and broad, hulking shoulders, while heavy, black hair covered his back, chest, legs and arms. The latter were knotted with muscles belying the creature's strength. This man who wasn't a man had a head crowned with a wild and wavy ebon mane that he often bound in a dirty cloth tie. His eyes were a liquidy hazel, but they could shift to a deep amber if he was properly incensed. Above his eyes rode a single bushy brow that reminded one of a long and wooly worm which moved in time with his massive, sloping brow ridge. His nose was a great hooked horror which served as a watchman over a massive and thick black mustache. When the monster was angry, which was often, his eyes danced in liquid fire, his nostril spat flames, and the Earth itself shook from his voice alone.

Tonight was the third night since her brother's death. Tonight, the child would rise up to Heaven to be with Jesus and the angels. That is, unless the beast came for him tonight. She had to beat him there. Nothing escaped the demon. It would not let things escape. Not good things. It destroyed goodness. It hated light. Her brother had never hurt anyone. Her brother was not like her. He deserved to be with Jesus. She had to destroy the demon. He would come.

She had to be ready.

She was a child herself, eight or nine, she wasn't sure and had never been taught to care of such things. Her hair was a dirty blond, like her mother's. She tried to braid it, as her mother had often done for her before she died, but whether because of her age or some other factor, the braid was little more that a protruding tangle. She wore a worn red cloak about her shoulders, her cloak, a gift from her grandfather years before. Thanks to too few meals, the garment still served its purpose, a good thing too, as her poverty would not have allowed for a replacement. Her small feet were bound in rags that tried to seal out the cold and snow. Her eyes were a clear sky blue, remarkable for a lack of happiness in them that one might expect in a child her age. Her skin was chafed and bone-white, save for dry, frost-reddened patches at her cheeks and knuckles. Those patches and the sickly green or blue-black splotches that covered her back, bottom, or legs kept her from seeming more than a ghost.

At least, on the outside she looked like more than a ghost.

Her breath escaped from her in the form of a murky white cloud as she moved, as white as pure milk. If only it was milk, she might not bother to breathe at all, instead she would certainly have gobbled her breath down little a glutton. As she watched herself breath, she let her mind wander around such a precious little thought. Warm, delicious milk. As much as she could ever want.

She was hungry and tired, having pushed herself to the distant churchyard where her brother now lay in repose. Her dress, with its deep black top and white laces, sagged on her shoulders, allowing air to intrude down the hole meant for her neck. Her shoulders slumped all the more for the wooden basket she carried. It carried food, but not for her. It was meant to help her brother.

She had not eaten since the funeral service, sacrificing the meager provisions of her larder to make a cake. Tonight, they would celebrate. Tonight, her brother was going to Heaven. The cake was not a lavish affair. It was a flat square of kneaded wheat the size of her grandfather's old Bible. The flour had been mixed with a smallish bit of butter, salt, yeast, goat's milk, and honey. This was lightly frosted with a frothed mixture of honey and butter. Beside it in the basket was a single flower, her mother's favorite. The flowers that grew around the little cabin in abundance. The kind that her mother had taught her how to press and dry. For drink, she had brought a single small jar of water that the little girl had wrought from the snow.

She knew the cake was not so grand, but it was the best thing that she could provide to help her brother on the way to Heaven. Maybe, just maybe, her brother would understand. She wasn't going to Heaven. She knew that. Not something like her. Her brother was different. He was innocent. He deserved Heaven. The only way he would get there, though, was if she could keep the demon from claiming his soul. Beside the flower, the only other thing she had brought, was a small pewter knife.

It had to be enough. It was all that she had.

With a stoic determination, almost unknown in one her age, she slowly placed the basket on the top of the low stone fence that encircled the church's cemetery. The gate would be locked at this time pf night, she knew that. The fence was her only way. Luckily, the enclosure had been made from stones taken from the nearby countryside, and only high enough to keep out curious animals or very small children. She wasn't a large child, but she would make it over the fence one way or another.

As her fingers and palms touched the barrier before her, she felt a sting that would not have hurt worse had the structure been made of the brambles and thorns of rose bushes. Lights exploded in her eyes. She was already cold. She was so very cold. She bit her lip hard to muffle herself, lest she wake someone.

She kept going. She had to.

Fighting against the pain, she raised herself up and onto the fence, and once she was upon it, the icy stones pushed her to keep going. As her feet crunched onto ground on the other side, she reached up to take the basket back into her arms and trudge toward her final destination. A small plot of recently covered ground. 

Amid headstones and markers going back over three-hundred years sat a simple wooden board that had been marked in a heavy, careful black paint. The undertaker was not an especially generous man, but the death of a child could touch even him. The marker, which the undertaker had provided free of charge, read simply Ernst Jakab 1883 Junius 21 ~ 1888 Januar 14.

At least he had a headstone.

 

She found the plot without much trouble, and once she had, she placed the basket down beside it. Without hesitation, she began cutting the cake with the little knife. As she cut, dividing the cake into four equal slices, she could hear feet land softly on the snow where she hand been such a short time before. He was here. 

 

She had to be ready.

She placed the little knife just inside the laces of her dress and turned slowly. The demon, the great black beast, wore the shell of a man as it strode to her. It regarded the little basket with great curiosity before turning back to her. With a smile, it asked at last “Vannak itt háromszori étkezést?”

“Igen. Én egy tortát sütött a bátyám. Szeretne egy szelet tortát?” With a smile, the creature pushed her back, scooping two pieces of the sweet from the container at once. Plopping them greedily into its mouth, its loudly smacking lips gnashed happily on the meal. Without stopping its jaws, it knelt down to take the jar of fresh water, lifting it to its lips and guzzling the contents in one fell swoop.

“A méz édes volt. Most szeretnék egy igazi étel.” Before she could react, before she could draw the blade, the beast had pushed her to the ground. Pawing at her, its oafish fingers tore at the ties of her garments as tears welled in her eyes.

“Ne csináld ezt itt,” she protested as he pinned her wrists to the snow, trying not to scream out of fear and embarrassment. The frigid ground against her bare skin made her entire body rock upward as forcefully as she could against the monster. The tears broke along with her voice into quiet sobs. She could do nothing but wait for it to be over.

It was never over.

“Drágám, én csak szeretnék köszönetet mondani. A torta finom volt.” With its free hand, it continued working on the strings, becoming increasingly frustrated as it did. Snarling in a building rage, the monster's face came next to hers, its breath hot and saliva dripping into her in the snow. The breath carried such a heavy trace of wine that she could taste it. Gagging heavily at the fetid odor and brackish spittle permeating from the demon, her struggles became weaker by the minute but not her sobs. The beast's spit tasted horrid. She tried to keep it out, but he was to close to her. There was so much. And she was crying too hard.

“Veronika,szereted ezt a.” The monster smiled. Giddy in his triumph. Giddy at her terror. So giddy that the world began to spin. Unsteadily, as his eyes focused in and out, as his muscles became suddenly, increasingly heavy, the man that was a monster rasped “Drágám, Rosszul érzem magam. Tettél valamit az élelmiszer?”

Her voice stammered in a whisper “ Nem az étel. A víz. A viz.”

***

 

Ernst Veronika would be found by the cemetery's caretaker the next morning, stock-still and clutching her torn dress, her body huddled inside a threadbare cloak. Her body was bruised and bloodied, her bony frame leaning against the gravemarker of her younger brother. In her hands, she held the petals of a pressed blue flower. Aconitum. It was her mother's favorite.

 

Next to her on the snow lay the dead body of Ernst Otto, her father. The man's clothes were in an unseemly amount of disarray, but he didn't seem to mind. Next to the corpse lay a basket that ravens had emptied of two small pieces of cake, and next to that lay a discarded little pewter knife.

Beside that lay a very empty glass jar.

Before it had been emptied, the jar had held melted snow. As the snow was boiled over the stove in her cabin, the little girl had shaved aconitum petals and roots into the pot from flowers her mother had preserved long ago, letting the shavings steep like tea. Aconitum was so common where she came from, but that didn't stop it from being her favorite flower.

All the same, her mother, before she died, had warned the child extensively on the dangers of the plant. Aconitum. Monkshood. Wolfsbane. Regardless of the name one knew it by, any part of the flower could and would kill man or beast. Or both. In desperation, a little girl who could not endure any more had tricked the only family she had left in the world into his death. A fiend that had masqueraded as a father.

The little girl did not die that night. Not physically. But in the remorse for what she had done, tricking even a devil to its death, the little one had shattered. One of her favorite memories, some of the only good ones she had, were of her grandfather reading the Bible to her and her brother when her father was away. She knew that killing was wrong. Didn't even fiends deserve to live? 

If they did not, Veronika had always wondered, why had God allowed for the Devil himself to continue? 


She had killed. 

With no one to protect her when she needed a protector most, she had, in her mind, become the fiend. All she wanted was to protect the only thing she still loved in the world. All she wanted was to protect her brother. All she wanted was for the pain to stop.

And when she couldn't have these things, with all she had cared for taken from her, the only thing she had left to want was revenge. For her brother's sake. For her own. All it cost was her soul. And she knew that a worthless thing like her didn't deserve Heaven anyway.

And so, rather than soar as an angel skyward that night, the child became rooted in body and spirit to the Earth itself. When she was found that morning, her skin had turned blue from the cold. A beautiful blue. A deep, rich blue. The blue of aconitum petals. The kind of petals that could only be found on a flower … in the Gas-lit Garden.

~ END