#Siobhan Mackenzie | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

banisheed · 7 months ago

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TIMING: April 27th, 2024; one day before the trial LOCATION: Ireland PARTIES: Siobhan (@banisheed) & Xóchitl (@vanishingreyes) CONTENT: Child death tw (discussion), Domestic Abuse tw (child abuse; reference to) SUMMARY: Siobhan and Xóchitl spend some time together in the shack and learn some things.

“Have you read this one?” Siobhan held up a new, yellowed book: Frances Hodgson Burnett’s A Little Princess. Bored, Siobhan had taken to asking Xóchitl if she had read any of the various books on her great-great-grandmother’s shelves—all books that she has read a dozen times over, at least. “Is it controversial if I say I liked The Secret Garden more?” As she asked, the pages fell from the decayed book, collapsing into a heap on the floor. “I think the book agrees.” She was on to the next and upon reading the spine, she lit up. “Oh!” With a smile, she pulled the book out. “The Haunting of Hill House! Shirley Jackson! Now this one is just…” Siobhan held it to her chest and sighed; yes, it was shameful. All of this was shameful: loving her great-great-grandmother this much, missing her, adoring human literature, having a human friend, being happy. “‘Cup of stars’…have you read it?”

It was at that moment that the closet shook with an unnatural ferocity. “Just the wind,” she said. It shook again, muffled clicking shooting out between the slats. She really needed to put that damn leprechaun somewhere better, but for now, all she had was the closet. Well, she’d tied it down good; there was no way it would escape and Xóchitl, despite how fond of her Siobhan was, was still human. Which meant, of course, that she was stupid (and inferior). “The Bell Jar.” Siobhan ignored the noises and pulled a new book out. “This is actually a first edition. Plath was…well, maybe there’s her poetry here somewhere.” In the closet, the leprechaun continued to thrash its tiny body against the doors.

—

“Mackenzie liked it.” Xóchitl chewed the inside of her cheek. Mackenzie had liked the idea of princesses, Mackenzie had basically been a princess herself. Except one of those nice ones, not the ones who were snobs. She’d never been a snob. Which now, looking back, did surprise her. Which in turn made her feel guilty, because how could she conceivably judge someone who’d died before they were even in the double digits? Maybe she was the monster, but this wasn’t time to dive into that. “I have read Hill House, yeah.” It had made her cry. “Have you? But – you’re allowed to like whatever books you want, I think.”

She jumped at the sound of the closet shaking. “The wind here is something else. I don’t – it’s just quite something.” And maybe Xóchitl needed to calm down, maybe she needed several shots of tequila or anything. She wasn’t picky. “That’s amazing.” Which was hardly anything eloquent, but screw eloquence right now, right? She didn’t have to put on a face with Siobhan. Maybe breaking down wouldn’t be it, but she could talk however she wanted.

Probably.

Except that she couldn’t focus on whatever Siobhan was saying. “I – the wind is really something. Are you sure the closet’s stable enough? I wouldn’t want to go ahead and risk something breaking.” She fiddled with rings that didn’t exist on her fingers. Very uncharacteristic of her, but there was something vaguely familiar about the rattling that set her on edge.

—

“Mackenzie…” Siobhan repeated her name, staring down at the lump of pages that once belonged to the book. Of course, here in Ireland, here in this shack, everything was full of grief. It was soaked into the moors. “I’ve read everything here,” she said, setting the books aside. “As much as I could. Isn’t that the way with these things? When you’re young you just try to…” Siobhan gestured around her, unsure of what point she was trying to make. “…take it all. You’re both taking everything for granted and selfishly wanting it all.” She had a certain hunger then for these stories, even if she’d never admit it. She wasn’t even sure her great-great-grandmother read any of them—her mam. It was strange to think of her by her name, or the names she called her; there was only the space she left behind and Siobhan’s fear of reviving her, as if her name were a spell.

Somewhere in the past, her roaring laughter echoed across the open pastures. Now, the closet shook and rattled and had Siobhan been paying attention, she might’ve been able to save someone from more grief. As it was, she’d been too far trapped inside her own. The closet burst open and a chair tumbled down, crashing onto the ground. The tiny gray body strapped to the chair wiggled around, clicking and whistling. “Oh, that’s just my uncle,” Siobhan said dismissively. She failed to care that her supposed uncle was only two feet tall, with a very large head, naked and a color far beyond anything natural. “And he just adores closets and being tied to chairs.” Maybe she should have been nicer to the damn leprechaun, but she couldn’t risk it running off—which the thing would certainly want to do now. In for a tibia, in for a femur, as they said; there was no undoing her kidnapping of it.

Siobhan walked over and picked the chair up and for just a moment, the leprechaun stopped struggling and looked right up at Xóchitl.

—

“That’s incredible.” She offered her friend (they were friends, right?) a small, kind, and hopefully calming smile. Siobhan’s words felt far too true, resonated far too well. Though Xóchitl supposed she ought not to be surprised. Everything about Siobhan was elegant, from the way she held herself to the way she dressed to her words. So maybe Xóchitl still sort of had the hots for her in some sort of way. Not in the way that meant that anything would or needed to happen, but still. There was something unbelievably beautiful about her friend. “I was a hungry kid. Or at least that’s what my moms say. Hungry for everything – she was too.” Siobhan would know that the she in question was Mackenzie, wouldn’t she? She had to.

Xóchitl was ever so slightly taken aback by the comment on it being Siobhan’s uncle. Though everyone had their things, and being tied to chairs in closets wasn’t even close to the weirdest preferences that she’d heard about.

Except that she looked to where this uncle had fallen out, and Xóchitl felt every last bit of air leave her body. Because – no. There was no way, was there? The – the whoever or whatever – on the chair brought her back to the playground and the promise of over-indulgent ice cream sundaes and – Xóchitl couldn’t breathe. It was a rock.

It was a rock.

A rock attached to a chair and it looked at her and she sunk down to the floor and pulled her knees against her chest. “I – can – no.” So much for any reputation for eloquence that she might’ve ever had. “No.” She was going to be sick. The rock’s eyes stared at her and she was a child again, even if her screaming was internal this time. “I – why – that’s really your – you know. Un,” she coughed violently, as if coming up from underwater, “uncle?”

—

Of course, it was normal to expect that the tiny mind of a human (forgetting the fact that human and fae minds were the same size) would be unable to grasp the magnitude of a leprechaun (ignoring the fact that there is no magnitude to a leprechaun), but Siobhan hadn’t anticipated it from her fri—human that she slept with one time. A human that was beautiful. A human that held so much grief. Fuck. Fine. Her friend. She hadn’t anticipated it from her friend. How could affection be realized like an electric shock? It lightninged through her, thundering in her chest. She felt guilty now. She felt like she really didn’t want to see Xóchitl’s panic.

But it was odd that she was so panicked, wasn’t it? Begrudgingly accepting her affection, Siobhan could ignore the usual expectation that the wondrous sight of a fae would shatter a human, and instead acknowledge that being on the floor was not a normal reaction. “Are you…okay?” The leprechaun was oddly still; Siobhan wasn’t paying attention. “Yes, it’s my uncle. I know he’s…” Two feet tall. “...tiny and…” Magnetic. “...gray but he, uh, married in.” Siobhan swallowed back the bile from her lies. She should have noticed. She should have known.

Leprechauns were tricky things. The creature loosened the ropes and in a flash, flew up in the air. It dove through the space, setting its sights on the human. It whistled through its razor teeth.

—

She wasn’t supposed to have panic attacks anymore.

She’d done her job, gone to therapy, and wasn’t that supposed to fix things? Xóchitl knew that wasn’t true. Hell, she was a therapist and she knew for a fact that she couldn’t just fix everyone. Even if she wanted to. Even if she tried to. Tried to save people in the way that she couldn’t save Mackenzie. It was naive and stupid, and maybe she was naive and stupid. Maybe she was imagining things. She’d dreamed about the stupid murder-y rocks more times than she could count, but this didn’t feel like those. This felt all too real. She’d never been too great at imagining stuff anyhow, so she was pretty sure she couldn’t dream this up.

“I –” Xóchitl shook her head. She didn’t want to lie to Siobhan. She wasn’t sure if she could, after all the two of them had shared. Emilio didn’t trust her and usually Xóchitl would’ve immediately sided with him but there was something soft about the Siobhan she knew. This Siobhan who wouldn’t – who couldn’t do anything to hurt her or anyone – that just – no. So she shook her head again, reinforcing it. “No – I –”

“No.” She started again. “He – it – he – I –” she was never someone at a loss for words, but then the gray thing launched itself at her and she screamed, and she wasn’t sure her voice had hit that pitch since the day at the playground. Xóchitl ducked under the closest table. “That’s – I – Pensé que era mi imaginación.” I thought it was my imagination. “It – that’s – Mackenzie. I – that – that’s what killed her.”

—

Over the steam engine whistles and furious clicking, Siobhan couldn’t hear what Xóchitl was saying. She dove at the leprechaun, just as the leprechaun dove at the human, and pinned the tiny creature to the floor. “What?” she asked. Then: “Fuck.” The creature slipped between her fingers, bouncing off the old cabinets and shelves. It slammed against the walls, clawing at the stone. Kicking off the wall, it shot around the room before it crashed on top of the table, screeching and pounding its tiny fists down. What had Xóchitl been saying? Did it matter with a two foot tall creature screaming around the shack?

Siobhan swooped down on the table, jostling the old thing on its old, uneven legs. The leprechaun was in her grasp, clicking at her faster than she’d ever heard a leprechaun click before. Then again, she’d never really pissed one off before. She had the leprechaun, squirmy as it was, but she didn’t have her friend. What had she been saying? He—it; was Xóchitl confused about its pronouns? Siobhan wasn’t sure that mattered, gender was not a leprechaun construct. Then there was the Spanish; Siobhan’s knowledge of Spanish was abysmal. She knew only what little she’d picked up from Metzli. What was she saying? Mackenzie. The kid? The one that died? Her friend?

Siobhan looked down at the creature, as if assessing its capability for child murder. Could a leprechaun kill? Yes. Would a leprechaun kill? Yes. Could and would a leprechaun kill a human child? Absolutely. The leprechaun bit down on Siobhan’s hand and she groaned, trying to shake it off but finding it stuck on her like a leech. “You’re not supposed to hurt another fae!” For just a moment, the leprechaun paused, gesturing with one tiny finger to the chair it had been tied to. “That doesn’t count,” she said, but the leprechaun was off her hand and bouncing around the room again, leaving Siobhan to chase it around.

“Are you just going to stay under there?” Siobhan ran from one end of the shack to the other; the leprechaun tore up the walls, toppled shelves and crushed furniture. “I need this, Xóchitl! I need this more than…” More than what? More than her friend was allowed her grief? More than some lesser human’s emotions? If she felt that to be true, why couldn’t she say it? Siobhan leapt around the room; her blood splattered on the ground, coming to rest at Xóchitl’s feet. “Do something!”

—

She was doing a piss-poor job at keeping herself together. Though, to her credit, it wasn’t like she’d expected the murderous rocks to be here. Why were they – it (there was only one, after all) – here anyway? It didn’t make sense and it did make her feel extremely small and helpless and like she might be sick. Which couldn’t happen. Xóchitl refused to allow such possibilities. She was a grown up, and she was strong, and she was better than all of this. So much better.

So she pulled her legs against her chest. “I – yes.” It was too simple of a response, and Siobhan deserved more than that, Siobhan deserved Xóchitl at her best, her most eloquent, her most elegant. Not this, not a child, cowering under the table, half-picturing her best friend dead on the floor of the house. Even though she’d died years ago, all the way back in Maine.

She was buried there too, and Xóchitl still had half a mind to bring her flowers every day, no matter how ridiculous that was. She hadn’t been back since Mackenzie had died, and so maybe that was part of it. Wanting to make up for all the many (too many) times that she hadn’t been there. She hoped that people had brought teddy bears and dolls and flowers and holiday-themed things to Mackenzie, once she’d moved.

“It’s – what should I do?” She cursed in Spanish, “I – I can’t.” The back of her throat burned with even the idea of sickness, “I – Siobhan, I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I – can’t.” Except that now Siobhan was in trouble, and she couldn’t lose another friend to the rocks. Or whatever this was. It was something that couldn’t be real, no matter how visible it was to the both of them, and Siobhan didn’t seem like she was joking, not right now. Xóchitl felt her body shake. “What – is it?”

—

Panic had a way of swallowing a room; emotion, Siobhan learned early, was never as simple as a flexed muscle, something individual and internal. One need only look at a hungry puppy to realize this. One need only look at the grown woman cowering under a table. No, emotion was more like a miasma, choking up anything in its path. Siobhan wouldn’t call it empathy, she didn’t have that. Obviously. “Fuck.” And she’d lost her eloquence too, flailing around with a throbbing hand and a furious leprechaun. Xóchitl’s voice was meek, and if not for the occasional glimpse of her long legs under the table, Siobhan would’ve mistaken her for a child.

She needed this leprechaun; too long had she tripped over what was expected of her. First, she couldn’t stomach asking Metzli—her vampire friend—to lie for her, resulting in kidnapping the damn leprechaun in the first place. And now she couldn’t…couldn’t what? Xóchitl didn’t matter to her; she’d asked the human here to play sacrifice, hadn’t she? Wasn’t that it? No, no—it wasn’t so calculated. Siobhan hadn’t been thinking about why much at all, which was her problem. Humans didn’t matter—no, wasn’t Xóchitl a friend? Why would she be friends with a human? Xóchitl was a hungry puppy, at best: a thing to feel bad about, pout at, crack open a can of food for, brew tea, ask about a dead friend. No, sorry. Wrong metaphor. Wait, where was she? Right; leprechaun, table, human, hand-hurt, leprechaun… leprechaun? Where did the leprechaun go?

Did Siobhan release the creature or did it simply slip out of her grip and run out the door clicking and whistling? She watched the leprechaun through the broken window, disappearing into the unkempt grass; her hands bloody but empty. Why did she do that? No, she hadn’t done anything. No, she had, and why did she do it? No, she would never have done anything that approached…whatever this was. Siobhan couldn’t appear in the same sentence as “generous” or “kind” or any word meaning about the same thing, of which she decidedly wasn’t. Though, neither could “Siobhan” and “friend” or “Siobhan” and “friend” and “human” or “Siobhan”, “friend”, “human”, “vampire”, “kidnapped leprechaun”, “artichoke” (she didn’t like artichokes and cheese-artichoke dips were always more cheese than artichoke and didn’t count).

For a moment, the shack was silent; Siobhan couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t some variation of ‘what is wrong with you’. Somehow, it felt too cruel, not that Siobhan was any word meaning the opposite of that. She needed the leprechaun and now the leprechaun was gone. She wanted to go home, she needed the leprechaun, and now the leprechaun was gone. She wanted to go home, be loved, be whole and perfect and she needed the leprechaun and the leprechaun was gone.

As always when faced with her ineptitude, which was becoming a very alarming constant in her life, Siobhan puffed out her chest and forced a smile. She leaned over the table and stuck her grinning head underneath. “My uncle had an appointment in the city. He won’t be coming back. Is it comfortable down there? Would you like a pillow?”

—

Panic had a way of finding home in the smallest spaces.

If she thought about it too long, there was a certain comfort to the panic that Xóchitl had. Which meant that she absolutely did not try to think about it too much. It shouldn’t be comforting, and it was just because she’d lived with it for as long as she had. Panic, sadness, sorrow, the ache of lack of fulfillment, something something twisted nostalgia, something else.

She was going to be sick. That was what Xóchitl kept circling back to, of all things. She was going to be sick and why did her mouth taste like long-promised ice cream? She wasn’t hallucinating. That wasn’t possible – and moreover, she wouldn’t allow it. She had to at least have that much agency left, didn’t she? Rhetorical question. If she could’ve glared at the universe, she would’ve.

Siobhan was her friend, and she’d come all the way to fucking Ireland to support her friend, and yet here she was, failing. Not even elegantly. Elegant failure probably bridged somewhere into the oxymoron territory (not strictly, but close enough), but Xóchitl wasn’t even coming close to that. No matter. Bigger matter at hand was the stupid rock man running around and trying to attack both her and Siobhan. Her words felt trapped in her throat, and she wasn’t sure what would happen if she tried too hard to get them out.

The clicks and whistles blared in her head, far louder than they actually were (right?), and even when she couldn’t see the rock thing anymore she could still hear the sounds and it felt like April on the playground again and she was tiny and she was weak and she was never going to get anything done.

She wanted Mackenzie. She wanted an impossibility that had gone away twenty-two years ago. She wanted to spend hours talking to her best friend and to ask her advice on dozens if not hundreds of things. She wanted her best friend and that was never going to happen. Her chest felt tight – tighter than when they’d read The Lottery in high school and she’d had to leave the room at the end. That part with the rocks.

“He did? And no – it’s – it’s not.” She tried to unfold herself, tried to show Siobhan just how okay she was, but she felt stuck.

She’d felt stuck in one way or another for the better part of two decades, she supposed.

“I – no. No pillows.” She wanted to apologize. She should apologize, but she couldn’t bring herself to. “I’ll come out.” Xóchitl pressed the palms of her hands against the floor, actively pushing herself out from under the table, though she could feel her body shaking. “Is he coming back?”

—

And anger could tear a home down; huff and puff away even the bricks. Siobhan’s mother didn’t get angry—what banshee did?—but she got something. Her features, sharp enough as is, would twist and scorn and Siobhan always knew, when her mother’s voice would rattle her beloved glass trinkets, that she’d done something wrong. In those moments, she wished she had a table to crawl under. Siobhan did so many things wrong: stand, breathe, talk, ask, do. Siobhan would water sand; she would nurse a dead bird; she would beg for her mother. It was always easy to find her, she lived inside her head. Siobhan could summon her like a breath. In–

Out– What was a human but a collection of bones and useless functions? What was a dog? Or a cow? Or a rabbit? What was Xóchitl but a menagerie of detritus? Siobhan could blame the human: it wasn’t her superior hands that released the leprechaun, it was the whimpering human under the table. Somehow. But, no, she couldn’t tell the human how useless she was; humans hated that. They were sensitive like—

(“Leanbh, why are you awake?” Rónnat’s voice lit the air in firefly ribbons, carrying across her home. Siobhan couldn’t sleep; another nightmare, another vision of Jane with her throat open like a field of poppies. It was so terrible to admit. ‘Please’, the words burned in Siobhan’s throat everytime, ‘could you just hold me for tonight?’)

—some insipid, insufferable, unintelligent children. Useless. Disgraceful. Pathetic. (Why did her mother’s voice come to mind?) Xóchitl was human; what idiot had ever thought of her as a friend? But Siobhan couldn’t tell her that. Instead, she smiled like the cracked skin of ice. “No. He doesn’t like you; he’s not coming back.” Xóchitl ruined it; once she had been beautiful and great and then she had some needy child, pulling at her sleeves. No, that wasn’t right, Xóchitl wasn’t her— “You had quite the reaction.” In. Out. Mother? “I could’ve used your help but I suppose the table was more thrilling for you.” Siobahn lifted her bloody hand to Xóchitl’s face. “Is this how you treat your friends?”

No, it wasn’t Xóchitl’s fault. She could take it back; swallow everything up. She was so sorry. What was Xóchitl saying about Mackenzie? Siobhan understood; she couldn’t stare down the end of a dining table anymore. That was the place Jane sat when they— when her mother— Oh! But! Wasn’t she forgetting? Xóchitl was human and all of them ended up in the same place! Siobhan’s gaze dropped to the human’s neck; she thought of poppies.

—

She hadn’t slept well (or at all, really) after Mackenzie died. She was hardly able to close her eyes without seeing her friend dead on the ground. Xóchitl had gotten over that. Mostly, at least. Except, much like every other childlike behavior, all of that was coming rushing back to her all at once. She felt like she was choking on ocean water, like when she’d gone swimming once and the waves had come in far too quickly, causing her to take a swallow of salt water.

It was uncomfortable at best, though also embarrassing, and she figured Siobhan had to be pretty heavily judging her right now. Emilio was right – maybe Ireland really was terrible. Though why were the moving rocks here and back in Maine? How could they be in both places? Which was a stupid question, Xóchitl chastised herself. There were plenty of things that existed in multiple places. She was highly educated, she was deeply logical, she didn’t know why that hadn’t clicked.

Maybe because this moving rock wasn’t something that ever should’ve existed in the first place. Or rather, existed, impossibly so. That was logic, even though she couldn’t have hallucinated both times, and Siobhan could very clearly see the thing, and that was that.

Issue was, Xóchitl wasn’t sure how to come to terms with something so impossible. Not without wanting to be sick and start crying all at once. Which was a horrible combination of things.

“It’s – no.” She also really needed to get her act together and stop stammering over words. “It’s not how I treat my friends. Lo siento, Siobhan. I – I’m sorry. I don’t know how to say that in Irish, if – if you speak that.” Was that offensive? Xóchitl wasn’t sure if she had the capacity to care right now. Which was also probably cruel, rude, or something else but she couldn’t care. She couldn’t feel anything other than horror and disgust and panic.

Which was a very unfun way to feel.

Unfun and damaging her IQ as she spoke, apparently.

“That – that thing,” Xóchitl couldn’t bring herself to care about being rude at all, “that is what killed Mackenzie. I thought I imagined it. It – I’m sorry I went under the table but that – that murdered my best friend.”

—

“My Spanish is terrible, you should know that,” Siobhan said, like acid off her tongue. Why was it Xóchitl’s fault? Why did it feel so simple to turn her insides to daggers and push them into her fr—the human? “Not a thing; it’s a superior creature. Don’t call it a thing. You’re not supposed to call it a thing.” Every word lifted the burden of panic from her body and blurred her vision of the future, where her trial would be a disaster because she didn’t have the stupid leprechaun.

Siobhan wondered if she ought to have more sympathy, the question arose like a plume of smoke, easily blown away. She regularly called leprechauns things, she understood that Xóchitl carried a strong grief and the human was classified as a friend a while ago. But that was before the table. Before the leprechaun ran out and before blood rushed to Siobhan’s head. With a puffed chest and a bleeding hand, Siobhan felt more like herself—or adjacent. Almost, if she tried hard enough, she could feel the pressure of long-gone wings fluttering on her back.

Who was she supposed to be? The dog rolled over, belly up? The thing that made friends of humans? The thing that offered comfort? Siobhan imagined her mother watching her upcoming trial, waiting to take her daughter back. She wouldn’t want the woman who forgave; she was unforgiving herself. She wouldn’t want the dog and what Siobhan wanted was her mother: to be like her, to be with her again.

Her mind shattered like a mirror, reflecting her now—glowering at Xóchitl—her younger—through dark nights and poppy fields begging for her mother—and her as a set of lips whispering curious things: ‘Don’t’. “It’s a leprechaun. And ‘murdered’ is a little dramatic, don’t you think?” Siobhan waved her bleeding hand around dismissively. “You wouldn’t say a fox murdered a chicken.” Siobhan shifted—the dim voice told her to stop. “What did you expect to happen? What do you expect to happen? The next time you encounter a leprechaun, are you going to hope for a table? And to think! You went—how old are you?—too long without asking yourself what killed your friend.” Siobhan pointed at the table. “Don’t you pride yourself on your intelligence? And this is who you become when it matters?” And who did Siobhan turn into? “What do you want to do about it? What can you even do about it?”

—

“I know.” Xóchitl fought away the urge to snap at Siobhan, because she didn’t deserve that, even if Xóchitl did feel especially bitter right now. Snapping wouldn’t do anything, and if anything, it would make her feel all the more child-like, which was not something she needed right now. She could feel her whole body tense up, could feel the anger bubble up in her chest. “It – fine – I – I’m not gracing that with pronouns. It’s a rock.” So maybe she did spit out the words and maybe she was more than just a little snappy about it but it was called for, and when you were thrown into a PTSD flashback you couldn’t be expected to keep your cool.

Still, she dug her nails into her palm and wished she still had the perfume mist body spray that had been Mackenzie’s favorite. She couldn’t even remember the name, and she’d probably like something far more expensive and fancy now but whatever the scent had been had connected them so much as children.

But it, much like her friend, had faded away.

The one big difference was that at least she still remembered things about Mackenzie. Which was a mixed bag, she supposed, but it was what it was.

“It’s not dramatic.” Okay, maybe she was snapping and maybe her voice was a bit too loud. “Also yes, you could say that. I’m sure the chicken’s best friend would say that.” Xóchitl blew out a short gasp of air. “I don’t know what I expected to happen,” she huffed, “déjame en paz, vete a la mierda,” which was certainly a bit extreme and she shook her head, refocusing on Siobhan. “Sorry – I – I don’t know. I would run if I was outside. I did ask what killed her. Rocks. Rocks all on top of her and they suffocated her while I watched and it’s my fault and it should’ve been me and I should’ve stopped it and I just watched and cried and she should still be here and laughing and living her life. It’s my fault and I’ve asked myself about it every single day of my life since that day. That’s twenty-two years. My grief is old enough to order a drink. My grief is non-ending, Siobhan. You were sympathetic before, where is that now?”

—

“The chicken’s best friend wouldn’t say that because the chicken’s best friend would be another chicken and chickens don’t talk.” Siobhan realized her argument was childish, but the cathartic value of arguing was more important. It was over for her, most likely. She’d walk back into court and be made a fool of, again. Always hoping, always wishing things could turn her way. Always falling short. What was she going to do now? Frustration stamped into her bones like a hot branding iron. “Yes, the rocks. For a full adult age you thought sentient rocks suffocated a child. Do you realize how stupid you sound?” Was it any less stupid to say it was leprechauns? Did any of this matter? Wasn’t she always a disappointment? Wouldn’t she always continue to be one? Why bother? Why did she bother? Desperate to make meaning of her life, Siobhan continued: “and what about me? What about my grief? What about everything you let run away? What about my years? The forty-two I spent in agony? The ninety-eight years I’ve been… this thing.” Siobhan gestured to herself. Everything had to mean something: the leprechaun, her lost wings, the ostracization, the displacement, the pain, the anger. Fate must’ve had something better planned for her or else, for what had she endured? Who was she? Why was she here? What did she want? “When we met, you were a coward. You said you couldn’t make friends, everything hurt too much. And then look, you came here. You have friends. And then—” Siobhan gestured once more to the table. “—look at you. Still a coward. Always one.”

Siobhan stomped off, towards the door where her future had escaped. Where it was always gone, buried too deep in Irish soil. She turned and behind her wasn’t Xóchitl, it hadn’t been her for some time, but a version of herself, flicking between the decades of her life. “You’re useless. You had my sympathy when I thought you could be someone but your truth disgusts me: you’re a coward, a hypocrite, and a self-pitying idiot. For your own sake, you should pick something better to be.” She turned and froze at the threshold. “I’m sorry. That’s impossible for you, isn’t it?”

And then she had gone, following the trail of a leprechaun she would never find.

#thank you emily for this fun time!!! :)#where i did not cry at all :)#(jk i cried a lot)#c: xóchitl #s2 #writing #uncle #child death tw #domestic abuse tw

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lesombresdeschoses · 2 years ago

Text

LA TRAQUE

W. Agency. Victoria.

— Il s'adresse a toi, comme toujours ?

— Hm, répond vaguement Law, le regard dans le vide.

L'inspecteur insiste, calmement.

— Je te parle.

— J'ai dit, oui ! lui rétorque-t-elle sur un ton agacé. Il sait tout ce que je fais, même le dentifrice que j'utilise, la marque de café que je bois... j'ai l'impression de vivre avec lui... ça me dégoûte... il se paie ma tête... il...

Elle finit son whisky d'un trait.

L'inspecteur Tyler Mackenzie est un homme très bien bâti et très grand, au visage marqué par la vie, mais plutôt beau. Son caractère taciturne s'y reflète et, de son regard, émane une mélancolie profonde.

Maintenant c'est whisky, café, cigarettes... fini le thé, mais je n'ai pas envie de m'étendre sur le sujet, je pense qu'on a compris... Prise en sandwich entre BlackHole et Tyler, tout pour plaire !

— Ça fait deux semaines ! Deux semaines que les flics savent qu'elle a disparu... Pas de lettre...

— Qui a disparu ?

— Siobhan.

— Qui ?

— L'amie de Liam.

— L'amie de... Tu peux être plus claire s'il te plait ?

— On a eu un client il y a une semaine, son amie a disparu, sans laisser de traces ! C'est son MO , mais manque la lettre ! Et la poste ne peut pas avoir merdé, y'a jamais eu de timbre, donc quelqu’un la dépose, forcément ! Bon sang c'est dingue ! T'as collé des flics en planque pendant des semaines en face de mon agence. Personne ! Pas même un pigeon voyageur ! Il me les envoie par téléportation ?!

Law raisonne à voix haute, Mac se verse du whisky, puis le sirote en attendant qu'elle finisse son monologue.

— Et ce carnet qui n'a rien à foutre dans le cadre !

— Quel carnet ? demande l'inspecteur intrigué.

— Rien. Laisse tomber. Comment BlackHole pourrait-il faire disparaître quelqu'un qui n'existe pas ? Siobhan n'apparaît pas dans le registre des employés de la Bibliothèque, aucun d'entre eux ne connaît son signalement, ni de près, ni de loin !

L'inspecteur la coupe brusquement :

— Attends Law, t'es en train de me dire que tu caches délibérément une pièce à conviction liée à l'enquête ?

— Quelle pièce à conviction ? demande Law, l'air perdu.

— Le carnet.

— Quel carnet ?

— Celui dont tu as parlé, celui qui « n'a rien à foutre dans le cadre » !

— Ça c'est pas ton enquête, aucun rapport, répond Law sèchement sans le regarder replongeant aussitôt dans sa réflexion.

— Siobhan c'est la touriste qui s'incruste dans la scène en plein tournage ! Elle n'a rien à foutre dans le cadre non plus ! Ou alors j'ai loupé un épisode...

Law se tourne soudainement vers Mac, lui arrache son verre des mains pour finir le whisky d'un trait. Elle le pose nerveusement sur la table :

— Mac, j’ai besoin d’être seule.

Vincent Square. A Building.

Les toits de Londres sont faciles d'accès pour l'ex-inspectrice. Ils offrent une vue exceptionnelle sur la ville. Law va souvent s'y réfugier pour se vider l'esprit.

Courir après des chimères le long de la Tamise, en pleine nuit… c’est fini. Flemme.

Assise sur sa terrasse improvisée, l'air sombre, immobile telle une gargouille, mp3 dans les oreilles, une cigarette à la main, son whisky dans l'autre, elle s'évade dans son univers. Soudain son portable se met à vibrer dans sa poche. Elle décroche.

— Law, c'est Mac on l'a repéré sur Wellington.

— Il y a un théâtre et un hôtel par là. Je penche pour le théâtre. Il aime la mise en scène.

L'inspecteur tente de la convaincre de rejoindre son équipe pour « cueillir leur tueur ». Mais Law sait déjà qu'il s'en sortira encore, comme à son habitude. L'insistance de Mac commence à l'irriter.

— Mac, il serait peut-être judicieux de le mettre en mouvement, faut le faire sortir, apprenez à chasser les gars ! Faites comme lui ! Et ne le loupez pas cette fois-ci ! Y'en a marre de laisser cette ordure continuer à se prendre pour Dieu !

L’enquêtrice raccroche, agacée. Elle lève son bras pour jeter son portable, mais se raisonne et finit par le ranger dans sa poche.

Il est temps d’arrêter de glander. Faut retourner à l'agence…

Law s'assoit à son bureau, puis étend ses jambes sur la table. Ren arrive à ce moment dans la pièce. L’enquêtrice se redresse sur sa chaise, puis lui lance, énervée :

— T'étais ou ?

— Pardon ? J’étais avec Liam, pour le questionner d'avantage sur son amie !... qu'est ce qu'il y a ?

— L'inspecteur Mackenzie est en train de tout tenter pour le cueillir, on l'a repéré, annonce l’ex-flic sur un ton dénué de conviction.

— Tu devrais te réjouir...

— J'y crois pas, Ren.

Bien entendu Law avait raison, BlackHole, le tueur en série, qui empêche tout Scotland Yard de dormir, a filé. Encore.

W. Agency. Victoria.

Depuis que Lawrina Mortensen a ouvert son agence sur Londres, elle ne chôme pas : du bizarre, il y en a à la pelle. Parfois, par un étrange miracle, « les méchants » partent en vacances pendant deux à trois mois, mais quand ils reviennent, ils sont remontés à bloc. C'est après une période de ce type que BlackHole, « le tueur en série » s'est entiché de Law, comme pour la sortir de sa torpeur, comme pour lui dire « tu n'as pas le droit de te laisser aller, ma vieille ! ».

Enfin, sans cadavre, « tueur en série »... est-ce vraiment le bon qualificatif ? « Le connard narcissique qui me casse les burnes », lui conviendrait mieux...

Ce petit rituel agaçant dure depuis un moment, déjà. Chaque fois qu'une personne disparaît sans laisser de traces, la veille de la disparition, il lui dépose une lettre rouge avec un texte sans rapport apparent avec la victime. Lawrina s'est souvent posé maintes questions sur ces quelques lignes couchées sur le papier couleur de sang. Sans trouver de réponses. Si elle était encore flic, l'intérêt que BlackHole lui portait aurait un sens. Cependant dans son cas, elle ne voyait pas ce qui pouvait le motiver.

Le surnaturel peut-être ? mais, ce n'est pas une motivation suffisante…

Assise dans le canapé de la pièce à côté de son bureau, Law sirote son whisky, l'agenda rouge ouvert, posé sur la table basse.

« Aller au travail, fonder un foyer, être comme tout le monde, week-end chez papy-mamie en bons gamins bien éduqués... c’est ça la vie ? Autant mourir ! Ce n’est pas ce que j’ai choisi pour moi. Cependant, certaines personnes sont plus fragiles, ont l’esprit plus complexe. Ne peuvent pas faire semblant. Alors elles errent, tels des fantômes sur une terre inconnue, en espérant trouver l'introuvable. Finalement elles se défoncent, à la recherche d'un état différent, fuyant la routine. Elles ont peur de tout, d'avancer, de chercher, même d’essayer... Tant de fois tu as frôlé la mort, elle ne t’effraie pas. Mais la vie, tu sens qu’elle te terrifie. Aujourd’hui, tu ne sais plus où aller, tu ne veux plus sortir, tu veux t'enfermer dans ton monde et partir... Tu as la nausée de vivre ! »

— Bon sang j'ai déjà lu ça, ou bien... ?

Law commence à se questionner sur l'origine de l'agenda rouge.

Qui, « oh, coïncidence », est de la même couleur que ces foutues lettres !

Soudain, une autre pensée interrompt sa réflexion. Elle n'a pas remis les pieds dans son appartement sur Paddington depuis des semaines. Elle n’a qu’à traverser Hyde Park pour rentrer. Mais le temps manque cruellement.

À peine revenue de New York, l'affaire BlackHole lui retombe dessus comme pour lui souhaiter un bon retour sur Londres. Ses bagages sont encore là, elle n'a pas eu un instant pour les ramener à la maison.

Surtout que Félicia doit s'inquiéter !

Soudain, la porte d'entrée s'ouvre, Ren se rue vers le salon :

— Je suis retournée à l’appart de la disparue ! Tu ne vas pas me croire !

Law la regarde avec insistance, l'air de dire « accouche ».

— Il est passé par là.

Le visage de Law s'assombrit, sans laisser Ren terminer, l’enquêtrice se lève :

— On y va.

Sur le trajet Law rumine ses pensées. Les deux affaires n'ont aucun lien, cependant BlackHole semble se servir de la disparition de Siobhan pour l'atteindre. Le serial cultive un attachement obsessionnel pour Law. D'aucun serrait flatté de recueillir l'attention d'une personnalité telle que BlackHole. Intelligent, retors, insaisissable. Cependant, Law estime que toute cette mascarade est une véritable « chienlit ». Selon l'ex-inspectrice de la criminelle de Londres, un tueur en série n'est pas plus intelligent que le quidam lambda. Le meurtre parfait est certes un mythe, mais tuer sans se faire prendre n'est pas si difficile. Se vanter de faire la nique à la police n'est que stupide vanité. Une bonne mémoire et le sens du détail suffisent, ce qui ne fait pas de vous une lumière.

Ces abrutis sont des branleurs chroniques, complexés, faibles d'esprit, qui devraient soigner leur névrose au lieu d'emmerder leur monde, pour attirer l'attention comme un gamin de maternelle. Ils croient que vivre leur nature de tueur c'est s'assumer et devenir libre ? Pauvres petites choses intellectuellement, victimes de leur connerie nombriliste. Trop facile d'avoir pitié de soi, genre j'ai eu un père tortionnaire, une mère absente... D'autres ont un vécu pire et ne sont pas devenus des assassins pour autant. Un tueur en série ce n'est qu'un enfant pourri-gâté qui casse tout autour de lui pour obtenir satisfaction. Une satisfaction instantanée. La facilité. Oh que c'est dur de prendre ses responsabilités face à ses choix ! Ça demande à se retirer les doigts du cul !

10 Gloucester Street.

Dans le noir, Law se dépeche de crocheter la porte de l’appartement. La jeune femme et son associée entrent enfin.

— Il a fermé les volets. Et regarde là... lance Ren, nerveuse, montrant un message au mur, couleur rouge sang.

L’enquêtrice lit : « LOIN DE MOI, TU N'ES RIEN ». Elle goûte l'inscription en passant le doigt dessus:

— Bordel, c'est bien du sang ! s’exclame-t-elle, inquiète et pensive.

— T'es dégueulasse ! lui assène Ren, dégoûtée par son geste.

Law sort de son mutisme pour continuer sa réflexion à haute voix :

— Il nous faudrait l'ADN de toutes les victimes, c'est peut-être à l'une d'elles, ce qui justifierait leur disparition... Il les collectionne... et … non, c'est trop tordu !

— Qu'est-ce qui est tordu ? lui demande Ren intriguée.

— Les lettres qu'il me poste par « hibou magique », il faut les envoyer au labo, faire analyser le pigment du papier. Je te parie mon Beretta que c'est de la bonne vielle hémoglobine mélangée à de l’encre de chine !

Ren ne sait plus quoi répondre. Law pâlit soudainement, elle réalise que seule sa mort pourra la débarrasser de ce pervers, mais elle veut vivre ! Son regard se fige alors sur un détail du meuble, sous l'inscription au mur. L’enquêtrice s'approche. C’est une petite boite de velours noir. Elle la saisit délicatement, l'ouvre et y trouve une bague de Claddagh, enfoncée dans un coussinet de satin blanc. Comme possédée, la jeune femme la passe à son doigt, puis lève la tête vers l'inscription. Law fait tourner l’anneau. Ses lèvres bougent lentement, sans qu'aucun son ne sorte de sa bouche. On peut y lire : « fiancée à la mort ». Elle chuchote :

— Pourquoi ça ne m'étonne pas... Et si... ?

L’ex-flic prend calmement son Beretta en main, le pose doucement contre sa tempe, puis réplique calmement.

— Sans moi tu n'es rien non plus...

Le coup de feu part dans un bruit fracassant. L’enquêtrice s'écroule sur le sol de l'appartement de l'inconnue. Ren se retourne, horrifiée.

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