Allie's War Episodes 1-4(83)

Then I remembered.
Grief came without warning, with a depth and intensity I had no way to evade. Days had gone by and it wouldn’t let up...wouldn’t let me forget for more than seconds at a time. Everything amplified, got harder to control. Revik told me that was normal too, part of ‘the awakening’ around me being a seer...and I fought a near-violent reaction towards him and all of the seers as I replayed his words like a dead-sounding record.
He’d been the bearer of a lot of bad news lately.
...found her in her house. She’d been dead several hours, Allie. Most of her blood was gone...
Behind me, his arm tightened around me lengthwise. His fingers wrapped around my shoulder, drawing my back snugly against his chest.
His voice had been soft as he translated for the infiltration team in San Francisco, not leaving anything out, not embellishing.
As he spoke, I’d seen and heard what they found as they picked their way through Mom’s house like shadows among the SFPD. Images accompanied his words...my mother’s eyes staring up from where she lay by the television below a section of wall painted in her blood. A child’s hand print stood out, small and innocuous-looking, like the outline of a Thanksgiving turkey painting made in kindergarten. Someone had eaten a sandwich and left the crusts on Jon’s old Transformers plate on the low coffee table beside the body, along with a half-full glass of milk. The bedroom showed signs of a struggle, sheets half on the floor, a lamp broken.
The cops took pictures of a dark stain on the carpet by the lamp.
They took pictures of another rust-colored hand print on the refrigerator door, that one larger. They photographed the body from every possible angle, then zipped it up in a bag, like the garbage Mom always forgot to put on the curb.
I felt the weight of guilt on Revik as he relayed details ruthlessly...but I didn’t blame him.
My mom’s safety couldn’t possibly have been his priority. It should have been mine.
The news media agreed. Within an hour, the feeds began accusing me of matricide, saying I’d allied with seer terrorists against homo sapiens, arguing on talk platforms about whether other seers brainwashed me or if I masterminded the whole thing. The police claimed to have DNA proof that I’d done the actual killing, as well as evidence that a male seer, possibly more than one, had ejaculated in my mother’s bed while Mom lay dying.
That last part, Revik said, was deliberately crafted to incite public outrage.
It didn’t make it any easier to hear.
We sat on the couch in the small ship’s cabin for hours that first night. He led me there before he told me anything.
Sitting me down, he peeled the prosthetics off my face carefully, throwing them one by one into a small trashcan while I watched. He indicated for me to remove the contact lenses. Once I had, he threw those away as well.
He pulled me to him then, holding me against his chest as if to contain something that might otherwise explode outward, coating the cabin walls with their seashell wallpaper and bland paintings. After he’d gotten the initial reports back from Chandre—the small, muscular, female seer with long black braids and frightening-looking reddish eyes who commanded the shipboard guard—I still hadn’t been able to cry. I had no idea if he drugged me, or used his light to get my vigil to finally end. But eventually I fell asleep.
That had been days ago.
The cruise ship docked at least once during that time, letting human tourists off for shore excursions and kayaking, trips to see wooden totem poles carved as eagles and bear spirits, and authentic salmon bakes with real Native Americans.
Revik parked me in front of a media player with a remote, the room service menu, and a list of pay-per-view channels. I’d flipped through listlessly before settling on a bland comedy with a talking dog and two teenagers who were lost...somewhere.
Now, it was dark outside again.
I heard the sound of water being pushed out of the way by the ship’s prow, churning an inexorable wake. The glass door to the balcony stood propped open, a single orange bulb glowing over its frame, illuminating spray-filled wind.
Revik disliked enclosed spaces, I’d learned, especially while he slept. Air always had to be flowing from somewhere, no matter how cold. He’d sat with me again that night, once he got back from one of his wanders outside the cabin.
After what felt like hours where we curled up together on the couch, he got up, stretched, and left me sitting alone on one end like a posable doll. He went through cabinets, searching drawers and in-built closets along the curved walls and even in the bathroom.
I had no idea what he was looking for, until he emerged with a bottle of vodka and a gun.
I’d laughed aloud.