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Van’s never needed an alarm in the morning, not since she got back. The wolves do the job reliably every night.
She wakes with a start, thrashing her thin blankets away before the nightmare fades, vicious eyes and snapping jaws receding into the dawn half-light. Gritting her teeth she closes her eyes and sits crosslegged on the hard wooden floor as her heart gradually slows. The adrenaline drains from her system, leaving her lethargic and numb only minutes after waking. You’d think after so many years she’d be used to it. That it wouldn’t hurt as much.
You’d be wrong.
Finally she stretches out, slowly unfurling herself before standing up from her sleeping mat. Age takes its slow toll, making her steady herself on the post of her bed. She never sleeps in it alone, and hasn’t had a visitor in a long while. At first she’d tried, but just couldn’t get used to the way she sinks into the mattress, no matter how firm. It feels like falling.
It feels like dying.
Padding over to the bathroom she takes an economical shower, washing off the night terror sweat with searing heat. If there is one civilized luxury she does not take for granted it’s the miracle of hot water on demand.
As she towels her hair dry a quick glance in the mirror is enough to assess her situation. She doesn’t use makeup, has no skin care routine, no reason to linger. Still she pauses, raising a fingertip to her cheek. To her proof that once someone had loved her, defended her, mourned her, and rejoiced in her resurrection. She closes her eyes for a moment and listens.
What do you hear?
The wind. My breath. My heart.
Her eyes flutter open again and she takes a deep breath before leaving the bathroom to continue with her day.
---
She opens the store on time, as always, even though nobody is ever waiting. She’s unlikely to get a customer for at least an hour, but she likes the stillness of the morning, enjoys the rituals of setting up shop.
The store is no substitute for her home. She misses the crispness of the winter air on her cheeks, the ceaseless rustle of the trees, the endless mountain peaks in all directions, the constant sound of her family, her pack, living and breathing and sleeping around her. But the rough timber feels familiar and at least this cabin has a television.
She selects a film from her list - But I’m A Cheerleader. A classic, and makes her feel as though surrounded by friends and family. The familiarity of the store comforts her. The confident queerness, surrounded by her new colourful rainbow protection sigils. She’s created quite a cozy nest for herself, reducing her world slowly til it fits inside a sturdy little shop, with a sturdy little apartment in a quiet little street where nothing ever happens.
Sometimes she doesn’t leave it for weeks. Her customers, her friends, come to her so she doesn’t have to find them. They talk about inconsequential, gentle things, the trappings of her youth that she’s gripped so hard to. Because they remind her of better times, of a shared connection, of furtive viewings in the depth of the night, the volume set at 1 and sitting so close to the box - partly to hear and partly to quickly turn it off at the slightest sign of movement. These beautiful people in their beautiful worlds held her close, told her she could have a future, could be loved, made such promises that kept her going through hard days. They preserved her.
Before.
And she preserves them now, nostalgia fueling a compassion for her old friends, long after she outgrew them. Long after she found a new faith. A less acceptable faith.
The shop thrums with music as cheerleaders dance and she brews her morning pot of tea. She gazes at the leaves as they swirl slowly in the water, a peaceful little ritual in her peaceful little nook. Her calloused finger barely feels the pinprick as she squeezes forth a single fat drop of blood, watching calmly as it falls into the pot, adding a little dark swirl of its’ own and mixing with the rich brew. She pours a cup slowly and inhales deep into her lungs before taking a small sip, feeling the strength of the magic surround her, protecting her.
The bell above the front door jingles softly as a customer enters and breaks her out of her light trance. Placing her cup on the counter and absently sucking on her fingertip she takes one last deep breath before her trademark warm smile asserts itself and she faces the day ahead.
---
It is an unremarkable day in an unremarkable month in an unremarkable year. Time drips by lethargically here, the seasons changing at an acheing pace. Mid spring now. She already misses winter’s icy touch, even as she basks in the fresh warmth. It’s a novel feeling and her weary bones prefer the heat, but she knows that by July she’ll feel a different ache and beg the time to move faster, yearning for the snow to return.
Turning the sign to closed she deadbolts the door and retreats to the little connected apartment. Dinner is a meagre affair, a can of soup heated quickly on the stove. She never was much of a cook and by herself can see no point wasting the time.
Nothing ever satisfies anyway. Not the food, not the climate, not the house, not the people. She’s lost her home, lost her family, lost her purpose. It’s been long enough that she understands it’s going to haunt her forever.
She’s resigned.
She settles into her firm couch, covered in thick fur blankets despite the warm air, and channel surfs.
Sometimes she’ll watch a comfortable movie she’s seen a hundred times. On really masochistic nights she’ll watch her one of her true favourites - a carefully curated collection of films she keeps hidden even as she lives alone. Lonesome films, isolated films, drenched in blood and screams.
But this is not one of those nights. Tonight is calm, and quiet, and dark.
---
She grows tired early, as she always does. She rarely stays up long after the sun goes down, a deep habit gouged into her brain. She turns off the television and the apartment fills with deep shadow, punctuated by the moonlight streaming in through open curtains. She prepares for bed. Washes her face. Brushes her teeth. Takes a pill to make sure she stays down until the wolves inevitably chase her back up.
Finally she crosses to the end of her apartment, and unlocks the closet door. She strikes a match and lights a large, half-melted candle, providing just enough light to illuminate the sigil on the wall. She gazes at it for a moment, her mind going blank, before reaching out to touch it. Closing her eyes she traces the circle, the lines, the hook, gouged deep into the wood, as familiar as any part of her own body.
What do you feel?
Calm. Peace.
She caresses the carving almost intimately for a moment longer before splaying her whole hand over the top of it and resting for another minute. Finally she takes a long slow breath, exhaling her lingering stress before opening her eyes.
She’ll be safe tonight. The wolves will come, as they always do, but they will not catch her, will not drag her down. They will not win their battle.
Not tonight.