A Bloom of Darkness

My deepest appreciations go to HasdrubalClitomachus.

Thank you for being an amazing beta reader, editor, and incorrigible encourager of my scribbles.

TW: Animal Death (arthropod, a dear pet/companion)

I've always had a thing for the Wolf.

My therapist told me it was because I wanted to heal someone who was as broken as I was. That wasn't the only thing he was wrong about, but it is the one that amuses me the most. I never wanted to heal the wolf. The very notion demonstrates a misunderstanding of the wolf's appeal.

There was never anything to heal, for him or me.

Such a nice girl, but a bit odd. That was me growing up. Not that I had much say in it. My mother was sick more often in my memories than not. My high school years were filled with fly by studying and picking up whatever shifts I could manage when I wasn't cleaning her up. I know I sound heartless. I guess I kind of am, after all.

The most vivid memory I have of my mother is of her devastating me at seventeen. I have a brother a couple years my junior, Lucas. One day, with my brother next to me, I asked her why she'd name him Lucas after naming me Lucia. She didn't hesitate- no pause, no contemplation. Her answer?

"I wasted it on you. I liked the name and when he came along, well, he was the one I actually wanted. So I gave it to him." Lucas didn't say anything, he just looked away from me. That's how he always dealt with Mom hurting me. Same for Dad, actually. When she aimed for me and hit, she'd leave them alone. I guess that was good enough, reason enough for them to stay out of her way. She had things she wanted to do, and I'd simply gotten in her way with my birth.

Her confession made me hate my name. For the scant few that would care and possibly oblige, I asked them to start calling me Luce instead. I couldn't bear Lucy but drop pronouncing the 'y' and Luce was fine. No one really gave me much guff about it. That's such an impressionable age, and everyone wanted a nickname. Still, I hated how much her opinion, her lack of even a modicum of care, mattered to me. Words do matter. And hers had destroyed me.

My mother passed away my senior year of high school. In retrospect, her cruelty towards me is probably why I ended up marrying someone just like her. Part of me subconsciously hoped that if I could make him truly love me, that maybe in some small way it would prove that there wasn't anything wrong with me. That she was wrong. That I was loveable! But it didn't play out that way. At my best I was never good enough, for either of them. And I did try to give them my best. Some people just can't bloom.

She died in late September. I went back to school in early October. Even in high school I was never one to develop close friendships. It's not that I didn't want them. I did, badly. It was me; I just wasn't wanted. I'm weird- I get too excited about things, I come off as abrasive if I stand up for myself, I enjoy arguing! At least, I used to. Now it's all just loud anger that sends me into a spiral.

Everyone was kind enough, in that no one said a damn thing. Some of the teachers apparently didn't get the memo though. Tsking about me having missed a few weeks of school. It didn't feel like all that much time to me.

When Mr. Jenson tried to tsk at me for having not been around, Rory Vargr lit into him, hard. Hard enough that he got himself kicked out of AP History. He didn't care, as long as they didn't kick him off the wrestling team. Rory's mom had told me that was the only thing he and his dad really had to talk about. As kind as Rory always was to me, he would never sacrifice that. And I would never let him.

I found him running laps after school that day. Even then, a month outside of eighteen, I had a painfully full bosom and wasn't about to try and keep up without donning a fairly heavy duty sports bra. He stopped when he saw me, which I knew he'd hear about later. From his coach and/or the other guys. Not that he gave a shit about that.

"I wanted to say thank you for earlier. You didn't have to." I always liked talking with Rory, but it was difficult for me. He'd stare into my eyes, perpetually holding my gaze. Except I could never match it for long and I'd always look away. It made me feel... strange.

"Jenson's a dick. He had it coming," he smirked as I once again looked away from him.

"Yeah, but you're not. And you shouldn't have. Now you'll have to take an intro history course and—"

"Luce, it's fine! I already have a full ride with a wrestling scholarship. That's all I ever really cared about with that class."

"Rory! I didn't know that! Congratulations!" I quickly hugged him, only realizing a bit too late that he had a fine layer of teenage sweat and musk clinging to him as some of it transferred onto me. After the initial shock I didn't mind. He felt nice. Any contact felt nice.

"I gotta get back to it. Tell me if you need anything or if anyone else gives you a hard time, okay?"

"Sure. And you let me know if you need anything too, okay?"

His father was battling the same kind of cancer that had killed my mother. That sort of thing creates a morbid type of camaraderie. He nodded as he ran off, joining a few of his teammates. They slapped at each other for a moment before dropping it. It was a well-known fact that Rory had a thing for large breasted girls. But I was weird, which was also a very well-known fact. He wasn't a conscientious kid, which meant he was a popular kid. Our school never really had those rigid, stereotypical cliques, but there were groups. And we didn't run in the same group.

Rory Vargr's father passed away the summer after graduation. His death was a much bigger deal to the whole town. Dr. Vargr ran a fairly successful biotech company that was globally recognized for its multitudes of breakthrough innovations. It was an ancient, family business. Rumor had it that our town grew up around an old Vargr apothecary. A family of unbelievably adept healers.

Not that Rory wanted to have anything to do with any of that. He wasn't exactly a good kid. At least, not a well-behaved one. Notorious troublemaker, bright red hair, tall, bit of a jock, funny, kinda mean to most people. Never to me though.

I wasn't sure how he'd take seeing me at the funeral, but his mom had always been so kind to me, and I wanted to see her. She was holding it together pretty well. Like with my mother, this hadn't been a surprise. And death was no stranger to their family. Rory couldn't stand how well she was taking it though. Or how she kept staring at his hair. Every time he'd catch her looking he'd stare daggers at her. It was a little curious, but so is death and life and love.

His eyes were full of pain and fury and I'm not really sure what came over me. I hugged him and felt him snarling, howling, desperate to get away. When I pulled back, afraid that it was me he was trying to escape from, I could plainly see a plea for help written on his face. A quick glance around before I grabbed his hand, pulling him to the back of the funeral home and outside. I had parked a block away and we walked, wordlessly, the tension eating away at me.

Moving as stealthily as only two teenagers running away from a funeral can, we climbed into the back of my Pontiac Aztek with its tinted windows. I'd turned the car on and the A/C all the way up given the temperature. If anyone were to see him in my passenger seat, it'd either be all over town or they'd feel compelled to stop and ask him if he was okay. Right now he wasn't and wanted to be left alone. This way we had our privacy, weird kid, bad kid, troubled kids, whatever we were.

Drawing my legs up under myself, I kept tugging at the lacy hem of my black funeral dress, trying hopelessly to cover my knees. His legs were spread out wide as he distractedly took the space he needed. He was tall enough, but even being in a bigger vehicle wasn't cutting it. The thought to say 'sorry for the lack of space' arose, but he always got bristly when I would apologize. My fingers kept fidgeting with the hem instead. Until he noticed and stopped their movements, gently laying his hand over mine. We were quiet for a time, both just looking at our interlaced fingers.

"How do you deal with it, Luce? The hurt. My chest aches and I want it to stop," he pleaded, as if I'd have an answer that could help him in any way.

"I... I don't know. I'm sorry. I was, am, sad of course. But my chest never hurt like that." He looked at me wretchedly, but it was different than even a minute ago. I didn't want this to be about me, for a plethora of reasons. "Everyone deals with their guilt differently and on their own timeline, right? The nicest thing I heard was 'may your grieving process be as thorough as it can be,' and even now, what? Ten months later, yeah, it's still hard."

"Luce, you said guilt."

"What? No, I...." Fuck. Did I?

"You have nothing to feel guilty about. My mom's been your doctor since you were six. You think she doesn't know how your mom treated you? That I don't know?"

Red-hot tears started to swell, threatening to fall. I wanted to tear him a new one. How could he say that to me? How could his mom have known anything?! I'd never said a damn word! (I hadn't dared.) A swirling heat and an oppressive dizziness began rising in my head. I thought about kicking him out of my car, but he looked so lost, so confused. Shaking my head I moved to leave. Walking it off might help, if nothing else it'd give him some time to himself. That's what he seemed to need anyway.

Grabbing me around the waist, he pulled me back against his chest. "Rory, just let me go. You have your own stuff to deal with right now."

"What if this is what I want right now?" he asked as he held me tighter.

"I...." I could never tell him no. I never wanted to. Resigning and relaxing my tensed body, we scooted back into a more comfortable recline. His arms still held me to him, his legs on either side of mine. At one point I felt his tears running through my hair and dripping down onto my shoulder. I nuzzled my head back against him, eliciting a tighter hold around my waist.

When he sniffled his nose I quickly hopped up. Well, as best I could anyway. He grumbled, not wanting to let go of his comfort. "I have tissues!" I retorted, defending my movement as I leaned and stretched over the second row of seats, straining for the box I kept behind the front passenger seat. Handing it to him I noticed his eyes were uncharacteristically falling anywhere but on me. It took me a hot minute to realize my bawdy mistake. Having likely just flashed him my bum, I wasn't sure if his reddened cheeks and ears were from his tears or my ass or both. Regardless, I was mortified.

Ignoring it, like I did anything that made me uncomfortable, I pressed on. "You'll probably want to keep some tissues in your car. Driving along, listening to whatever or nothing, and another wave of grief will hit. Always at the worst times, by the way. Better to be prepared."

"Good to know," he said as he cleared his throat. An awkward air had settled. I didn't know what to do with it, or what it was, really.

"Maybe we should get back? Your mom is probably—"

"Not yet. Please?"

"Sure, Rory. Whatever you need." I meant it, but he snickered as he pulled me back to him.

"If it's not too much, could I just hold you for a bit? Facing me this time?"

I managed to hold in my own small laugh. Death, loss, grief- it's all really fucking... peculiar. If you've never buried someone you loved dearly you'll think me wretched, but every time I've had to do it, you find little moments, small things, trivial, occasionally inappropriate humor to lighten your soul. But I couldn't stand for him to think I was laughing at him instead of merely thinking of how some would find this situation untoward.

With a half grin I nodded and tried to curl up next to him. Nothing was working to his satisfaction. After a few frustrating minutes he simply moved me onto his lap so I was straddling him as he held me. Sitting elevated on his lap like I was, his head still came about even with mine. Yet before long he managed to cradle his face against my neck, his head on my shoulder, his lips resting on my exposed collar bone.

I didn't want to be feeling my nipples harden while I was wearing my funeral dress, even with it hiked up as it was. I didn't want to be noticing my breaths becoming deeper, longer, my chest rising and falling more prominently against him. I didn't want to squirm reactively, feeling myself tingle as my spread legs rested around his muscular ones, my increasingly wet pussy against him.

He pulled me tighter to him as though he was trying to erase the space between us that already no longer existed. Now I could feel his own heavy breaths as I pulled him in tighter too. Feeling my hold, it was as if he let himself go. Releasing a long, heavy sigh, his body relaxed against me as he nuzzled his face against mine. He'd let his red beard grow out somewhat, as much as he could at eighteen anyway, and I loved how it prickled my skin. Without thinking it through I brought a hand up to caress it. He leaned into my touch, surprising me, halting my tracing fingers.

"Sorry," I mumbled, pulling back slightly.

"Don't be," he implored, searching my eyes for a hint of wherever my mind might be. Poor guy.

"We really should be...." I couldn't finish the thought, because I didn't want to be thinking it.

"Yeah, you're probably right. Any way I can convince you to just take off with me? We'll drive across the country, see the world, never look back?" I think he might have been serious.

"Hmm, not today. But maybe ask again later." I kissed his cheek and quickly moved away, scooting to the back hatch, opening it before I changed my mind or before he could pull me back into him again. I said goodbye without walking him back. He didn't care, but I knew how our town was and he had enough going on. He didn't need people warning him to stay away from the weird witchy goth girl.

I spent my senior year of high school working in the basement kitchens of a nursing home. The building had been a rather notable manor in its heyday. Now people just came here to die. No air conditioning whatsoever in the brick basement and not really room for any fans to speak of either. I worked their third shift, 2pm to 10pm. By the time I'd get in, between the summer heat and the ovens' heat the place was always broiling, triple digits every day. Management didn't care. The job actually paid pretty well, and they'd always been flexible for me when Mom was still alive. I was grateful and had never really been one to complain in the first place.

Besides, I needed the money. In another month I'd be heading down to Georgia for college. Dad was doing okay with the bills, but not much else. Plus there was still Lucas to think about. Asking Dad for any kind of help might end up taking from him, and I wasn't about to do that.

We'd grown apart in the last few years, not that we were ever really close. Something about me having to always take care of Mom. He couldn't stomach the vomit or how frail she'd become. For some reason she seemed to blame me for that, too. It's not like the reason matters. I was a child and none of that was my fault. Understanding why she hated me wouldn't do me any good. I never asked for life, but she sure as shit should not have been the first person to make me wish I didn't have it.

It started on a Friday night, a particularly nasty, humid, sweltering one. You could feel the storm rolling in, almost literally as the air pressed down upon your skin. I got home around 10:30 and hopped right in the shower. Working in an old folks' home isn't glorious, the kitchens are hit or miss whether they're better or worse than the shit you can't even imagine, but a hundred plus degrees for eight hours anywhere can leave you feeling inhuman.

Dad was down at the neighbor's. He practically lived there anymore. That worked for me. They'd been buddies for a good decade before I came along, and I could only hope they were staying out of trouble. If nothing else, he wasn't bringing trouble back here. I wouldn't care if not for Lucas. Who happened to be spending the weekend at his friend's. The house to myself, I didn't mind walking from the bathroom back to my room barely wrapped in a towel. Normally I'd have grabbed my pajamas or at least a robe, but the heat was still terribly oppressive, and I didn't plan on putting any of that on.

A little after 11pm and I was settling in to watch The Wizard of Oz. I loved that movie for what it was, but it was Judy Garland that kept me watching it time and again. That girl had lived through so much shit and still managed to convince the world there really was something on the other side of the rainbow. I mostly just used it as background noise while I worked on something else- knitting, drawing, embroidery. Even when I was reading. I couldn't stand the quiet of the empty house. I was a night owl by nature and as I heard the storm finally arriving under the opening credits, I actually felt something akin to contentment.

Then something whacked my window. Scared the sense out of me. As a young girl I'd read this book all about sasquatch. It had been laid out like an information manual and I somehow managed to convince myself that my window, this window, was the perfect height for him to come in through. I didn't still believe that, not really. But I was alone in the house, naked, with something, a sturdy something by the sounds of it, rapping at my window.

For a moment I was too chicken to look. I'd cracked it open to better hear the storm. I'd also pulled the curtain back, not thinking anything of being naked, living out in the middle of nowhere, with it being the middle of the fucking night, on a Friday!

"Luce, it's me. I'm not looking... anymore. Can you, uh, let me in? It's going to downpour any minute now."

"Rory?!"

Believing that he really wasn't looking, I jumped up and threw on my pajama shorts and t-shirt. I flung open my window and struggled with the screen for a bit just as it started to downpour. He slipped in with a good amount of fresh rain trickling off of him and onto my floor.

"Sorry about that." He frowned at the puddles darkening my carpet.

"What's going on? Are you okay?"

"Oh yeah! I'm fine. I just... I wanted to see you. Is that okay?"

"Um, yeah. That's fine, I guess. I mean, yes, of course that's okay! Let me go grab you a clean towel."

"This is fine." He grabbed the one I'd just been using and swiftly dried his arms, face, and hair before I could protest. His normally very red hair seemed to oddly be a couple shades darker. I chalked it up to the rain. Noticing him, his actions as he dried himself, I suddenly became very aware of not being properly dressed. Most notably the lack of restraint from any kind of bra. Until his voice roused me from my salacious thoughts. "I called the house number a few times, but it kept going to the machine. Do you have a cellphone?"

This was 2006 and I'd only recently gotten one. Still, the question rubbed me the wrong way.

"What would you be calling me for?" Defensively I crossed my arms in front of me, which only seemed to pointedly draw his attention to my breasts all the more. He looked away just as quickly though.

"Look Luce, you can't come to my rescue one day and then just tell me to fuck off the next!" He seemed genuinely hurt. As for me- taken aback would be an understatement. I'd only helped him not blow up on his mom when he was already at his wit's end. I certainly didn't rescue him. "It's fine. Once the storm dies down a bit I'll go. Okay?"

"Or you could answer my question," I shot back in that snide tone inherent in most people my age. He glared at me, not playfully. Not at first.