CHAPTER III

Inside the MPFH, it is almost as busy as my head. Mundanes move left and right, some going up the winding stairs placed in the heart of the bottom floor, some rushing down them to hurry to wherever they’re needed. Sir Wilson, Mr. Turner, and I are hardly noticed as we weave through the moving crowd. My stomach is not punishing me yet, so I take it as a good sign. Though, the world around me feels too real, too sharp, that if I let my mind wander more, it’s sure to cut me without mercy for my lost soul.

Maybe it’s what I deserve, but even people such as myself have the right to be selfish when it comes down to these things.

Sir Wilson stops when we reach a slightly less crowded area that appears to be where the reception offices are. Sure enough, as we pass through the open rooms, I see ladies, young and old, picking up telephones and talking to the other person on the line in soothing voices.

“Over here, Mr. Greyhead,” Sir Wilson beckons to me. Mr. Turner is already through the door the older man opened for him. I go through as well, wincing when I see who’s waiting for us in the otherwise empty office. My stomach twists, as though it’s happy to add some more pain in my already miserable life.

The two, a man and a woman, are bickering in low voices when we enter. The man, who has an amused expression on his face, seems to be the winner of the argument because the woman stops for a moment and regards him with a look of disgust. Sir Wilson clears his throat, gesturing to Mr. Turner and I before leaving us in the room with them.

The man, tall, imposing, with dark chestnut hair and charming green eyes grants me a sly smile. He’s older than me, but by how much, I do not know. I don’t think anyone knows the age of Lord Hawk Moors—though he does have five children, the oldest just approaching forty if I’m correct, so the youngest he could be is sixty, but if he is, he looks nothing of the sort. He looks as young as Mr. Turner, who is staring at him in awe.

The woman beside Lord Moors grants me nothing but a cold look in her eyes. Her blonde hair is flat against her skull, cut so short and curled in such a way that the ends cup her strong, set jaw in a sort of tender way. This woman is nothing of the “tender” sort; my aunt, Lady Loriene Greyhead, even though her husband is six feet underground and has been for a very long time, still dons her surname and has chosen not to remarry most likely for the respect of that name. Her amber eyes, so dark they're almost black, eye me as if trying to see how I’ll react to the two of them. Those same eyes watched with gleeful interest when I broke and absorbed spells over and over again.

I don’t; in fact I don’t move, or breathe.

“My dear, dear Rayburn,” Lord Moors slides to my side, not touching me, but close enough that I can feel his presence there, “What a pleasure to meet you again, though it has been some time since we last met. You’ve grown.” He pauses for a moment, then turns to look at Mr. Turner. “And who might you be?”

Mr. Turner outstretches his hand eagerly, seeming to almost cry from joy when Lord Moors takes it into his own. Aunt Loriene is quiet in all this, and has taken to ignore all of us to glance at her neatly trimmed nails. “Henry Turner, sir, it’s a pleasure to meet you—being on the Board and all. I never thought I’d see the day when we would cross paths, but here we are.”

Lord Moors has his daily expression on his face—amused and slightly charmed—and turns to me after releasing Mr. Turner’s hand. “Well, I’m not at all to be compared with your employer here. As we all know, he scored above and beyond on the Scoring Test.” Lord Moors sighs dramatically, leaning his back against a bare, empty desk. “It was quite disheartening when he chose to move to this position, but the world still spins and the sun still shines.”

“But all that magick is still wasted.” Aunt Loriene mutters this low under her breath, but I’m close enough to hear it and my stomach twists. I see her dark eyes peek up at me. Is she trying to get me to leave with a fuss? Thankfully, I've passed all that nonsense and take no mind to her. “What’s the reason you called us here, Lord Moors?” My voice is flat, stern, and hopefully strong enough to get the no-age man to answer me.

Lord Moors, for once in all of our interactions with each other, gives me a straight, and rather concerning answer, taking a dramatic breath before doing so, of course, “Well, Rayburn, as I’m sure you know, Vice attack only Higher-Ups with an overflow of magickal ability,” he raises a hand to me, “You yourself have been in such circumstances. And even though Vice are not a threat to those without magick, the mundanes are getting wary, as the latest creature attacked in a mundane neighborhood. They don’t know if the Vice are only limited in their thirst for magick and they think, if presented an opportunity, the Vice would attack those in the way of their feeding. In this case, the mundane.

“So, we—the Board—have spoken to some of the mundane officials, such as Lincoln Tate, the chief of the mundane investigation department, and others. Through that, we have agreed to let one of their most trusted individuals of the MPFH to join and aid us in our investigation in this Vice, or new creature, attack. Lady Greyhead seems to be the only one against this choice. She…explained the situation to me, but this really is the only choice to make sure the mundane are pleased.”

He stops, smoothing the wrinkles of his coat before raising his deceptively innocent green eyes to me. “You will behave, won’t you, dear Rayburn?”

This…this cannot be good. My heart races and my stomach twists as I try to think who the officer who has been assigned to us could be. There aren’t many mundane I’ve had a disagreement with, mostly because there aren’t any that I meet with. Most of my time is spent either in my office, my apartment room, or my studio. “I—I suppose so, yes, I don’t see any reason why I would cause a ruckus during a case.”

“And I’ll make sure the peace stays in place,” Mr. Turner chirps in helpfully. A strange urge to snap at him rises in me, but I quench it down before it causes further trouble and prove whatever point my aunt is making.

Lord Moors clasps his hands together and shuffles over to Aunt Loriene. “You see Loriene, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m sure Rayburn here has forgotten all about it.” She just shakes her head and levels me with a stare as Lord Moors goes out from where we came, leaving to go get the officer.

I ignore her, and the warning pain in my stomach, and try to stop this endless buzzing in my head. I need my pills; I need the silence they give me. Only a little while longer.

Mr. Turner is quiet behind me. I turn to see him reading from a notebook, one that I saw him bring out during his chat with Sir Wilson in the alleyway. “Mr. Greyhead.” He says, looking up from his notebook to greet my eyes with a questioning stare. As though he was just trying to make sense of something.

“Yes?” I try to put all my attention on him, but the pain in my stomach continues to grow. The sounds of footsteps approach our room and Lord Moor’s words drift into my head.

_ Lady Greyhead seems to be the only one against this choice. She…explained the situation with me…._

A situation? One my aunt knows? A mundane I would have a problem with?

There is only one mundane, one smiling boy and a meadow, one broken boy and the rain, that would cause me to act as such.

“Ah, this is the room right here.” Lord Moors is right outside the door, his voice slightly muted by the wall as I hear the door knob twist.

My legs feel weak, my knees shaky, and as I back away from the door and steady myself against a desk. My head swims. Some invisible force is causing onslaughts to my stomach, and by now I would be muttering something about pills. But no amount of pills can help me if the officer is who I think it is.

“You did hear about the strange blood color—didn’t you? I just wanted to say— Oh. Oh dear, are you alright, Mr. Greyhead?” The door creaks open, loud and slow, slow, slow. A warm hand is on my shoulder. It’s probably Mr. Turner, but I don’t turn to see. No, my eyes are straight ahead, staring at the man behind Lord Moors as they walk in.

My aunt sighs heavily. “Any wound that wants to close is always picked at by that man.”

Mr. Turner steadies me with his hand. “Mr. Greyhead, can you hear me? Oh my, he is really pale.”

The officer startles at my name and turns to face me. He freezes as I do, the only sign of life his twitching eyes. Light-brown skin accompanied by amber eyes that I watched glow in the sun is what I behold. He’s broader now, taller than he was at the age of eighteen. His freckles have all but disappeared, but the ginger in his curly hair is still present, though his hair is shaved down to his head, so it’s hard to tell if you never knew what it looked like before.

Life loves irony, doesn’t it? And I have no choice but to go along with its games.

Lord Moors, who was studying us the moment our eyes caught onto each other, turns to Aunt Loriene and says loudly in the silent office. “See, nothing’s happening.”

I’m going to punch that man.

The officer seems to have been brought back to reality by those words because he straightens suddenly, eyes Mr. Turner still present at my shoulder, then extends his hand to him. “Officer Burtrom, pleasure to meet you.”

Mr. Turner glances my way. He takes the officer’s hand into his and nods. “Uhm, a pleasure as well. But, if you don’t mind me asking, you and Mr. Greyhead seem to have met before. How did that come to be?”

Without missing a beat, or even registering me and my still presence, he says. “A fire. A meadow. And the rain.”

I know I’m right.

I’m sure of it.

Yet everyone was looking at me strangely, as if I just said something in an alien language.

“What?” I asked, scanning everyone’s face.

“Georgia, Bucky isn’t here anymore.” Perry said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, my eyes narrowing. The hazy light from the oil lamp suspended to the roof made everyone’s faces shadowed. That had to be the reason everyone’s faces looked so grim, didn’t it?

“Bucky isn’t here, Georgia.” Perry repeated.

“I know, he’s out getting supplies. We’ll debrief him on the plan when he gets back.” I said.

“No, Georgia.” Madeline said, grabbing my shoulders. “Bucky’s dead.”

“No. Bucky’s getting supplies.

“Georgia, listen. You saw it with your own eyes.”

“Bucky’s not dead.” My voice demanded. Before anyone could say another word I stormed from the room.

Someone had to have brainwashed them, I couldn’t believe they thought Bucky was dead.

He’s out getting supplies.

Just like he told me.

He has to be.

He is.

I can’t write anything. My creativity stock has gone bone dry and is currently collecting dust. I can’t write anything. And I sigh every other minute. Everything I start isn’t good enough. And sounds cliche. Ugh. I can’t write anything. Wait…

(I’m sorry you had to read this 🤷😂)

Samantha sat by the phone, anxiously waiting for a call that would never come. Her husband, Jack, had been missing for over a week now, and despite the search efforts, there had been no sign of him. She had received a call from the police earlier that day, informing her that they had found a body in the river, but they couldn't confirm if it was Jack's.

Samantha refused to believe that her husband was dead. She knew in her heart that he was still out there somewhere, waiting to be found. She had always been a strong believer in fate, and she couldn't accept that their love story was over.

As she sat there lost in thought, the phone rang. She answered it quickly, hoping it was the news she had been waiting for. But it was only her sister on the other end, asking how she was doing. Samantha tried to keep her voice steady as she told her sister that she was fine, that she was just waiting for Jack to come home.

But her sister could hear the desperation in her voice, and she gently tried to persuade Samantha to accept the possibility that Jack might not be coming back. Samantha refused to listen, insisting that her husband was alive and that she would do whatever it takes to find him.

Days turned into weeks, and Samantha's denial only grew stronger. She refused to attend Jack's memorial service, convinced that he was still out there waiting for her. Her family and friends tried to console her, but she wouldn't listen to their words of comfort.

It wasn't until months later, when the police confirmed that the body they had found was indeed Jack's, that Samantha finally began to accept the truth. She was heartbroken and shattered, but in a way, she felt relieved. She no longer had to live in denial, and she could finally begin to grieve and move on.

As she looked through old photos of her and Jack, tears streaming down her face, she realized that their love story wasn't over. It would live on in her memories, and in the legacy they had created together.

You probably still love me, you just need to take a break, away from being with me, you've had all you can take but you'll come around soon, you almost guaranteed it, you said you loved me then and I still want to believe it but we're drifting far apart now, I'm scared this is the end if you leave we're done forever and I don't want to spend an eternity without you, but I'll be fine, probably or at least I should but I still don't want to believe that you're really gone for good.

Tamar Look things wasn’t all bad we use to be good Seven Are you saying that because you haven’t caught him before baby girl he been doing it he just got sloppy cause he no longer cares I love you and you are worth so much more than a GROWN boy

She’s not dead. She’s just…out. I’ll make her bed For when she decides to come home.

I know I buried her. I know I haven’t showed up to work. But what if she comes back? What is we were all wrong?

It’s not good to imagine her coming back My therapists and family all say. But she always came back before. She can do it again.

My head can’t picture her cold. Her hands were always perfectly warm. I can’t see her 6 feet deep. She liked the sun to much for that.

I still hear her laughs. I still feel her at night. I still want her back. I still can’t believe she’s dead. I still can’t believe I killed her.

As Dale pulled up to the senior center, she could see her husband at his window, dressed and ready for battle.

“He’s been this way all morning,” the staff physician said. “Maybe you can get through to him.”

He had his uniform on, faded and torn over the years. His boots had been hidden away so he was wearing slippers.

“Hello Flash,” she said, hugging him. “What’s the situation?”

“It’s Ming again,” he said.

“Let’s go to your room and work out a plan,” she said.

Dale had lost Flash a few years ago, when his mind started going. With periodic moments of clarity.

“He’s plotting to destroy the Earth and he’ll get away with it.”

Ming had been long dead by this time; Mongo a thriving democratic republic.

She brought him some milk and a donut and they worked out a plan. But he had to promise to take a nap first, to conserve his strength.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Dale,” he said.

The two words that she spoke made me freeze. It was incomprehensible. Impossible. She’s lying, right? She has to be. Because there is no world that I could ever live in where this is the truth.

A crazed laugh escapes me. “No. Stop messing with me. It’s not funny.”

She looks at me with pity, as tears fill her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved-“

“Stop it!” I scream, “Stop lying to me!”

The world around me spins as I sink the my knees, clutching my head with both hands. I can’t fall for her sick joke. Her trick. He’ll be home soon. He’ll be home soon and we’ll laugh about this. He’ll be home soon. He promised.

I feel a pair of hands wrap around me, and I immediately slap them away. I stand up fiercely and ball my hands into fists.

“Don’t touch me! Get out. Get out! Either get out or stop lying to me!” My loosely curled hair falls around my face and sticks to my damp cheeks. When did I start crying?

“Please don’t push me away, I’m here for you, whatever you-“

“NO! STOP! He’ll be home soon and everything will be okay! He promised me! He promised me!”

Giant tears drip down my face and hit the wooden floor. I bring up the heel of my palm to wipe them away when I see her take something out of her pocket. My face pales and I freeze once more.

It can’t be. But it is. He swore he would never take it off until…until the day he died. The gold ring glimmers in the sunlight streaming in through the window, and suddenly, I’m back at the altar.

I’m wearing my gorgeous white gown and long lace veil. And there he is. Standing right in front of me wearing his cocky smile and his black tux. Distantly, I hear a woman’s voice calling my name. I turn to look around, but he catches my chin and turns my face back towards him.

His light blue eyes shine as he says, “I think this is the part where we kiss.”

I smile back at him and wrap my arms around his neck, ignoring the voice calling me. This is where I’m meant to be. With him. I lean in for a kiss and whisper to him.

“I think so too.”

“I can’t believe the bombing took place. I know it seems like everyone else thought that it happened, because they saw it on television or they apparently witnessed it in person. But, people are so gullible and they’ll believe anything they see on television.”