She carefully managed where she went, just in case she might not be able to make it back before her body could no longer carry her. Days when she already knew her only sleep would come on the ground. She brought with her enough water and food to sustain her and carefully measured her steps. She didn't know exactly how many she could take, but if she could make enough of a guess, it kept her away from the areas of the field she didn’t dare to sleep in.
Those belonged to the bones that lay there.
The others were scattered across the field. It wasn't like in the movies when bodies are wrestled over by dogs and cast miles away by the animals that carried them off. Nature is far more brutal and far more dismissive than that.
It usually took only minutes for the birds to come.
As soon as the men left and the field fell quiet, their wings darkened the sky. She could hear them. Even from a distance, even if she was hiding away, she knew they were coming. The birds screamed to each other, almost like they were mocking the last moments of the slain who had now already begun the process of being reclaimed by the land.
Because that's what it really was. Crafted up out of dust, molded from clay, returned to the earth.
The men believed that power was in them now. They believed they were the potters, the crafters, the makers of men, and the bringers of light.
For some, those men were as they believed. For the lucky ones, those men created the world. For the others, the men saw only dust.
And the birds did their part. Drawn to the smell, they swarmed the field and tore away at what had once held life. Eyes that no longer saw. Tongues that no longer spoke. Lips that no longer kissed. Noses that no longer breathed. They plunged inside, finding a heart that no longer beat, the inner workings of a being now little more than waste.
When they were done, there were always shreds of clothes and frayed bones. Strips of skin discarded, and bloody clumps of hair strewn among feathers. Sometimes the wild dogs would come next, but not nearly so often. Far more likely, the tattered remains stayed just as they were, at the mercy of the sun and the rain, the wind and the insects.
But in many ways, those were the merciful ones. It was easier not to have to watch the earth take them. She didn't want to see their faces or watch them disappear.
It was the decision she had to make in February. One she hoped she wouldn't regret, even as it made her stomach turn. The birds hadn’t come for the dark-haired woman who screamed in defiance, who refused to give herself up to the hands of the men determined to take her. Lilith had kept the flocks away.
In February, there was still a reason for her to leave the house. There was still enough happening beyond the walls to let her open the door and step outside. Not for long. She didn't have much time. But what she had, she used.
As soon as the men left, she knelt by the woman's side. There was still a short time of beauty left in her. It was just enough to see her nearly as she was before they’d gotten to her. Lilith sat beside her and touched her hair, talking to her as the moon created a cold, pale pool around them.
When the morning came, she couldn't just leave her. There was nothing she could do. Just as there hadn't been as she witnessed the woman’s last moments, there was nothing she could do to fix what had happened. Soon they would come back. This would be her last chance to do anything for a little while.
All she could do was hope that something would change. This woman was beautiful. She was someone. She would be missed.
The men wouldn't notice the chicken wire tented over her or the hay spread like a blanket around her. They never visited. They didn't care.
But maybe someone would. Maybe someone would find her before the corn grew.
Chapter Ten Now
“Alright, you have options,” I tell Dean as we put away the groceries from the store. “There's a guest room down here on this floor, or there's the attic room. I've renovated and redecorated that thing three times this year. It was originally just going to be a sitting room, kind of hang-out place, but I ended up adding a bed last month. It was kind of on a whim. It just felt right. But, either one of them is totally available to you.”
Dean stands in the middle of the kitchen for a long moment, a loaf of bread in his hands, contemplating his options.
“You gonna put that away or eat it all right now?”
“Oh, sorry,” he says. He places it in the pantry and heads to the living room to scoop up his bags. “I think I'll take the attic room.”
“Good choice,” I say.
I still haven't told him what I found in that room or why it was sealed up for so long. Maybe I'll tell him eventually. Maybe I never will. Either way, it feels strangely appropriate for him to choose that room. Just like the new paint and decorations in it, it's as if having him in there will drain any remaining negativity out of it. He's finally taking up the place where he belonged all along.
As Sam continues his work in the kitchen, making trays of chicken wings for the party, I take Dean up to the attic. He gets to the top
