Darkling

Chapter One: A murderer's stare

Content/trigger warnings: Death, Violence, Child abuse, Suicidal ideation, PTSD, Emotional abuse, Trauma, Murder

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Part One – Revealed

"A past shadowed by crimes will take revenge on future times."

Chapter One: A murderer's stare

Satara Cunningham ran home from school, feet heavy, thoughts a colourful mess, and knew she was in big trouble.

The flight had been booked months ago. Everyone else would have arrived already. Today was the one day she couldn't afford to be late and the first day she had ever deliberately deviated from her daily schedule. Mum was going to be upset with her in front of everyone.

Maybe they'll leave me behind, she thought. Her insides writhed.

Her footsteps tapped against the evening air like the ticking of a clock in an empty room. Past the gelato shop that always played upbeat pop music. The kind her favourite cousin, Janie, hated. Past the disembowelled-looking lamp post that hadn't worked for a long as she could remember, walking far away from the wires that spilled from its base. She turned into a dark alley, the shortcut to her house, and her hair stood on end as though ice water had flooded the basement of her skin. An odd buzzing briefly filled her ears until they popped. She shook her head as she ran to dislodge the strange sensation.

And almost tripped over someone lying on the ground.

"Uncle Joe?" She righted herself before leaning over her mum's brother. Her fingertips caught on the shoulder of his well-worn, woollen coat. Had he been heading for his car? It was, oddly enough, the only one in sight. Had he fallen asleep waiting for her outside? She wasn't that late, was she? "What are you-?"

A fist of copper and iron slammed into her face, rushing up her nose. She jolted backwards, pressing her sleeve over her mouth and nostrils. As her eyes adjusted to the limited light, a red lake appeared beneath her uncle's body, congealed as it flowed down the small slope towards her home. Footprints trailed from its distal end, distorted, almost animal-like in appearance, marking a path down to her house.

Where someone else with long hair was slung over the low gate.

"M-Mum?" Her calves were heavier than before. Each step rattled her nerves like the clamour of a giant gong. Drowning out the evidence before her eyes and the moonlit tornado of images passing behind them, both as viciously surreal as the other.

Danger and fear. A suffocating cloud of smoke pressed over her eyes. Binding her limbs. Running through her veins and leaving a gut wrenching drowsiness in its wake.

The pointed top of the gate picket disappeared into Aunt Stephie's large stomach, her painted blue nails nearly touching the ground next to several dark red puddles. The same liquid glistened on the whitewashed wood, spattered across the red and blue balloons tied to the fence and backdoor with metallic black streamers. Maybe it's not what I think it is. Satara faltered by the open gate. Uncle Dave was slumped against the backdoor, arm outstretched as if he'd fallen asleep in the middle of turning the doorknob. The frame of his glasses were too close to his eyes, embraced by puffy pink skin, the lenses shattered to opaqueness. They – They were probably drinking and – and they probably got into a fight. They're drunk so I should get Dad to – to bring them inside.

A gritty crimson handprint wound around the handle, inviting her inside with all the warmth of an inconvenienced host. The pigeons that usually cooed from the the roof were silent and in the limited light she couldn't be sure if any of them were there. Brand new coins filled her throat ...