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CHILDREN USED TO cry when they were in pain. Whether it was a scraped knee or an argument with a friend - there was no shortage of trembling lips and snotty noses.
The children of the apocalypse, however, did not cry. They stiffened up and went deadly silent, allowing the world's darkness to engulf the flame that was their innocence and reduce it to nothing more than mere embers.
Brodie Grimes sat cross-legged in the grass, eyes widened, blood pooling from the welt on her swollen lip. She wasn't crying or recoiling with fear, she was just. . . quiet.
Across from her, concealed by the overcast of an overgrown oak tree was Tariq whose trembling, bloodstained hands held a mask made of skin. Occasionally, he shivered beneath the cold air of fall - a consequence of parting with his jacket to cover the bludgeoned face of the perfectly still body beside him.
Between the father and daughter, serving as a blockade, were the splintered remnants of Tariq's cane. Blunt force had broken it into three separate pieces and rendered it irreparable. Even superglue had its limits.
Tariq couldn't move, no matter how much he wanted to. His legs had taken several blows that would make walking with a cane a struggle let alone being completely without aid. So, he sat, chocolate-coloured irises focused on Brodie - the cynosure of his attention.
She'd seen death before but never like this. The ones she'd, through no fault of her parents, had witnessed were quick. They happened and she was ushered away before damage could be done. This time, there was nobody to rush her away. Tariq physically couldn't do a thing, protecting her - it well and truly knocked the wind out of him.
He let the peculiar mask fall into his lap and instead reached for the green tennis shirt covering his torso. He curled his calloused fingers around it and tore a considerably large chunk of fabric off. "Brodie, come 'ere. Gotta put some pressure on that wound."
Brodie complied without complaint. She crawled through the sharp blades of glass and settled down in front of him.
Tariq pushed the fabric against her tumefied lip, wiping it from side to side to catch the crimson rivulets that threatened to drip down onto her jacket. He watched her face for any inkling of the pain she was feeling but there was nothing. Just pinched brows that could've been there for a thousand other things.
"Was that how he did it?" Brodie asked, finally breaking the tense silence. With her head, she gestured to the body obscured by Tariq's navy padded jacket. "Like that. . . But laughing?"
