Nightchild

Prologue

 New Year's Eve, 1989     

Dallas Auditorium

 The earth was gray and still.  A low fog hung only inches above, caressing it like a soft patchwork quilt. A light mist whispered against the windowpane.  Nate considered it odd all the years he'd been unable to see beauty in the various forms of weather as he did at this moment.  Unlatching the window, he opened it wide, allowing the warm moist air to flow into his second story dressing room.  Resting his hands on the windowsill, he took long deep breaths, letting the clean heavy air fill his lungs and the gentle breeze that had just begun to blow wash over him.

It was strange that this room in the same auditorium where he would perform tonight should be his sanctuary, his haven.  Surely, no one would think to look for him there, not for a while anyway.  When he'd arrived at dawn, he had wanted nothing more than a place to rest where he wouldn't be looked for by friends or recognized by well-meaning fans.

 Nate had no idea of the time, only that it moved so slowly and sleep eluded him again as it had for days.  He wondered if he would ever be able to close his eyes in slumber and not be haunted by memories as he was now.

Nearby, a bolt of lightning shot across the sky, cutting into his thoughts followed closely by the low rumble of thunder, threatening...no, promising--rain.  The sky gradually grew dark as black clouds rolled in, bringing with them wind flurries that precede the first scattering of raindrops.  He felt something familiar stir within, the brief calm he'd felt moments before replaced by long forgotten sensations.

 He stayed at the window, content to watch the encroaching storm draw near.  With each flash, each thunderclap, each gust of wind that brushed against his skin and tousled his hair, he became more aware of the electricity coursing through the air and through his veins.  The thoughts of the past he'd  so carefully and deliberately repressed began to surface, and he no longer had the strength or desire to fight the flood of memories he would inevitably have to face.

 The feelings he had now were not unlike those he'd had as a boy, the boy he'd been long before anyone had given a damn who Nathan Stevens was.  It had be twenty-seven years since he had allowed himself these feelings, since he had watched a storm with anticipation rather than dread.  Now, he could see what Blythe saw, feel what she felt, and with that thought came a heavy pull on his heart and a constricting of his throat.  The words she'd written him when she thought he no longer cared, flashed through his mind.

Someday, far into the future, when I'm completely forgotten, you'll see a flash of lightning and a tingle will crawl up your spine--or the sound of thunder will nudge your subconscious and remind you of laughter--or perhaps, it will simply be the sad, soft kiss of a rain drop on the windowpane or even against your skin that makes you stop, and you'll wonder why--then suddenly, your mind will fill with me and again, you'll wonder--not why, but what if-- and perhaps you'll even feel the slightest twinge of regret.  But then again, you may not.

 How could she have imagined she'd ever be forgotten or that he wouldn't live every day of his life with regrets?  Oh, God, the regrets!  But he couldn't deal with that now--not just yet.  Now he must take one thing at a time. He must put his life in perspective.  To bury the ghosts, he must first face them--one at a time--from the beginning.