Winston slumbered beside him. His gentle snores soothed Killian, as would the braying of cicadas on a soundless night back before he found himself in the Stronghold. Kill enjoyed to watch the rise and fall of the sheep dog's stomach as he periodically tilted back a small, beat-up flask filled with whiskey. The whiskey was bitter, a concoction that tasted of poor quality, but it was better than anything you'd find outside of the Stronghold. Besides, it numbed him just as well as the "good" stuff his patrons would treat him with on occasion.
There he sat, on an overturned plastic bucket in a dirty, cramped alleyway. Clothesline hung over a gray, overcast sky and the occasional skitter of mice punctuated the rhythmic drip of water. It was that sad, solemn song the Slums crooned, day in and day out, a quiet and tired piece that had surrendered its hope long ago. Killian ran a thumb over the letters carved roughly in the center of that flask- "TM". Was this what he had given up the open and wild expanses of the outer world for? At least there, he was surrounded by signs of life- the chromatic butterflies that flutter over fields of high grass and herds of wild deer bounding through the trees' shadow. Here, it was gray- flat- defeated.
Bored of the flask, he set it down beside him and pulled out from his inner jacket pocket a harmonica. Winston's leg jerked in his sleep and pushed the flask backwards. It fell with a soft clunk and sent its amber contents spilling onto the ground, darkening the dirt beneath it. Killian sighed, bent down to scratch under the dog's floppy ear, and when he exhaled again, he did so into the harmonica. It wailed a slow and sorrowful note, though the tone was not unpleasant to the ear.
The sound hung in the air, on and on, until Killian slid his mouth up the harmonica and produced a higher note. And then the semblance of a song came. It was an old drifter's melody, one his father would hum under his breath, so the Infected would not hear. He and his sister would pick up on the second melody and together they'd finish in one low, melancholic knell. Here, though, the largest threat was a disgruntled neighbor. So the notes carried, down the alleyway, drowning out the skittering of rats and the dripping of water.
A part of her thinks it wrong that she feels Augustine should carry the same guilt as her, yet she couldn't stop it. Augustine was generally good company but there were times when she could not stand him being okay with their situation. As if he was completely forgetting their bloody pasts and assuming themselves more than just monsters in human skin.
Due to their differing points of view, again, they had a row, and this time, instead of locking herself up in the accommodations provided for her by the opera house, she marched outside. At first, she was furious at both herself and Augustine, yet as she continued aimlessly around, her remaining anger was only at herself.
Seryna knew she should be grateful to Augustine for having given her "a new life", and yet, continuously pretending to be "someone" and feeling like it wasn't her true self, got the best of her. More than that, the frustration of not really knowing what she had been like prior to turning into an abomination, piled over her like heavy bricks.
When she finally felt the need to stop, she found herself right outside one of the orphanages in the slums. And before she could gather herself up, children already came bounding to her, squealing in delight at her presence.
Seryna could only muster a somber smile as she did her best to apologize for not having brought gifts, then tried to win them back with sweet nothings like the reason she was there was because she missed them. However, just like any other eager human being, the children couldn't be swayed easily, and thus, she told them she'd sing for them instead. An Old World song, carried by the wind just now.
"I should warn you, it's a little sad." She told the orphans who have now gathered in a circle around her.
"Almost heaven, West Virginia, Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River
Life is old there, older than trees, younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze
Country roads, take me home to the place I belong
West Virginia, mountain mama, take me home, country roads..."
She was just about to begin with her next line when a couple of kids quipped that she sing something else, to which she only laughed and nodded along. As requested, Seryna changed into a happy tune, face comically scrunching as she pulled a few children up to their feet into a structureless dance, jumps and giggles.
"Come my little friends, as we all sing a happy little working song
Merry little voices clear and strong
Come and roll your sleeves up, so to speak, and pitch in
Cleaning crud up in the kitchen
As we sing along
Trill a cheery tune in the tub as we scrub a stubborn mildew stain
Pluck a hairball from the shower drain
To the gay refrain
Of a happy working song" TagKillian McCaffrey
Posted 10-11-2021, 12:07 PMThis post was last modified: 10-11-2021, 12:10 PM by Seryna Constantine
From an alleyway close to the orphanage, Killian continued his somber notes, each thrum of the chord eliciting another campfire memory. He saw the face of Anise, of his father, grizzled and dirt-struck but their eyes coming to life like fireflies before a ballad. And with those memories, a pain that caused tears to well at the corners of his eyes.
He remembered then why he'd stopped playing the harmonica.
So the notes died abruptly, but the music continued. Killian held the harmonica on his lap as he listened. It was a voice that sounded like it could have been far, but carried well over the rusted quarter. Sweetly feminine, melancholic even as the words denoted a happy existence, not unlike the groan of his instrument. He strained his ears, leaned closer towards that voice. The skittering of rats, the dripping of water, Winston's heavy and peaceful snores, they all quieted to the lyrics that denoted what Killian recognized as a drifter ballad.
Suddenly his heart leapt into his throat. He rushed from to upturned bucket to one end of the alley, where the Voice was coming from, and failed to spot a source. He crossed the wider street, towards the music, the autumnal beauty, but still he could not identify a person. It was as if the Voice was disembodied, the singer the breeze, the sky, nature itself, imbued under the scraps and junk of civilization. He looked foolish as he spun around, desperately searching, in the middle of the street, pitiful eyes tracking him as they believed him to be a victim of a drug or mental breakdown. In a way, he was.
His heart sunk deep in his chest, and only then did he lift the harmonica to his lips, half-hidden behind the scraggle of a unkempt beard, and blew out those notes. The first were jarring, initial grasps at the melody of the Voice, but soon fell into a harmony with it, an accompanying rhythm to euphonious lyric.
Posted 10-02-2021, 05:19 PM
This post was last modified: 10-02-2021, 05:19 PM by Killian McCaffrey
the heart's harmony
