Flowers Don't Face The Sun

 She wandered the streets, listening closely for a song forged from bloodshed. Her horse that Constance had named Thunder wore a black leather saddle and matching barding, mostly to cover his scars. Now that he had been fully resurrected he moved with more dexterity, more spirit. He showed a devotion to Minta that rivaled that of the others.

 She took a dirt road, leaving the noise of the city. The full moon stood before her, glowing brightly within the frame the trees created.

 Before long she heard music that caused her bones to grind and her jaw to lock. Like nails on a chalkboard it sanded down her bones. Thunder halted. She climbed off the horse and pointed to the trees for him to hide. 

 She wore a black leather dress that fell to her knees and a long black cloak. The hood shielded most of her face. She ventured forth toward the sound. When she came to a wide iron fence she gained a clear view of the orphanage that stood five stories high. She stopped and stared at the brick building. An oval balcony hung over the front of the building on the fifth story. Leaning against the fence was a figure in a white satin gown. Her long white hair floated in the sky, its tendrils reaching out for the stars.

 Minta closed her eyes and focused on the sound. She knew it was the woman on the balcony that called to her. She watched the woman's life more closely than she had before but still kept her distance as best she could.

 Minta watched the woman dance before hundreds of people, twirling and spinning, her movements out of her hands, willed only by the music. She lost herself each time until she was forced to turn her back on the roaring crowd.

 Vivian's mother passed away when she was young. Her dying wish was for Vivian to run the orphanage in her place instead of tempting onlookers. Denying a last wish would have caused Vivian to be disowned, and so she took over the orphanage. She hated children, she hated working alone, with teachers only coming by on the weekdays. Most of all she hated that her family still viewed her as a whore. In her fifties she was a virgin but it wasn't sex that made her a whore, it was her former independence. Now shackled to her mother's wishes the taste of freedom she had was taunted endlessly as it decayed on her tongue, rotting her mouth with it.

 On one day under heavy rain Vivian was still reeling due to a dismissive letter from her father. A child knocked on her bedroom door. She told him to leave but he knocked again.

 And again.

 And again.

 And again, hard enough to shake the door and force Vivian's blood to boil.

 Endlessly until rage raised from her stomach and up her throat and she swung the door open and screamed at the child. The boy yelled back that he was hungry and she slapped him for raising his voice. He hit her back. The lack of disobedience she felt she was owed lit a fire in her face, turning her red and forcing her veins to bulge in her forehead and neck. The boy's eyes widened and his lips parted. He took a step back. She shoved the boy, for half a second not caring that he stood before a staircase, nor that he hadn't eaten all day, nor that he was frail and hurting. But once that half second passed the blood drained from her face and she ran down the stairs. She fell to her knees before the boy. She moved him onto his back, her heart racing and her fingers shaking. His head was split open. His eyes were closed. His pulse was non existent. He was dead and she had killed him. He was dead. It didn't feel real. She wasn't a killer. She was a dancer, delicate, graceful, beautiful. Within an instant she felt she wasn't home within her skin. Her hands were not her own. Her life was not her own.

 She sat there staring at the body from miles away. Time passed without a name and she found her legs dead and her back stiff. Gathering herself she looked around for witnesses before she carried him into her room and locked the door. She set him down on the glass table. She paced the room, wringing her hands together, her heels clacking against the wooden floor. Eventually she opened the balcony door and stepped outside for air. It was then a thought occured.

 At midnight she carried the boy downstairs and behind the orphanage to the fence. She dug a hole for the boy and laid him inside. She poured milk over his body. She then covered the body with dirt and retrieved an empty flowerbed. Hunched over, her nightgown clinging to her red, stiff, freezing body she dragged the flowerbed to the boy through the rain. Her fingers soon felt thick and stiff. Above her she could hear thunder roar as though the Gods were ordering her to turn herself in, or to lay down beside the child and waste away with him.

 Every night she spoke to the boy and as more children came to lay beside him they began to speak back through her dreams. She apologized obsessively for her lack of self control.

 She began to dance again, the garden her stage and the dead her audience. Some of the children began to dance with her in blissful ignorance. Minta wondered if Vivian could hear her own heart, or if the weeping of her victims was too loud, for it never left her. It simply became the music she danced to.

 Minta climbed over the fence, staying within an inch of the cold, wet iron as she circled around to the back of the orphanage.

 She caught sight of each bed of flowers; tulips, daffodils, mostly roses, all acting as headstones. She focused on the bodies, unable to suppress the shame within her that came from using children to do her bidding, but never the less she drew them out from the ground, the viable ones, at least.

 Five children clad in rags and mud stood before her, their eyes hollow and their flesh rotten. Minta felt her eyes burn.

 "I'm sorry. Justice for you."

 She made them follow her to the building where they boosted her up to the ridge of the lower roof. From there she climbed higher and higher until she reached the ridge cap of the highest roof, from where she could see Vivian. Her calves and hands were skinned, numb and tingling. Hot pain bloomed in her palm and through her fingers when she grabbed the knife strapped to her thigh, just under her dress. The woman turned to her. Minta stood. Bracing herself she walked forward until she could hop onto the balcony and stand before the woman who immediately raised her hands in surrender as she kept her distance from Minta.

 Vivian's forehead was wrinkled but that was all. Her skin was soft from constant maintenance. She was slightly taller than Minta but much, much weaker. They were silent for a moment. Minta got the sense that she was being assessed the same way as she had done to Vivian.

 "You're not here for money," She concluded, her hands lowering as Minta shook her head. Her breathing quickened and she swiped a tear from her face, "Just please don't hurt the children," When Minta simply raised her eyebrow Vivian's face twisted in shame, a silent scream as her sobs suddenly took hold of her, "I know. I know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

 Vivian fell to her knees. Minta watched the woman clutch her chest in a fit of anguish, completely perplexed. She couldn't help but leave her. She walked through Vivian's room and stopped before the vanity. She saw a pack of cigarettes and a coin purse. Taking them and a box of matches she left the bedroom and leaned against the door. She laid one between her lips and lit the match, setting the poison ablaze. She smoked as she stared absently down the stairs. Vivian's room was the only one on the top floor, aside from the bathroom.

 She drew a sky's worth of clouds into her body and held it there as she stared at the rug that covered the blood stain. She watched as the children she had taken from death ascended the stairs. She moved aside, bringing them into the bedroom. She leaned against the doorframe again and labored her cigarette as the wailing grew louder and louder, shifting to screams of horror when Vivian saw the children.

 Minta didn't make them move. She didn't make them speak; any words they had to say to her had no right to come from Minta.

 Startling her the head of a little girl came into view. The child looked up at Minta. To her surprise the child's heart sung, too. It wasn't the same as any other song. It was an innocent tune, but it was manufactured, sung without passion or understanding of the language or purpose of music. Still, it sung, that was what sent chills through Minta.

 "Bed."

 The girl scurried back down the stairs, leaving a pit in Minta's chest. She stubbed her cigarette out on the floor and walked back into the bedroom where she found Vivian laying on the bed. She made the rushed, deep breaths that came after a storm of misery. 

 Wishing for home Minta climbed onto the bed. She drove her hand into Vivian's chest and pulled out the heart, forcing Vivian to deflate. Minta bit off a chunk of the dripping organ, slowly chewing the meat as she stared at the body before her. Blood pooled in the woman's chest, staining her dress a deep red and tarnishing the sheets below her. Taking another bite her eyes drifted to Vivian's mouth that slightly curved upward. It was far to weak to be called a smile but it spoke to the contentment that surrounded her.

 Minta tossed the last of the heart into her mouth and chewed. She wiped off her hands in the blanket, her skin still stained, each crack in her flesh outlined.

 She brought herself down the stairs. A dark cloud followed her. She opened each door until she found a child old enough to be given a task. She knelt before his bed and covered his eyes. She shook him awake. He groaned in annoyance as he woke, his forehead wrinkling when she dropped a handful of coins into his palm.

 "Town. Get guard. Didn't see me. Understand?"

 "Uh, I think."

 "Close eyes. Open when door closed."

 The boy did as he was told. Still watching him she crept out of his room and shut the door behind her. On the balls of her feet she silently raced down the stairs and out the door. Within her mind she called out to Thunder. She climbed over the gate and within a few moments her steed stood before her.

 She climbed onto his back and urged him to move. They raced down the dirt path, taking the long way to avoid the city. The guards wouldn't break their backs avenging the death of a lowly woman who ran an orphanage, but that was no reason to get cocky.

 As she rode her horse her mind stayed fixed on the child. She had looked to have been five years old. Her dark skin and darker eyes were covered in freckles. She was thin. Her hair fell to her feet in black ringlets.

 She hadn't realized a child's heart would make a sound. Granted, she didn't understand fully why any heart sung to her. It wasn't pain; Constance's heart was silent. It left her mouth tasting of rot when she wondered whether it was evil that sung to her. Although, every person had the capacity for evil. Under the king's rule one would die innocent or live corrupted. Perhaps it was murder? But how could a child kill? Why? And surely if she had killed in self defense that wouldn't have tainted her heart.

 Once Minta reached the cave she used her remaining, fleeting energy to enter the shack and approach one of the bodies. She laid her hand on the chest of a beautiful blonde girl. She wasn't much younger than Minta. She had faced the same fate as well. Her head was sewn back onto her neck. Her golden hair fell against flesh like snow. Minta pulled life forth from the girl, filling her heart with soul and forcing it to beat again. 

 The witch awoke with a gasp. She breathed in the taste of death as though it was the sweetest cherry pie. Her eyes met Minta's. Devotion shone bright within the vibrant green.

 "I'm... alive?"

 "Yes."

 The girl sat up. She stared down at her hands, turning them and flexing her fingers. She touched her face. She pinched her cheek, leaving crescents in the snow.

 "I'm alive. I'm really alive."

 "Go into cave. Bed for you. Then, magic to keep place hidden. First recover."

 "Y-yes. Uh, thank you."

 "No thank."

 Minta turned and left. she felt the girl watch her leave. When she returned to her room she saw Constance reading. She looked at Minta from under her brows. With a smile she pulled the blankets aside for her but Minta didn't move.

 "What's wrong?"

 Minta took the book and placed it down, keeping it open as she did. She crawled into bed and wrapped her arms around Constance's neck. She found that her hands were shaking. She could feel her heart pound against Constance's.

 Constance held her hand against Minta's head as she rubbed her back.

 "You hear my heart?"

 After a beat Constance murmured, "No," With hesitant confusion lacing her tone.

 She held Constance closer, wishing she could merge them into one. 

 When she finally fell asleep she found herself standing yet again before the cabin. She opened the door to reveal her mother and brother. She collapsed on the couch.

 "What's wrong, my baby?"

 "Not want to know."

 Minta held out her hands for her brother and took the child into her arms. She cradled him to her chest. The boy stared up at her, his red lips making an oval as a tiny yawn stretched his face.

 "He needs his big sister."

 A tear fell onto his cheek. She bent to press her lips against Jack's forehead.

 "Sorry."

 "It's not your fault."

 "Is."

 "No, baby. You don't know where to look for him, but I do."

 Minta looked up at her mother. She had changed to how she would look now. All that remained were her bones where strips of flesh hung, and those beautiful eyes that warmed Minta's soul.

 "Love you, mama."

 "I love you, baby," She held out her arms to take her baby and Minta obliged, "Now, off to your room. You have a message."

 Minta glided into her room. She sunk to the floor onto flowers that formed a pillow. She stared at her deity. She felt her body relax as though it had never relaxed before. She breathed as though she had never breathed before. Cool air washed over her, breathing life into every inch of her body. Her mind cleared. As fog washed over her so did her understanding. Her heart's song was loud because her crimes were silent. She could one day, through great effort, slay the king, but she could not do so while mitigating her bloodshed.