Page 37 of Fragile Beings

Page List


Font:  

The sunriseover the Sierras woke her from a fitful sleep.

Paloma came to wakefulness slowly. The warmth of her bed, the soft rasp of her breathing, and the golden light filtering through her eyelids were familiar morning visitors. She’d woken up the same way nearly her entire life — always the first one up, since her father tended to work late into the night. Never one to need an alarm clock, she woke at first light, her mind already abuzz with the list of things that needed to be done that day.

That list started with feeding herself and her small flock of chickens before it shifted to tasks revolving solely around her research. Paloma’s days followed a ritual of routine that soothed her overactive mind. Her weeks blended together, broken up only by her regular trips to town for groceries and a stop at The Shack.

This morning felt no different than any other since her father’s passing: quiet, drowsy, and lonely.

Paloma rubbed her cheek against the smooth fabric of her pillowcase, her mind already churning with all the tasks she’d have to complete by the end of the day, a stream of data spilling across the back of her mind to supply her with an endless to-do list. Get up, feed the chickens, make coffee, check the readings on radar 5, submit data from last week to PWS, replace the cooling coil in sonic transmitter 12, make sure the generator isn’t malfunctioning again, maybe eat something if I have time, see if the dragon is still within range—

Paloma bolted upright.

Suddenly wide awake, she threw off her covers to scramble onto her knees. Curling her fingers around the edge of her headboard, she nearly pressed her nose against the cold glass of her window, looking for any hint that the previous night wasn’t some stress-related lucid dream. Or worse.

Paloma pushed her mussed hair out of her eyes. The sun was bright, casting a glow of butter yellow and fiery pink across her frosted deck. Beyond the gorge, the sun lit the snow-capped mountains with candy colored flames. It was a gorgeous Sierra sunrise, full of saturated color and the promise of a new day, but its beauty slid right past Paloma.

The dragon’s gone.

Her stomach sank as she scanned what she could see of the deck from her window. She had only been able to make out the vague shape of the dragon’s tail the previous night, but in the light of day, she expected to be able to see much more of the huge creature parked on her deck.

Except there was nothing. Only strange dark shapes on the planks hinted at where the dragon once was — his great body shielding the wood from the glittering film of frost that settled on the other parts of the deck overnight.

Chest seizing, Paloma sank back down onto her haunches and dropped her forehead against the wooden headboard.

Of course she hadn’t dreamed it. There was a dragon there, but now he was gone — probably flying right over the town as she sat there, unknowingly sealing his fate as the mayor called in Patrol to do their bloody work.

“Fuck!” She hurled a pillow across the room. It smacked into her standing mirror, sending the scarves and knit hats of varying colors draped over it flying, only to fall into a pitiful heap on the floor.

Pressing the heels of her hands into her stinging eyes, Paloma tried to breathe through the frustration that threatened to sear her from the inside out. It didn’t matter that she knew there was nothing she could do to prevent it. One couldn’t very well chain a dragon to a post, let alone command it to stay in one place. They were sapient beings with their own iron wills. If the roaming dragon wanted to go, he would.

That didn’t make it any easier to swallow, though.

Pushing at her eyes until she saw spots, Paloma tried to work through the anti-anxiety mantra her therapist gave her after the death of her father.

“This is beyond your control,” she breathed, voice raspy with sleep and emotion. “You did everything you could. This is beyond your control. You did everything you could. This is beyond your fucking control, Polly.”

No matter how many times she said it, no matter how often she used her childhood nickname to anchor herself, she still felt the band of guilt tightening around her throat, squeezing the air out of her. The dragon was going to die and it was her fault.

Paloma sat in the center of her rumpled bed for several long minutes. The fate of the dragon picked at the wound her father’s sudden death left on her heart with a ruthlessness that stunned her. If she’d acted sooner, been smarter, maybe she could have stopped both.

But it was too late.

Shoulders slumped, she forced herself to crawl out of bed. Her misery was acute, but what could she do about it? Nothing. Life went on, relentless and unfair; so too did she.

The chickens would be eager to get out and pick at the frosted grass around the front of the house, and of course, there was work to be done. No matter what, there was always work to be done.

Shrugging on a thick robe, she didn’t bother tying it closed as she shuffled out of her bedroom and towards the front door. She scrubbed at her tired, stinging eyes. The weight of bitter grief pressed on her until it felt like every step took extra effort.

Eventually she made it to the door. Shoving her socked feet into her old rubber work boots, she barely even grimaced as she pulled the front door open and was greeted by a blast of cold morning air. Her robe and pajamas were no match for the weather, but that was fine. Once she let the chickens out, she would retreat back into the house to lick her wounds over a cup of hot coffee and a screen of data.

The gravel lining the path to the chicken coop crunched under the soles of her boots. Ducking her head against the icy breeze, Paloma didn’t pay any attention to the familiar surroundings of her front yard as she made a beeline for the coop, half-hidden by the side of the house.

She was so lost in thought, her insides tangled up with frustration and grief and that persistent ache of loneliness, that she nearly squashed one of her beloved hens under her boot.

Paloma staggered backward and slipped in the loose gravel as she tried to step over the chicken, who absolutely should have still been in her nesting box. Tinker, a puffy black ball of sass and vinegar, squawked indignantly as she narrowly avoided Paloma’s stomping gait.

“Gods! What in the world…” Clutching a fistful of her sleep shirt, Paloma tried to calm her racing heart. Her eyes flicked left and right to take in the sight of not just Tinker waltzing around the yard, but her other hens out and about, happily pecking at the grass and weeds. She blinked several times in quick succession. Had she forgotten to latch the hutch?

No, that wasn’t possible, she hadn’t made that mistake in years; not since a bobcat got into the hutch and killed three of her girls in one night. Paloma shook her head, aghast, as she rounded the corner. Tinker followed in her wake, pecking at the turned up gravel marking her footsteps. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Paloma muttered, glancing down at the hen. “I can’t believe I put you and the girls at risk like that. I won’t—”


Tags: Abigail Kelly Fantasy