At the End of the Storm

You're safe. She'd hardly had time to process everything, the lighting swirling around her like water down a drain. The blur in yellow, a man, a monster, had held the knife—and how stupid, in that moment all she had been able to think was that it was a terrible knife and she'd never liked it much—and then he was gone, shoved against her wall by someone else who rushed to her side, reaching out a vibrating hand. She quailed back, still sobbing with fright. Her son, her son and husband. Oh God, Henry, unconscious on the floor too far away to see, to reach and Barry, another of these monsters had taken her baby away, were they going to kill him, too?

You're safe, the man in red said again, smiling, a familiar smile but her mind raced to fast, too panicked to recognize it. He crouched, leaning forward to offer reassurances that fell too quickly from his lips, blurring together. Nora couldn't believe that, much as she wanted to—not with her family maybe dead, not with the Lightning man there, in her home, but she wanted to, she wanted to pretend this was all a nightmare, like the kind Barry got, asleep and safe in his bed upstairs, and she would wake up, and pad in and see him breathing peacefully, his fish in their tank, his little nightlight humming cheerfully in the corner, and-.

Over the pounding of her pulse in her ears, she hears the lightning again, the man in yellow again, and her savior—if he was—is gone. There is nothing but the creature before her, crackling with lightning, his edges fuzzy—or maybe that is only her tears. She holds up an arm, uselessly, and breath won't come enough to beg him not to kill her, not to hurt her husband, her son, please don't—but it comes easily enough to scream when he draws the knife back, and then her world lights up in brilliant wash of pain, the dark room fading as her vision goes white, streaked with that blood-light that sparks and snaps and is gone—gone—following the one who took—who took—she can't breathe, she can't move, like a butterfly pinned to a board. She can almost feel her pulse, fingertip, thigh, throat, heart, heart, heart quieting. Stabbed. Dying. How am I still alive? She has heard enough from Henry she should know how to—what, she would chide herself if she could think of anything besides the pain, fix this? But that thought doesn't come to her, she knows she is lost. Already dead, just not there yet. She can't reach Henry. She can't reach him, where is Barry? Is he safe?

The room's back to dimness, getting darker, greyer, fading.

It's ok, it's ok, you're ok, a voice says, and she rolls her head to seek out that source. She never put much stock in her mother's old stories, about angels carrying away the souls of the dead, but what else could this be? The lightning stains on her retinas fade a bit more with each tiny rabbit-pulse of her heart, more blood sticky and somehow so cold on her breast.

Please. Her lips feel so numb, but she forces the words out. My husband, my son, are they—

They're ok, They're both safe, I promise. There is something about the voice, breaking and broken, that sounds too close, too familiar, but Nora allows herself to sigh, more of a gasp, really, the air catching in her throat like it doesn't want to leave. It's alright, then. If they live, it's alright.

Who are you? She can feel the lightning in him, like in the other two, and it seems to be in her, as well, where his hands hold her shoulders, shaking. It does not hurt, she would have thought that it would hurt, but even the agony at her heart seems to be muted, as if time cannot pass while he is there, looking at her.

I—I'm the Flash, he says, and she shakes her head again, only she can't move it very far, and she is so tired.

I don't understand, the words are caught like her breath, hitching out unevenly as he draws back the mask—she can see clearer now, the man in Red, but not quite. There is no white at his chest, just red and gold, and a pale face. His eyes, nose, the tremor in his lip—he looks just like her father. Is it true, then, those we love becoming angels after death, to protect and guide and carry?

This won't make any sense, but it's me, Mom. It's Barry. Barry, Barry, Barry, her son, they took him, her baby, he's only 11, how can this man –

Barry? She asks, trying to reach up and failing. He nods, something shimmering glitters dancing across his face—tears catching at what remains of light.

Your Barry. He says, soft, reverent, and she manages it this time, her hand so light and cold, touching his cheek. Her Barry. Alive, safe, here. She wants to hold him, she wants to hold him and never let go.

My beautiful boy, she manages to say, wanting to say so much more, because time can't hold forever, and she is dying. There is nothing to stop that. He keeps talking, but it is so hard to hear the words over the sound of his voice.

I got a second chance to come back here and- Tell you that I'm okay. Dad and I are both okay. And we love you, Mom. I love you.

Love you, love you, love you, she tries to repeat it, tries so hard to show that with her eyes, but the pain is back and she can't—she can't—she can't. She won't close her eyes against the pain, not even for strength.

Oh my sweet boy, she uses the pain to form the words, the sobs that are too weak now to wrack her body. Bye-Goodbye. Goodbye, Bar-ry. She fixes her eyes on his face, her Barry, her boy, her son.

She doesn't want to die but she will, she is, here in the dim lit living room. No one ever has a choice in that, but she clings to the fact—the hope, perhaps it is only a dying woman's last thoughts, something conjured up as the darkness gets darker, still scored by flickers of lightning she cannot track, that he is here, that everything will be alright in the end. It has to be. It has to be. That comfort seems to lodge where the knife wound is, taking over for her pulse as it fades away into the darkness. No. Not some hallucination brought by pain and death. He is here, with her, and she is not alone in the dark.

Dammit Hedgi season has begun. Hope you liked it.