17   on earth we're briefly gorgeous

Summertime has set into the walls of the apartment building in the city; the blossoming of beautifully coloured flowers dotting the streets like discarded stars. The artists have begun moving into the park across the street again—easels perched, tan against green, and paints planted amongst the dandelions. A hushed, melancholic lullaby curves within the bustling streets: the sounds of high heels against pavement making a steady beat, and street performers, guitars in hand and microphones steady in front of them igniting the melody. Even a stray fiddle can be heard from across the park. Sun streaming through the wide open windows of the room, it reflects off the carefully placed trinkets amongst the bright green leaves of Mercy's well taken care of plant collection—bright budding flowers stark against the white walls and wide glass window panes. It's perfect. A painting of colour and soft edges.

The time is 3pm and the summer afternoon heat creeps up the walls, settling into the spine of the walls, and causing the dull pain of a headache to come to rest in Mercy's temples. With firm fingers, she rubs her face in an effort to ease the ache, sighing and shaking out her hair from its braids when the attempt fails. The aspirin sits on a white shelf in the other room. Her fingers twitch.

Pulling herself together, Mercy sluggishly moves from the couch and into the bathroom, letting two tablets slide into the palm of her hand. A small sip of water and she lets it linger, the tablets dissolving on the tip of her tongue. She feels them slide down her throat and begin the patient waiting for the pain to subside. It's going to take a while. Mercy wrenches open the door to the balcony, leaning against the metal railing and pulling a crumpled packet of Marlboros from the pocket of her overalls.

Mercy doesn't remember when the fading cherry-red end of a cigarette became a norm in her life; another part of her regimented routine that demanded its place within the space of her day. Staring at the stick of nicotine carefully perched between two fingers, she thoughtfully thumbs the end of the cigarette and bites her lip. As she breathes out, it feels like the clouds pool from her red-bitten lips in wisps—the air open and strong. Mercy looks down at the unlit cigarette. It's not her only vice; she bleeds from the scars of teenage exploitation. The orange flickering of a lighter amongst the dark of the landscape, red brick sprayed white as their knees crack with their inhibitions, and the reverb of skate wheels vibrating the trucks of their boards as they soar freely through the naked, midnight streets.

Mercy pats her pockets, seeking a lighter but can't locate one. There's no image of the person who handed her the first stick of Marlboro to ever rest between her lips—only that they were a girl made of discarded constellations and chestnut hair inked with the white spray paint she always carried in her left hand. It's a stick of memories that she's never been able to let go of. Mercy waves a hand, a lighter pressed into the skin of her palm. She lights her cigarette.

          "Your usefulness has just increased exponentially." Mercy says. She threads her fingers through the metal bars. Hugging an arm around her knee, her other leg hangs from the balcony. "Will I ever learn your name?"

          "Mercy." Illusion traces a ghostly finger down the spine of Mercy's history textbook before moving to Mercy's phone, prodding at the un-cracked screen and smirking as the glass moves beneath their hand. "You know that's not how this works."

Auburn hair glinting underneath the summer sun, Mercy turns her head towards them. "If you're going to be here, you need a name."

Illusion hums in disapproval.

          "Berlin," Mercy's eyes catch her textbook, reading off the name. "I'll call you that, if you will give me nothing else."

They remain silent.

Mercy takes another drag. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Berlin."

Berlin bares their teeth, and Mercy smiles.

Berlin isn't there when Mercy wakes up, clutching the locket resting on her sternum with a hot hand. It's choking, a heavy weight. She doesn't take it off. Mercy is warm, settled into the softness of her new mattress, cradled by the hands of her new home. Monmouth Manufacturing has made room for her in the past few days since she found her mother scratched to pieces on the kitchen floor, the King girl's hands doused in her blood as she stumbled onto the building's doorstep. Siken Lane is locked—the unbudging door safely closed, hiding the faded kitchen and red-stain on its floor. A suitcase of clothes and Mercy's duffle bag sit at the foot of her mattress. The duffle bag consists of books, knick-knacks and the several pairs of spare headphones that she used to keep in her bottom drawer by her bed. It's a beginning: a new life at Monmouth Manufacturing. The redhead pulls herself up, passing through a tired-looking Noah as she exits the room.

Mercy has no awareness of where she's going, stepping into the aging driver's seat of her blue truck and turning on the grunting engine. There aren't many places for her to go anymore. In the small window of time since her mother's death, Mercy has done two things: recognised that she is alone now and pushed her air mattress into the corner of Noah's barely used room. They have an agreement, a pact. Together, her and the ghost nestle into her air mattress with the floral covers that Blue pulled from Mercy's bed at Siken Lane and look into the dark night. Monmouth Manufacturing is all she has left.

It isn't until she's outside Fox Way that she comes to, Mercy's consciousness finally sinking into her skin as the truck pulls to a stop. Asphalt stones flick underneath her boots, the thick soles heavy against the ground. She kicks them, foot stuttering as it and the stone connects. Marlboro between her lips, Mercy's lighter clicks. She leans against her truck, eyeing the peeling blue paint with slight disdain. The door to 300 Fox Way opens and Blue steps outside. She eyes Mercy, gaze flicking from the cherry-red end of her cigarette to her curved mouth. Mercy smiles, exhaustedly jagged and waves. It's small, barely a brush against the air but Blue steps out the threshold and comes to stand beside the last standing King.

Mercy flicks the cartoon to her cigarettes, a silent offer that Blue rejects. She crams it back into the pocket of her denim overalls. They were her mother's, and Mercy isn't sure why she pulled them from the wreckage of her room but something drew her to hold onto them. Clothes were sprawled across the carpeted floor and Circe's shelves were pulled from the walls. Inside, Mercy knows that Circe did it herself in her last few moments of insanity. She looks down at them, spare hand pressing against the paint-stains flecking the fabric of the overalls: small colourful remnants that Circe King left behind. The last good thing. 

          "Calla is inside," Blue says. She's the first to break the comforting silence. Mercy would've been quite happy to sit inside of it like a cocoon. Without pressure, without reason. But the peace is broken now, and there's no return.

Mercy takes a drag, blowing the smoke out in small circles. "I know."

The locket is burning, reddening the skin of her chest. Blue's gaze shifts to it with contempt, but she says nothing.

          "Maura still gone?" Mercy asks.

Blue nods. She considers Mercy. "You don't have to be ready yet. It's only been a few days."

          "I don't care." The redhead snaps, lashing out at Blue. Mercy's grip tightens on her cigarette, almost breaking it beneath her whitening grip.

Blue plucks the cigarette from Mercy's fingertips, stomping it out. "Mercy."

Mercy looks up, tears clouding bright green eyes, her Docs scuffing the ground.

          "Come in," Blue suggests, "I'll make us something to drink."

Her hand in Blue's, Mercy lets the smaller girl lead her through the door of Fox Way and closes it firmly behind them.