December, 2017

Caitlin no longer had classes and had made a semi-permanent move to the townhouse. That Sunday evening, after learning that neither Ingrid, nor her father had watched the Star Wars spin-off film, she suggested that they all see it together and set up the living room for it.

Ingrid wasn't particularly enthusiastic, but as she wouldn't be going to work the next morning, she didn't mind staying up late, especially if it meant getting lost in something other than her own toxic thoughts.

Edgar brought the popcorn and they settled on the pulled-out sofa in the living room, with Caitlin in the middle and Ingrid and her dad on either side of her.

"So what's the deal with this one, exactly?" Ingrid asked as Cait picked up the TV remote.

"It's technically a prequel to the original trilogy," the young redhead explained.

"So basically," Edgar crunched some popcorn in his mouth, "it takes place between Episode III and IV?"

Ingrid quirked an eyebrow. "Episode three and four?"

"Episode IV is the first film that came out. The first ever Star Wars," Edgar elaborated. "Then they made the sequel trilogy, about Darth Vader's backstory. The third movie in that batch is Episode III."

Ingrid sighed. "Whatever, just put the damn movie on."

Cait chuckled. "Remember how Princess Leia is asking for Obi Wan Kenobi's help because she has something that can destroy the Death Star?"

Ingrid narrowed her eyes. "Uh, vaguely."

"Well, it's the Death Star plans mapping out a fatal flaw. This film is about the people who got those plans."

"Right," Ingrid grumbled, shifting into a more comfortable position. "Let's get on with it."

"You've seen it already?" Edgar asked his daughter.

"Uh-huh. I watched it at the cinema with some friends last year. Thought it was pretty good."

The film finally started, eliciting silence from its audience. Ingrid was happy to see Mads Mikkelsen pop up on the screen and thought of Magnus and the gang of geeks. Of how happy they must have been that this major Danish actor had played such an important part in this universe of movies they loved so much.

She liked the ending, too, oddly satisfied that all the heroes had died, rather than receiving an impossible happily-ever-after conclusion. Excited chatter erupted when the credits began to roll. Ingrid did not partake but she enjoyed hearing father and daughter express their lively delight.

A pang of jealousy stabbed at her gut. She'd never had anything like that. With her granny Lena, maybe, for a short time. Then a bit with her abuelita. Ingrid was grateful the lights were still out and she could wipe her damp cheek without being noticed.

Her poor abuelita.

The tears threatened to overflow. Just then, Edgar sat up and pinned her with his troubled blue gaze. She smiled. His eyes shifted to his daughter.

"Ladies, listen," he said and got up to switch the lights on.

He came to sit on the arm of the sofa, looking from Ingrid to Cait in turn. Something flickered in his face. He cleared his throat.

"I've already apologised to you both, separately, for my... outburst a couple months ago. But I just..."

He licked his lips.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry, again. It was stupid of me, selfish and – and inconsiderate, to react the way I did. I'll never... I will never really know what it's actually like to be in such a situation. And I'm deeply sorry for hurting you both. You mean so much to me, I can only hope you'll find it in yourselves to forgive me one day and I promise you, I am striving to be better. I'm sorry I couldn't be good enough when you needed it most."

"Oh, daddy!" Cait sprang up on her knees, her eyes glassy with unshed tears.

She crawled over to him and wrapped him in a tight hug, which he fully reciprocated. After a minute, Cait broke away and stretched an arm towards Ingrid, motioning to her to join in. Ingrid hesitated. Though as was her habit, Cait wouldn't relent and left her no choice but to comply.

Ingrid slid off the sofa and walked around to where Edgar sat. He kissed her forehead when she approached, while Cait kissed her cheek. She closed in on the three-way embrace, breathing in the scent of these humans, who – strangely, unbelievably – cared so deeply about her.

A chill ran down her spine. She was too rotten to deserve this.

*

The whole 'healing and recovery' thing wasn't working out for Ingrid.

Sleep eluded her and when it did come, it possessed her like some restless demon, making her toss and turn and writhe. Maybe she ought to call Chris and arrange an exorcism, after all. Just in case.

She watched all the romcoms Netflix had to offer, learned their formula by heart. She'd even made herself a bingo sheet and did shots of Brennans whenever she got a hit. Every time, it eventually led to her passing out two films in and waking up screaming.

Rinse and repeat.

With Caitlin in the house, sex was strictly off-limits, too. It was better get used to it, anyway, before Cillian arrived – she wouldn't want to expose him to the kind of trauma his mother already had. And without her at the office, the workload had increased, keeping both Edgar and Priyanka away from home longer and making them more tired.

Yvonne had flown home to be with her husband over the holidays. Caitlin, albeit physically present, spent most of her time holed up in the library, studying. Murphy had been given the opportunity to go home to his family over Christmas and New Year's. But he declined, so he'd be able to hold down the fort at the townhouse.

As a result, he'd become her most frequent companion during her first week of... How did the Dutch call it? It sounded very similar to its German equivalent, which had helped Ingrid memorise it way back when. Nothing, nichts, but in verb form. German verbs ended in -en by default. Nichts, niks... niksen?

Yeah, that was it. Niks, the Dutch word for 'nothing,' verbified into niksen, literally meaning 'to do nothing.'

It was supposed to help with stress, counteract burnout. Didn't seem to do much for her overactive anxiety, though. Doing nothing only amplified the paranoia and the panic. Or maybe she was doing it wrong. Doing nothing the wrong fucking way.

Typical.

Magnus would have agreed. Would have made fun of her for it, then coached her until she got it right and it worked.

Wait.

Magnus was Danish.

Ingrid laughed at herself. "Oh, well. Same shit."

Same shit, indeed. But the Danish had their own chill-lifestyle concept, which happened to have just been making the rounds on social media not too long ago. Ingrid looked it up. Hygge – 'cosiness and comfortable conviviality,' according to Oxford dictionaries.

Cocooned in her fluffy blanket, with a steaming mug of Earl Grey within reach, she definitely had cosiness down. Conviviality? Not so much.

In fact, she was more – quick thesaurus search to match the pompousness of conviviality – more cantankerous and crestfallen than ever. Irritable and depressed, that is.

What about some cannabis to complement the lifestyle concepts? That was why the Nordic fuckers were so happy, Ingrid reasoned. Not because they 'did nothing' or embraced 'cosiness and comfortable conviviality.' The thought made Ingrid crave some cannabis cappuccino. Or a couple of cannabis cupcakes.

Edgar had destroyed the leftover joints he'd found in her coat pockets. He'd cleaned out the whiskey, too. The bottle of Brennans she currently cradled was the last of its kind. She had considered doing shots of camomile tea instead. If she recalled right, it was supposed to be calming. Sweetened with spoonsful of honey...

Ingrid could already taste it and she made a mental note to try and obtain some.

In the meantime, she'd have to make do with Earl Grey. She reached out for it. Picked up her mug, brought it to her mouth. Empty. Ingrid groaned. She gulped down the whiskey remnants and swung her legs out of bed. The room did a quick spin when she tried to get up.

"Oof," she plopped back down, batted her eyelashes a few times, slapped her own cheeks. Tried again, more slowly this time. The floor felt solid enough under her feet.

"Hey, Murphy," she greeted as she sauntered into the living room.

He was flipping through the day's newspaper, which Ingrid had already studied in detail. She was looking for any reports on the murder she'd witnessed but so far, none of the outlets she'd inspected – online, or off – had picked up on it.

"Morning, ma'am." He smiled at her, making a very good job of not noticing the beyond-dishevelled state she was in. "Slept well?"

Ingrid yawned and scratched a buttock. "I've had better."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah, well."

She'd dropped her mug in the kitchen sink and now launched herself onto the sofa, ankles crossed, hands clasped on her chest, eyes fixed on the ceiling. A corpse without a coffin.

"Say, Murphy..."

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Will you teach me how to use a gun?"

"Absolutely not." His answer came through without a hint of hesitation.

"Why, though?"

"Ma'am, you're mentally unfit to handle a gun."

She parroted him, eyes narrowed to slits. Then, "You're saying I'm mad?"

"That's not what I said."

"Hmph."

Ingrid picked up her phone, closed all apps and stared at the non-descript background. Her eyes darted down to the envelope icon.

I need you, she wrote to Edgar.

Specifically, only a small part of you. Well, small comparatively. To the rest of your body, that is. Compared, however, to the exact same bits on various other specimens of the species, decidedly not small. Am I using too many adverbs? I've been reading a lot. Must have rubbed off on me. Anyway. So, there's this part of you I need. But, alas, a girl can't have the sausage without the pig, so come over. Pig. Bring the sausage.

Row of aubergine emojis.

You're in a good mood.

No. I'm in the sourest mood there is. Hence, sausage. More aubergines.

Ah, I see. You're missing the whiskey. You need a replacement.

Wink.

Have you tried sports? Swimming? How long since you've been to the gym?

Are you calling me fat?

Not fat. Just sedentary. It's bad for your back. Believe me, I know.

That why you circle the block every morning and lift weights at the weekend? Eye-roll.

Some minutes elapsed.

How do you think those buttocks stay marble, hmm?

That made her laugh out loud. Gave her an idea, too.

"Hey, Murph."

Newspaper ruffling. "Yes, ma'am?"

"If a gun's off limits... how about my fists?" She fired one up in the air for emphasis.

"What do you mean?" She could hear the frown in his voice.

Ingrid rose up on her knees, leaning forward on the backrest of the sofa to look at him. "Teach me how to fight?"

He nodded once, slowly. "That, I could do. Gym's just around the corner, too. We could even go twice a day – if that's all right with you, ma'am, of course."

It sounded like he'd been planning that line for a while. Maybe Edgar had even instructed him to try and get her to the gym. That train of thought reminded her of the phone which had just buzzed in her hand.

Let's go swimming this weekend, Edgar had written.

Yeah. Let's. But until then... Several aubergines.

You're relentless.

I'm an addict.

So why should I enable you?

Because you like to. Hell – you love to. And who can blame you? Suggestive smirks.

We'll see tonight, Edgar conceded. Now I've got work to do.

*

October, 2013

Leon had taken to sneaking up to her room every evening when Jack was away.

In-between bouts of lovemaking, TV binges and chemical bliss, he'd talk to her about how much her prison visits had meant to him. About how much he loved her for it, and for looking after his mother. About how much she meant to him, how hard he tried to make her happy, the unspeakable things he'd do for her sake, to protect her.

How he wouldn't hesitate to snap Jack's neck if the gringo bastard ever hurt her.

"You forget I'm gringa, too, Leo," Ingrid replied.

"No, querida. Tu eres mi alma. You're my heart and soul, my... how does he say it? My sun and stars?"

She grinned. "I think it's the mother of dragons who says that to her wild beast of a husband."

Her finger drew circles on his bare chest, tracing a tattoo every now and then. He did sometimes remind her of the warlord Drogo. Skin tone and ink aside, they both had the same air of overprotective savagery about them.

"So... am I your sun and stars?" Leon concluded.

Ingrid laughed. "Well, you definitely make me see stars sometimes!"

He chuckled. "And what does he say?"

Her eyebrows furrowed together, but she couldn't remember how Drogo used to refer to his wife. She reached for her phone and looked it up.

"Moon of my life," she said. "He calls her the moon of his life."

"Moon of my life...," Leon repeated. "I like that. Luna de mi vida."

Ingrid beamed up at him. "Sounds better in Spanish."

"Everything's better in Spanish, reina mia. Even amor."

It didn't last long, though. Jack's frequent business trips suddenly stopped. He began to spend a lot of time at home, more bad-tempered than ever. Some family friend had, in passing, whispered something about money trouble – which Ingrid, or anybody else for that matter, didn't know the first thing about.

Once, he took her to a wedding where she was made bridesmaid against her will. And against her will still, he'd locked her in the bathroom and pushed her over the sink. The face she saw in that damned mirror then... it belonged to a madman. Crazed and angry, demanding something he'd neither earned nor deserved...

Ingrid imagined him getting his golden crown from Drogo, like the dragon queen's brother had. Poured molten from the cauldron straight onto his head. It'd be awfully fitting, too. Jack Astor was just as desperate for fame and riches. Seemed only fair that his greed would kill him – and free her to become the phoenix who'd rise from the ashes, taking the world by storm, leaving dust and bones in her wake.

*

song of the chapter: mary jane holland by lady gaga

https://youtu.be/j4ilypQ08zI