Raine Sweetwater & The Grand Spectre of Geneva
Brandon Cole Phillips / Aimee Majoue
Copyright 2011 by Brandon Cole Phillips
“I tried hard, Babygirl. I swear I tried. Daddy can’t keep fighting this, though. Daddy’s tired.”
Raine clutched her father’s limp, tender grasp as her eyes became lost in the flowery sheets of his hospital bedding. The once-calloused, rugged hand was only a cold, withering appendage with skin as loose as a pup’s scruff and needle-bruised into clouds of violet and crimson. The tips of the fading man’s fingers twitched with spurious nerve firings in a rhythmic pattering against the intravenous tube that rest between his yellowed cuticles and the sweat-dampened palm of his daughter.
“Daddy,” Raine’s plea burst from her cracked arid lips with a room-silencing bluster, “Don’t go to sleep! You know I need you. I have nobody but you.”
The girl’s fiery emerald eyes traced the pattern on the bed garments. Little pink rosebuds were aligned in diagonal symmetry with faint green vines tracing the white gaps between. The print foliage seemed to wilt before her gaze in deference to the passing warrior that lay below. The fabric swirled into a frosted blur as dewdrops of distress condensed between her trembling eyelids. A slight tremor beneath the fabric startled the gathered tears into unrest.