Leave in the Dusk: Prologue

The Silk that Hid Steel
The young boy was slammed against against the red brick wall of the small school. Snow continued to drift downward and further cover the ground, a means of muffling the footsteps of his attackers. He should have known this would happen, that one day they would snap and really give him a beating, but the idea had seemed so ridiculous.

Much like them.

As his attacker slammed him against the wall once more, the boy whimpered. ''When will the plow trucks pull in? ''He questioned, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in the back of his skull. He could have sworn he felt something warm and possibly red trickling down his layers of hair to reach his neck and the hood of his coat.

"Why don't you speak up, shy?" His assailant tugged him away from the wall and allowed his foul breath to overcome the poor boy, who felt as though he was becoming ill just smelling it.

"Come on, wuss. All you have to do is say something. Do it for me."

Wham.

The blow rattled the victim's bones and his eyes became lidded. There was definitely the faintest feeling of blood mixed with snow that gently cooled on the bump forming on his head, which might even help the painful swelling later on. Why was he being attacked for not speaking, anyway? They could have avoided this completely.

Maybe it was the stare. The stare of the silent boy. The boy who never spoke, the boy who was always watching, the boy who never took off his scarf.

The young assailant suddenly remembered. Maybe the judgeful boy, the victim he was happy to give punishment to, would respond better without his precious item. He gripped the beautiful silky article in his hand and gave it a swift yank, and a few more, until the scarf was unwound and lying in the snow.

The victim was nothing special - layered brown hair now matted with a mixture of snow and trickles of blood, lidded blue eyes, a somewhat gaunt face and as pale as a seal. His mouth was tightly pursed, however, and nearly as white as his skin.

Wham.

"Talk to me, shy."

Wham.

"I can't hear you."

Wham.

"Speak up, lame-brain."

Wham.

At this point, the poor boy being slammed against the wall could barely see anymore. His vision was hazy, grey fog and an ever-changing landscape of monochrome color.

And a distant figure.

Despite the blurry imagery his eyes created, he could see her. Black hair and outfitted in fluorescent yellows and bleach whites, she was fairly obvious next to the trees lining her back. Her hand was waving around frantically, and her mouth was moving, but the boy couldn't make it out. That is, until it finally clicked.

Talk.

He could feel the warm red liquid starting to seep around his neck now, leaving dark stains on his neck and dotting the furry hood of his coat. Finally, he unpursed his white lips, letting color flood back, and finally dared to speak his first time at school.

"Let go of me."

The bully released his shoulder, his eyes becoming far-focused and bleary, like he was tired, or entranced. He didn't make any other move, much to the victim's pleasure, and awaited like a lost, tired puppy.

"Kick yourself in the butt."

Sure, it was a stupid idea, but the victim was curious. His joy was only further expanded when his assailant spent the next five minutes trying to lift his leg high enough to do his work. Once there was a slush-stained bootprint firmly planted at the back of his trousers, the victim pointed to the parking lo, where the plow had just begun driving in, ready to collect today's snowfall.

"Go, now. Never bother Shiloh Yazzie ever again."

The assailant simply nodded and turned to the lot, stumbling idly into the cleared paths left by the plow, finally started his trek home. This left the victim to his own devices, first hunching over and retrieving his scarf, slightly spattered in blood and soaked with snow and half an imprint of a boot, but that could be cleaned. As long as the scarf was okay, there was nothing to worry about.

As he began to wind the fabric around his neck again, favoring the warmth suddenly returning to his pale features, he suddenly noted the presence of the girl who'd finally pushed him to use the words he'd held in so long.

"Shiloh, that was amazing! All you did was talk to him - and he listened to you like a dog!" She was grinning ear to ear, long black hair swept around one shoulder, a striking contrast from her coat and hood, all a startling yellow. She was the other outcast, the one who couldn't be in the dark. Sometimes she seemed to just shut down - especially during the winter. It was a miracle if she came to school during those harsh winter days, short and with little sunlight. Supposedly, the season made her gravely ill, but right now she seemed as healthy as any other child.

Shiloh nodded, fixing the silver silk around his mouth once again, glad to be muffled. It was fun to be so commanding, even if he couldn't understand why, but as his father's old Spiderman comics taught him, with great power came great responsibility. And he was a nice, responsible young man.

The sound of the plow exiting the lot came blasting around the school to the two, with the girl eagerly chatting to the injured boy, who just wanted to go home. He couldn't tell her to go though. They were friends - the outcasts. The boy who never spoke and the girl who never shut up. Opposites who attracted, even in good old Alaska.

"Oh, er, sorry. Uh, I guess it's time to go home now. To my house. Since it's almost night. You know, fragile health and all that." Her eyes darted around as she tried to find a way to end the conversation in a less awkward manner. Instead, she reached out for a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"Bye-bye, Shy!" The heels of her boots left perfect circles in the snow as she turned on a dime and went sprinting off to the woods, disappearing behind a thicket of evergreens. Shiloh constantly wondered where her home was that she wanted to pass through a forest near dusk, but decided prying wasn't best. Sure, he could simply ask her and get the response he wanted, but where would the fun be in that?

-

Sitting in front of a warm fire, as he usually did in the colder months, Shiloh was being treated once again by his Father. Minerva lay on the couch, eagerly drawing something as usual. Shiloh's father couldn't ask what was wrong - he knew Shiloh wouldn't answer. He almost never did, instead opting to write his answers on a Steno notepad, which Mr. Yazzie was sure to keep handy.

There was something about Shiloh, though. Something distinctly different about him. On certain days this same glow would affect him - something much more youthful, generous, something sunny about him. Like dawn - a hopeful, colorful radiance.

"Shiloh," Mr. Yazzie began, cleaning away the cried blood from his neck after treating the bump on his head. "You saw her again today, didn't you?" His son, in the same manner he usually did, replaced his words with an affirmative nod.

"What was her name again? Pamela? Persia? Penelope?" He guessed, expecting his son to reach for the steno on the table next to him. Instead, little Minerva answered from the couch, gesturing to her drawing.

The drawing was in the same fashion as one might expect from a four year old - kind of abstract. A small circle framed with dark hair, big brown eyes and larger-than-life freckles, as well as a wide, crooked smile. No neck and a triangle body was colored in the brightest yellow in the crayon box, and there were brown boots at least four sizes too big framing her small stick-like legs. Maybe Mr. Yazzie couldn't see it, but Shiloh could.

"Paige, Daddy," Minerva smiled running her finger down the dark blob that made up her hair, "Her name is Paige."