Konichiwa & Namaste

Disclaimer: I've got all of five minutes before I've got to shut off the computer and leave, so I'll try to make this quick. I don't own Charmed.

Summary: It's before Chris went to the past -- even before he met Bianca. It's set in the unchanged future (obviously), after Wyatt started all the destruction. There's not much of a plot -- sort of just a regular day in the life of Chris Halliwell. Chris is extremely out-of-character, but I had to write him like this anyway. I was in a strange mood when I wrote it (when am I not, LoL?) All right, here you go. Oh yeah ... Thanks to Chrissyw9 for editing it for me even though isn't into oneshots at all. That was true sacrifice. Thanks!

"They call it a place where husbands abandon their wives, wives abandon their children, and children abandon their dreams." -Laurie Flowers, Through Their Eyes

Crimson stained the cracked pavement under his feet, but he ignored it as he walked. It was nothing new by now, nothing that he hadn’t already seen or dreamt about. It was nothing that sent icy, dreaded shivers down his spine anymore. He was used to the slippery sensation under his shoes as he put one foot in front of the other, the feeling that his feet could at any moment slip out from under him. They hadn’t yet, though; he was still standing, still balancing enough to keep from letting the rivulets of blood underneath his feet make him fall.

Just like my life, he thought with grim sarcasm.

A small grin quirked his lips, tugging them into a position that people had come to know as his smile. It was the smile that came with the wisdom that someone twice his age would usually possess. The war had changed him, aged him before his time, both mentally and physically. Wrinkles of worry had been permanently etched into his forehead, where last year there were none.

A bitter wind gnawed at the back of his neck, so he hunched his shoulders and shoved his hands deeper into his torn pockets. It didn’t do much to help his predicament, but in this time period it was the best anyone could manage. As strange as it seemed, he was one of the few people who was well off. He had a jacket to hide his fingers from frostbite and a shelter to go to at the end of the day, however pathetic and shabby the building looked… however many more hundreds of people were crammed into it as well.

Turning a corner, he squinted into the distance, searching for any sort of remains of what had once been the beautiful city of San Francisco. Knowing not to expect anything, it didn’t come as much surprise to him to see the decrepit city in ruins, completely gutted out by the fires and the deadly storms that had followed.

Wyatt hadn’t been able to block out the sun—that wasn’t for lack of trying—but he was able to do the next best thing. Without the moral hesitation that came with knowing right and wrong, that came with learning about protecting the Innocents, he had demolished half of the world, making people fear for their lives. No, Wyatt hadn’t blocked out the sun; but no one stepped into the outside world anymore. No one enjoyed the warmth of the rays that was one of the few good things left nowadays.

Chris followed the streams of blood, vaguely wondering to whom they would lead, not entirely sure he wanted to know. With every death he was forced to witness or pain he was forced to cause, he felt another piece of his soul slip through his fingers like water… like blood.

In the distance, he could see a heap of clothes; and he slowly trudged over to it, already knowing what it was. He didn’t have to feel the pulse or check for a nonexistent flutter of the heart to know that it was a dead body. No one would be in the streets if they were still alive; it was like signing a death wish. Automatically, Chris crouched beside the limp, bloodied body, and brushed back a loose strand of hair plastered to her face, matted with dirt and blood. She had probably been pretty once, maybe even beautiful; but after Wyatt’s treatment, yet another person had lost her soul long before her life had been stolen. His gentle fingers lightly caressed her cheek, wiping away the blood. A shudder seized his body, and he quickly turned his gaze away, trying to rid his nostrils of the stench of fresh blood that filled them.

As he stood, a squeak from beneath his foot alerted him that he had stepped on something different, something that lay innocently beside the carcass. Stooping, he retrieved the object, flipping it over in his hands as he tried to figure out what it was. The blood stained it a deep shade, and he felt his hands become drenched in the sticky substance. It didn’t bother him, though, not anymore. Blood had become as common as water nowadays—even more common, actually, since Wyatt had destroyed hundreds upon hundreds of reservoirs. Water was in extremely low supply—a rarity, a treat that young children would dream about when they went to bed hungry three nights in a row. No, the blood was nothing new to him.

The doll in his hands, however, was. It was a simple toy, crafted with a careful eye and gentle hands, made with love in every stitch. It had been agonized over for many long weeks because whoever made the doll had wanted it to be perfect for the little girl receiving it. It would be something special, probably the best thing the little girl would get for the rest of her life. She must have been devastated when she dropped it, searching frantically as she was pulled through the streets, away from the war shouts. There was no way to escape the death, though, and no way to escape the blood. It leaked into every house—under the locked doors—into every room until it flooded the city like it did now.

A muffled cry floated to Chris’s sensitive ears, and with the speed and agility of a cat he was on his feet again, poised, ready to defend himself in case someone was about to attack. The sound resonated through the vacant city, whispering troubles to the winds. When no one appeared, Chris warily continued his march, the hand-made doll clutched tightly in his right hand as if for assurance.

A few moments later the cry came a second time, closer now. Chris was walking towards it, he was sure of that. Strangely, though, it didn’t bother him that he could be stepping right into a well-planned trap. Not only did he not covet his existence enough to take the necessary precautions, but he also had a somewhat reckless, suicidal feeling this crisp morning. He found the prospect of death somewhat enthralling.

I get out of this hellhole that I’m living in, and everyone else gets on with everyday activities, happier since I’m out of the way, he thought. There’s no downside; it’s a win-win situation.

Even with all these thoughts, however, his steps were slower, more deliberate and careful, eyes darting around the empty street in search of life. Just like before, though, there was none.

The wailing was more pronounced the next time he heard it, and he could tell now that it was a sob of despair. Someone was still alive, still mourning for everyone else in the city. Quickening his pace, Chris followed the child’s—for it had the high-pitched tone of innocence that every child once possessed—whimpers and turned up an abandoned street. Of course, they were all abandoned now, with no one left alive to dwell within them.

His feet stopped him in front of a petite, old-fashioned house, painted in a pale cream color; and he strained his ears to catch the howls of grief again. There was little more than a sniffle, but it was enough to tell him that he had come to the right place. Almost mechanically, his feet carried him to the front door; and his hand rested on the doorknob hesitantly. The sobs had ceased, but he could still hear labored breathing behind the door.

Decisively, he turned the knob, realizing a moment later that the door was locked—out of habit, most likely, since a locked door wouldn’t keep anyone safe now. After all, demons didn’t need to use doors. He closed his eyes, picturing the lock in his mind and flicking his wrist at it lazily. The door creaked open immediately, and he entered the house, squinting into the icy darkness. It went past having no light—the darkness bit into his very soul. Shivering, Chris groped blindly around until his hand touched a wall.

His hazy thoughts turned back to the possible Innocent, and he felt his way into an adjoining room. A nearly blinding brightness fell upon Chris, and he shielded his eyes, seeing spots. His awareness heightened considerably as he glanced around the room through narrowed eyes to find what had flooded the room with light so suddenly. His eyes rested on his own fingers, which were clinging to a light-switch. Groaning, he let his hand drop to his side and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the light.

The ghostly silence that descended upon the room didn’t go unnoticed, and Chris frowned, scanning the room for the child who had been crying. No one was in the room, though, so he proceeded to the next one, walking slowly just in case…

In case what, a part of him asked with a cruel laugh. If he comes for you, you won’t stand a chance.

It was true, but what choice did Chris really have? As much as he wished it to be true, he wasn’t dead just yet; and he knew Wyatt wouldn’t want him dead. No, Wyatt had different ways of getting revenge—he was always creative when thinking up his unique methods of torture.

In this next room, too, Chris found the lightswitch and flicked it on. In the corner of the room, he saw a shivering form; and he crept over to it, searching for signs of breathing. He could find none, and he simply shrugged—people died all the time. It didn’t even sting him to see it anymore. Just as he was about to turn away, though, the body gave the tiniest shudder of fear. No one would have noticed the miniscule movement, but Chris’s sharp eyes caught it.

Dropping to the floor beside the body, he reached out to touch it. The person gave a small shriek, and her head shot up from the floor, eyes wild with terror. Cheekbones were clearly visibly beneath the sallow, half-transparent skin, as were the girl’s veins. Her long, blond banana curls were untamed; they most likely hadn’t been brushed properly in months. The child’s eyes, which Chris could tell had once been the center of enthusiasm and girlish liveliness, had lost their will to live; they were lifeless and dead.

Fresh tears covered the streaks of old ones as the young child began to sob uncontrollably, trying to back away from Chris, who still held her arm firmly. He glanced down at her emaciated hand, noticing that he could close his fingers around her wrist with much room to spare. Shuddering in disgust, he withdrew his hand, rubbing it unconsciously.

“I won’t hurt you,” he spoke softly in what he hoped was a comforting tone.

She shook her head violently, pulling away from him, drawing her knees up to her chest, and burying her head there. A low, desolate moan escaped her lips.

Had it been a year ago—or maybe even a few months ago—when he still had hope that life could change, he would have asked her what was wrong. That was then, though; he knew better than that now. Such a simple question had been made into one of complexity. Anyone who asked such a question was looked upon as a fool. Of course something was wrong; the whole damn world was wrong!

Instead he asked, “Why are you crying?” assuming that it had something to do with the blood that drenched her shirt. Chris could tell that the blood was fresh, yet there was no wound to be found on her gaunt features.

The girl lifted her head a fraction of an inch so that her eyes were just above her knees, and she eyed Chris curiously, her sobs subsiding for a moment. Her expression seemed to inquire, “Don’t you know?” Her fingers trembled, knuckles white from the tightness with which she clutched her knees. She opened her mouth to answer the question, but no sound left her lips.

“What’s your name?” Chris changed his question to instead.

After a moment, the girl whispered, “Molly,” raising her head a little higher.

“Can you tell me why you’re crying?” he repeated patiently to the delicate child. She looked as if one harsh word might make her break, but Chris knew it was just the demons that had made her look like this, the demons that struck fear in everyone’s heart, the demons that Wyatt himself sent out to destroy the world.

“M-my s-sister,” she sobbed, squeezing her eyes shut as more tears of anguish trickled down her cheeks, leaving trails down them.

Instinctively, his eyes looked around the room again; and he found what he was searching for—a second, mangled body. Robotically, he stood, and walked over to the other, smaller, body. His trembling fingers brushed against the girl’s cool skin, skin that had already lost the warmth of life. He drew away quickly and turned back to Molly, who had come to stand behind him.

Her eyes were boring into him, determinedly keeping their gaze away from the carcass of the younger sister. They filled with tears anyway, though, despite the fact that Chris maneuvered his body to block the second girl from view.

“W-what am I going t-to do?” she wailed hysterically. “M-my mother t-told me to w-watch her while she w-went to look for f-food! What will she s-say when she comes back and s-sees what h-happened?” She sank to the floor, her legs unable to support her any longer.

Chris’s thoughts flashed to the dead woman he had seen in the streets, but he didn’t have the heart to tell this girl that her mother had died as well. Instead, he gently wrapped his arms around the girl. Besides, he wasn’t certain the woman was her mother.

“M-my mother w-was going to g-give her a d-doll for her b-birthday,” Molly sobbed into Chris’s shoulder. Her hands, he noticed for the first time, were crusted with dried blood. “S-she made it h-herself, and she t-took it with her s-so Sally wouldn’t f-find it. It was her birthday t-today.”

Chris’s throat became dry, and he unsuccessfully tried to swallow the lump that formed. He couldn’t start crying now. Chris Halliwell didn’t get emotional, that was for sure. No one did anymore, and anyone who did still cry or laugh would die shortly. It was a known fact that feelings were a weakness in this hell that had become earth. If there was one thing the human race was good at, it was adapting; and Homo sapiens had done just that. Emotions had been closed off years ago, and children these days probably didn’t even know what the word meant anymore.

Chris detached the broken girl from his shoulder and watched her cry awkwardly. From within his torn, thin jacket, he retrieved the doll, handing it to Molly slowly, avoiding her searching gaze. “Maybe you can still give it to her,” he offered quietly.

Shaking, Molly extended her hand and accepted the doll, eyes still swimming with tears. This had confirmed her horrifying suspicion that her mother, too, was gone. That was the only reasonable explanation she could find for the gift not being in her mother’s possession.

She wanted to thank the kind—almost compassionate, if she dared to think about it—stranger, but her mind wouldn’t allow her to think about anything other than the fact that she was now utterly alone. There was no one left for her.

Her eyes evaded Chris’s and dropped to the toy in her hands. Her fingers recoiled when she noticed the dried blood on it, her mother’s blood; and it fell to the floor with a soft thud. In horror, her hands flew to her mouth, head shaking from side to side vigorously as she tried to rid her mind of the sick images spinning through it.

“Oh, god, no,” she murmured.

There were no words of comfort that could possibly have been spoken, so Chris remained silent. What was there to say? How could he tell her that it was ‘meant to be’ when he wasn’t even sure about that himself? How could he say that it was for the Greater Good? He wasn’t even sure if the Greater Good existed anymore or if it was just some ploy made up by the Elders thousands of years ago to keep witches under their control.

“W-what do I d-do?” Molly whispered, more to herself than to Chris.

Chris shrugged apathetically, already bored with the situation. It hurt to see the broken heart of a child so young, but he had seen it all before. It pained him to see her dreams stolen from her, but then again the same had happened to him.

Been there, done that, he thought, uninterested. Like everything he had seen before this, it wasn’t news to him.

“You survive,” he answered, and she stared up at him in shock and disbelief. Could this man really be so cold-hearted? She had just lost her sister and her mother, the only two people left in her life; he wanted her to just forget about it and move on in no longer than it took to breathe?

“You do what you’ve got to do,” he added with a look of remorse. He knew she probably hated him for saying it; if he were in her position, he would probably hate himself as well. He wasn’t saying she would thank him for it in the long run, and he wasn’t even saying that it would be better for her to know the truth… because sometimes dying was better than living. However, if she wanted to live, she would have to close off her heart to everything.

As realization dawned on her—oh god, she was all alone!—Chris slipped out of the house. He had seen enough death by now to know that Molly would probably want to be alone for a while, maybe even forever. His hole-infested sneakers sloshed through the wet streets as he followed his previous path back the way he had come. This trek had been a waste of time, an unnecessary danger that he had put himself into. He couldn’t even remember why he had come, why he had risked his life. For what, a memory, some miniscule piece of the life he used to live? That was gone now, destroyed when his family had left him alone to fend for himself.

Without realizing where he was going, he found himself somewhere he never expected to go again. Once upon a time it had been a place of memories—happy ones at that. That tree over there was the first he had ever climbed. On that porch was the first time he had ever orbed into his daddy’s arms. And through those doors was the one place he used to feel safe—in there or in his mother’s arms. Now, however, it was just a reminder of everything he had failed to accomplish, of the life he no longer had. This place was no longer his home; it was Wyatt’s museum of Halliwell history… of his history.

The self-centered bastard, Chris snorted to himself, cautiously glided up the steps, finding himself in front of the double doors of his childhood home. A hesitant, sweaty hand rested upon the doorknob; and despite the eerie calm, Chris felt himself shiver in anticipation. He hadn’t set foot in the manor since it had been made into Wyatt’s twisted idea of a “learning opportunity” for all mortals.

Closing his eyes, a deep breath rattled through him, relaxing him in some strange way. The door opened swiftly, and he took his first step inside the house that had given him so much, taking great care to step over alarm that would alert Wyatt to his presence. He knew every booby trap by now, every snare, even without having ever entered the house. He didn’t need to; after all, he knew Wyatt, didn’t he? He knew the way his older brother’s twsited mind worked.

His feet guided him into the kitchen, where he could remember many family dinners being held, even one or two when Leo had joined. Those had been the happiest times of his life, though he would scarcely admit to it nowadays. There was nothing about Leo that he liked… or so he kept telling himself.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that he was back there again, with his whole family crowding around in the kitchen, waiting for Piper’s dish to be ready, whatever the delicacy may be. If it was coming from Piper, it was sure to be a treat.

His eyelids fluttered shut, a small grin of satisfaction enveloping his features. The delicious aroma of Piper’s cooking swam through the air, reaching his sensitive nostrils. Living with a cook definitely had its perks. Children’s footsteps pounded down the stairs as his cousins, too, caught the smell and realized that dinner was about to be served. However, Chris had remained in the kitchen the entire time, preferring to watch his mother’s perfection as she flew about the kitchen with an air of someone with long-time experience and flawless precision. The sight of her took his breath away; his mother was the most graceful being on the planet, and he would find no one to match her abilities. She seemed so happy to just be there.

“What are you doing here?” a rough voice growled, pulling Chris out of his welcoming reverie and back to the disappointing reality of the present. “I asked you a question,” the demon said when Chris made no attempt to answer. “Who are you?”

Indifferently, Chris turned away and noiselessly headed towards the stairs; but the demon grabbed his arm, dragging him back into the kitchen. Chris matched his glare with one of his own, green eyes flashing furiously. This was his home, too, damn it, not just Wyatt’s. He was allowed to visit it if he wanted!

Lividly, Chris motioned for one of his mother’s cooking knives to fly towards the demon, stabbing him in the chest and vanquishing him without a second thought to what he was doing. It was like second nature to him now; it was like breathing… except breathing wasn’t as easy. Every moment he drew a breath, he was making the choice to continue living, which wasn’t something he was always sure he would choose if given the opportunity.

The flames from the vanquish subsided, and a scorch mark was left on the floor in place of the demon. Kneeling, Chris took the knife from the floor, his other hand touching the stained wooden floor. It was still hot from the licking fire that had burned it.

“Well, look who’s finally come out of hiding,” an empty voice sneered.

Without looking up, Chris stood and walked over to the sink, his back to the person who had caused him so much unbearable pain. He couldn’t think about it because it still hurt too much to know his own brother betrayed him. Instead, he turned on the water, letting it run for a bit before sticking the knife under the cool, fresh liquid.

Mom always hated when her knives weren’t clean, he thought absently to himself.

“What do you think you’re doing?” that same voice demanded in an almost amused tone. Chris hated that voice; it haunted his dreams.

“I’m washing it,” he replied monotonously.

“I realized,” Wyatt retorted snidely. “I meant what are you doing here. Isn’t it against your morals or something? You know, the whole ‘don’t fraternize with the enemy’ thing.”

“I’m not,” Chris answered as evenly as he could, biting his lip to keep his fury in check. He kept his eyes trained on the knife, which was slowly being wiped clean underneath the steady stream of water. Chris fervently rubbed away the blood, finger passing over the sharp blade time and time again. Finally, a dull pain erupted in his finger; and he glanced at it, noticing some of his own blood now stained the knife.

“Why did you come?” Wyatt persisted. “You hate this place.”

“It’s my damn house, too,” he mumbled angrily. “And it’s not your choice to tell me if I can visit it or not.”

“What’s with the attitude?” Wyatt demanded, his brow furrowing. “Did the Resistance mess with your head?”

“Uh, no,” Chris shot back, finally raising his gaze to glare at his older brother. “I think it was finding out that my brother was evil that did that to me, actually.”

A slow, deliberate smirk spread across Wyatt’s face, as if he were glad that Chris’s outburst had finally come, as if he wanted Chris to lose his temper or his mind… or both. Well, the latter had already occurred long ago; so he didn’t have to hold his breath for it.

“What a terrible shame,” Wyatt sneered.

Letting the knife clatter into the sink, Chris stalked past his older brother, storming up the stairs of the attic. Indifferently, Wyatt followed leisurely, not worried about anything Chris might try. The younger of the two brothers was too weak to do anything that might be a potential threat, especially in the emotional state he was currently in. He probably didn’t even realize how much his mother’s death still affected him, but Wyatt knew. Wyatt always knew.

He found Chris sitting on the couch in the attic, head resting in his hands wearily like an old man. “Does that make you feel better?” Wyatt quipped as he ambled into the room.

“No,” came the dull reply.

“Aren’t you just so lively this afternoon,” Wyatt joked spitefully.

Chris’s dark gaze lifted to gaze at his older brother, not accusingly this time. He didn’t have the energy to fight anymore, especially not his own brother. “Thanks to you,” he spoke softly, resignedly.

“No, this is all your doing,” Wyatt countered. “You’ve been fighting me the whole way. Why? I’m only doing what’s best for the world.”

“What’s best for the world is killing thousands upon thousands of Innocents?” Chris asked bitterly. “How do you expect to save the world if you kill everyone in it?”

“It’s not like that,” Wyatt said, temper rising quickly.

“Of course it isn’t,” Chris laughed cynically. His eyes flitted to Wyatt a second time, almost begging for understanding and love that his brother used to show him; but Wyatt’s hardened gaze remained unchanged, and Chris knew the brother he used to know was gone. Disgusted with what he saw—or didn’t see—in his brother’s cold, calculating eyes, Chris shook his head.

“Why did you come?” Chris demanded, turning the tables on his older brother. “You haven’t been here in years.”

“I sensed your magic,” Wyatt replied simply. “I decided a little family reunion was in order.” His intense stare never left Chris’s emerald eyes; it was Chris who eventually broke the eye contact.

“I think we’re missing a few people for that,” Chris said softly. Then, with a burning rage, he raised his gaze to his brother again. “Like everyone in the family that you murdered.”

“It wasn’t murder,” Wyatt automatically corrected. “It was self defense. They tried to kill me, or did you forget that part? They made a power-stripping potion and were going to force-feed it to me.”

“For your own protection!” Chris cried, raising his voice in righteous anger. “You were using your powers for evil, Wyatt! They were trying to save you, and you killed them!”

Wyatt’s eyes flashed furiously, but he only spoke once he was sure his response would come out cool and collected. “It wasn’t evil, Chris,” he said, stressing his point in hopes that Chris would finally understand. “I never did anything evil. Ever.”

Chris threw up his hands in exasperation, pushing himself off the couch and beginning to pace. Ignoring this, Wyatt continued, a faraway expression in his eyes. “You were so young,” he murmured. “You were so easily swayed by the Elders’ teachings. I’ve been trying to explain it to you, but you just won’t listen. There’s no evil, Chris, just as there’s no good. It’s all the same. All that matters is power; they just didn’t understand that.”

Chris whirled around to glare at Wyatt. “Who, Wyatt? Who didn’t understand? Why don’t you just say it? You’re not talking about some common witches that have nothing to do with you, all right? This is Mom we’re talking about here. They aren’t just the Charmed Ones; they were your aunts, too.” Fury drowned him, and as his fists clenched in hate the trinkets on the shelves began to rattle.

“It was a sacrifice,” Wyatt explained, using his own power to counteract Chris’s wild magic and calm the shaking room. “Sacrifices are needed. Casualties happen in war; that’s the way life goes. Together, though, we can avenge her death—all their deaths. We have enough power to do that.”

“How can we avenge their deaths when it was you who killed them in the first place?” Chris questioned icily. His eyes softened a bit but his gaze remained steadily trained on his brother. “I won’t be staying, you know,” he said quietly.

“You’ll come back,” Wyatt acknowledged, unperturbed. He knew his little brother. Chris would always return; the temptation was too much.

Chris shrugged as if to say, “Don’t count on it,” and summoned his father’s powers from within himself to orb.

Wyatt smiled boldly, not worried. After all, he knew Chris better than Chris knew himself. “You’ll be back, Chris,” Wyatt repeated. “Trust me.”

Chris’s orbs carried him to a place he used to find peace. He remembered coming here as a kid and thinking he could see the whole world from his perch. As far as the eye could see, there had been water that he had once assumed reached to the four corners of the earth. Now, though, the Golden Gate Bridge told a different, melancholy tale. The sea no longer sparkled with liveliness that it once had so many years ago; now the crashing of the waves only reminded Chris, like so many other things, of Wyatt’s reign.

An overwhelmed feeling of desolation surged through him as he surveyed the damage that had been done to the beautiful city that had once been his home. He orbed suddenly, needing comfort. He couldn’t look at this anymore, couldn’t see the debris and the hell.

He reappeared somewhere that had become like a second home to him after his fourteenth birthday. Expertly, he made his way through the Mausoleum, the one place that hadn’t been destroyed during Wyatt’s domination. It was ironic, somehow, that the only place that was left alone was the one place that was there to bury the dead of all those who had died everywhere else.

Chris’s fingers brushed a dusty crypt, his eyes lingering on the name Prue Halliwell; but that wasn’t whom he came to see this time. Gliding past her casket like the ghost she had become so long ago, he came to a standstill at the one just beside his aunt’s. His fingers traced the engraved words ‘A loving mother and sister’ before he let his hand drop limply to his side.

“Wish you were here, Mom,” he sighed, his voice barely over a hoarse whisper. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t feel her presence there with him. Perhaps she wasn’t there, watching over him as she had promised she always would. After all, there was always the possibility that Wyatt had cut off the Afterlife from this world. He had cut off everything else, hadn’t he?

Time. What a meaningless word. Did it matter if Wyatt had destroyed the world in a year or in an hour? Did it matter how many days it took you to die of starvation, or only that your life ended because of lack of food? Did it matter how long Chris stood before his mother’s tomb, or just that it was long enough for him to almost begin to pray for his mother’s return—before he remembered that he had stopped praying years ago?

All Chris knew was that when he left the Mausoleum, the light, which had blinded him upon entering, was no more than a dim sunset, an array of colors that Wyatt had not yet managed to erase from the desolate sky. Still, though, he shielded his eyes against the bloodred sun, almost afraid to see such beauty for fear that it would remind him of the past he once had.

He began his trek out of the cemetery but stopped short suddenly, squinting at someone in the distance—whether an adult or child, he couldn’t tell. Changing courses, he walked briskly down the path that brought him closer to the person, who, it soon became obvious, was a young boy of four or five.

When Chris reached the boy, a pair of golden brown eyes peaked up from the ground, telling a world of a story in that one expression. With the air of one who had acquired too much life-experience in too little time, the young boy let a genuine smile split his face, something Chris wasn’t expecting.

Dirt had settled upon his face and arms, coating him so thoroughly that his skin color couldn’t be guessed. Chris squatted in front of the boy, resting his weight on his toes and leaning forward to look the boy in the eye. “What are you doing here?” he asked once he was sure he had the boy’s attention.

“Just playin’,” the boy replied, unconcerned.

“In the cemetery?” Chris questioned skeptically.

“It’s more fun here,” the boy shrugged. “Lots of rocks to sit on… and there’s all this green.” He lifted his gaze to the grass, and Chris realized this was probably the only place the boy had ever seen it. He was too young to remember the good times before Wyatt’s reign of terror.

“Where’re your parents?” Chris inquired slowly. The words sounded bitter in his mouth, having asked them so many times and getting the same answer from every boy or girl. The answer he got this time wasn’t one he anticipated.

“Right here,” the boy answered, pointing to the headstone to his right. Chris brushed off some of the dust so he could read the faded words on the headstone. ‘Julia Berkins, beloved mother and wife: 1992-2019.’ Beside her was her husband, who had died only one year after his spouse. And their poor son had outlived them both by a longshot.

“How long have you been here?”

Mutely, the boy shrugged; and Chris realized what a stupid question it was. The boy was right; why did time matter? Time was nothing. With a sigh of defeat, Chris changed his question to a more significant one, one that the boy contemplated carefully before answering.

“How long will you be here?”

The boy looked towards his parents again, his eyes searching—begging­—for them to provide him with answers, looking at the headstones the way every child looks at their parents when seeking guidance. “’Till they come back. Or… or forever.” He hesitated before adding, “I’m waiting.”

Isn’t everyone? Chris thought.

He nodded in acceptance, climbing steadily to his feet and continuing on his way. There was no place for pity, and he didn’t feel the need to try to convince the boy that he was being stupid. In fact, he admired the child’s ability to sum up the entire world’s situation with such a simplistic statement. Mankind was waiting for a savior that would never come, waiting for a sign that the world would soon be rebuilt. But everyone knew there was nothing and no one coming to salvage what was left of the world. Humanity was waiting for nothing and everything at the same time.

Chris left the cemetery, his feet carrying him farther from his doubts. He could have orbed, but it felt good to walk. As long as he concentrated on putting on foot in front of the other, he didn’t have time to think. Thinking was never good; thinking got people killed. Chris was an expert at survival; he knew that he couldn’t think, only do.

You couldn’t think about the fact that you were willing to eat your own child to survive; you just did it—because it meant survival. The baby would die anyway; no infant lived for long.You couldn’t think about the fact that your own father, mother, uncle, aunt, brother, sister, son, daughter—your whole family—had been killed by the very person who you now worked for. You just worked for him because it was the only way to survive, even if there were the risk—the ninety nine percent chance—that he would turn around and kill you the next morning because he was in a bad mood.

The Witchlighter backtracked, making his way back home—if that crammed-to-the-max shelter could be called a home, which it couldn’t, not really. He heard the slosh beneath his feet and could feel the still-warm liquid against his toes as it seeped through the holes in his shoes. It stained the soles of his feet bloodred, like the sun that was slowly sinking below the horizon, signalling that yet another day had passed. Another day had gone, and Chris had survived. For that one tiny, insignificant day, Chris had won because he had lived.

His fierce, emerald eyes stared straight ahead, unwilling to look down; for he knew what he would see. Just because he was used to the blood flowing down streets like rain during a flood didn’t mean he enjoyed watching it fill the jagged scars in the pavement.

So he walked through the streets, his eyes never lowering their gaze, his pace never slowing, his expression never changing. There were no streetsigns anymore, not for a while; but Chris knew every turn he needed to take and how long he needed to walk on each road—not that time mattered. He knew when to hide behind half-demolished buildings because demons always patrolled this street, and humans always patrolled that one.

Some time later—Chris didn’t know how long it was; it didn’t really matter—he was in front of yet another torn-down building. It looked exactly like some of the ones he had hid in on the way back—they all looked the same—but Chris knew this was it. He had to know after living here for so long.

Though the doors were still in tact, no one bothered to use them. When one of the walls was completely ripped away, there was no need to use a door. However, Chris climbed up the asphalt stairs, broken in more places than they weren’t. His fingers grasped the door handle, and he pulled the door open. Perhaps he wanted the feeling of normalcy that he had desired for so long, no matter how much he denied he ever wished for it. Wishing was for children or people who had not yet learned how life worked. This was his small contribution, though, his small gesture of belief that someday—maybe in one million years—the world might be rebuilt.

A wave of sounds hit him—babies crying as mothers tried to sing them to sleep, off-key, even though there was no chance of them falling asleep when they were still hungry after three nights of no food. Their mothers had no milk to give them because, for milk, the mother needed her own nutrition, which everyone lacked in major doses. The stench of sweat filled his nostrils, but he was used to it by now, just as he had adapted to everything else.

Chris stepped inside and let the door bang shut behind him. No one stopped his or her actions to see who had entered; he doubted anyone had actually heard him enter to begin with. Here, he was no one special, not a savior or a Messiah. He was no one other than Chris.

Wyatt had offered him a place by his side, a chance to be great, one of the most important people in the world. Chris shrugged. To him it was better to be someone who could blend in, someone no one turned to see when he entered the room, someone who could wander the streets at night without being recognized.

Living in a hell like this, he was just who he wanted to be. He wasn’t Chris Halliwell, progeny of the eldest Charmed One and an Elder, brother to the most powerful evil the world ever knew. He was just Chris—plain Chris.

When he walked into a room, no one stood respectfully, no one stopped what they were doing; few people even bothered to greet him. The world didn’t stop for him. Demons kept killing mortals and witches, mortals kept killing mortals, witches kept killing mortals and demons and other witches. In his own twisted way, Wyatt viewed this as the perfect world to live in; and he wouldn’t stop his “destiny” just because the oh-so-high-and-mighty Chris pleaded with him.

When Chris stood up and stretched a hand out, no one stopped dying, no one stopped crying, and the rivulets of blood kept on flowing.

Okay, I just totally ran out of time. Please read and review! Byebye

Ciao

Shan