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         Ponorant City, 7:15pm.

Keep calm.

Carry on.

Keep calm.

The slogan, "Keep Calm and Carry On," was developed by the British during the second World War and was intended to be distributed in the event of a disaster to keep moral up. It was created along with two other posters but was the only one that was not distributed during the war and was soon forgotten. It was only decades later when a couple discovered it where it quickly caught fire and became a worldwide phenomenon.

Those five words cycled through Ianthe's head, a mantra chant following the metronome beating away a frantic tempo. History did nothing to calm her, the trembling of her body had long rendered her limbs useless, her weight supported by the balls of her feet, her toes curled into the carpet. Digging into the carpet, she could feel the pale grey of the fibers in the dimness of her cage, her home, its softness lost on her numbed fingertips, chalk and dust still caked under her fingernails. An animalistic roaring filled her chest, calling to her instinct to continue to push through the wood and stone, to fall through the foundation. No, her foundation was already broken, shattered beyond repair. The rubble which she had built her reality upon was strewn before her, covered in a thick black syrup that shined red as cherries.

Ten years ago, Ianthe remembered, she had caught a nasty germ. Bedridden with a fever, her mother would care for her during the day but it was her father that cooed her cries in the evening. He would spin a tale from his childhood growing up in China before presenting a tiny measuring cup filled with a thick black syrup that shined red as cherries in the light of her tableside lamp. Medicine to make your owie go away, her father would say and wanting nothing more than to make all her ills go away, Ianthe opened her mouth and ....

A terrible metallic taste slipped through her lips. She quickly withdrew the hand from her face, shaking in realization, trying to dispel the thought but the very vapor of her breath smelled of disgust. Bile rose from her stomach. Ianthe managed to upright herself soon enough to allow the contents of her stomach slosh onto the carpet. Disgusting. Hair draped into her face. Ianthe could only think of her mother's slim fingers catching the strands as they fell, ghostly tendrils of a spirit that whispered of times past. A comforting shadow that gripped her shoulders and squeezed her hand, dancing its seductive dance like will-o-wisps threatening to lead her to madness.

Ianthe plaintive cries were lonely this night.

Keep Calm and Carry on.

She wanted to pick her fingers clean. Remove the grim and the dirt. Lick the sea salts that scent her skin. To uncurl her toes and stand tall. Stop the hormones and steroids. To construct a coherent thought. Forget the meaningless slaughter that took place tonight.

Ianthe couldn't comprehend why she was having such a visceral reaction even as vomit dripped from her lips and tears fell from her eyes. In situations like this, it it essential to keep a calm head and make logical decisions to survive. No matter the problem, she prided herself most with her ability to keep a clear mind, calculating the best move, a reach up, hanging by a pinch but never panicking, always in control.

But tonight, control was beyond her.

Her body visibly flinched as the harsh pounding upon the door reverberated through the house. The possibility that it may have been that thing made Ianthe's vision spin and she feared for a moment that she may collapse.

"Tanis? Lei? Ianthe?!" It was Mr. Cale their neighbor. He must have heard the screams, Ianthe thought. She propped herself up right but her body refused to answer his call.

A tall middle aged man burst through the door, opening the door with great vigor but drew back as the sight the dealt great blows to his psyche. From the easterly window the last rays of Ianthe's birthday streamed through, the last if the sun's light lingering on the face of the earth, the moon and stars peeking through curtain moments before the ballet. The blood merged with the longs shadows of a terrible tragedy and Mr. Cale stood with mouth agape until vomiting himself.

It didn't take long for him to draw his cell and dial the police.

It didn't take long for the police to arrive.

All the while, Ianthe could not bring herself to look away from the mangled remains of her parents. An image that stole her voice and her control. Fearful of what she would be capable in such state she withdrew, refusing even the most basic interactions. Even as Mr. Cale worked up the courage to step through carnage, even as the police arrived and lead her away, as the comfort blanket was draped across her shoulders, or the police chief approaching her. Even as she was driven away, even as the nurses bustled about her in frenzy, as the friends and family filed in with tears in their eyes and concern upon their breast, or when she was questioned by investigators.

She feared what she was capable in this state, the focus on the present distracting her from the distant future.