Post-Boffo

It's a girl.

She names her Isis, because she still has dreams of wading through blood with the moon balanced between her arms; she wants her daughter to be everything she could not be.

The baby, like all babies, is perfect (perfection is a relative thing through a mother's eyes) in every way, from the articulation of her fingers to the shock of red hair on her head. Isis. Ishtar. Inana.

Warrior. Mother. Queen. Her eyes will be full of fire when they finally open. But to her mother, she is only a child now, her child, and she is perfect without the weight of her name, so small and warm and full of possibilities.

Carly wakes up with tears on her face, breathing hard. Her bed is as empty now as it has been for the last year, her room as dark.

In the hollow quiet of early morning, she lies awake and wishes she still dreamed of wading through blood.