Waking Nightmares

This is part of an ongoing story that begins with The Initiative

Mina shoved her way through the revolving door and burst out into the street, the wind cool against her blazing cheeks. Damn Delancey St. Clair. Damn him. She hunched her shoulders against the gusts and walked quickly down the street, wanting to put as much distance as possible between herself and Del. It was stupid to meet with him—stupid to put herself this close to Holler, Grim, Alberich & Mors. She had given into a moment of sentimentalism and contacted Delancey when she was a bottle of wine deep and alone in her tiny apartment. Del had no idea she was living in Boston—she was sure of that much. Why would he? She had no doubt he remembered her, but she knew better than to believe he still thought about her. She wished she didn’t still think about him, the arrogant asshole. Mina’s jaw ached and she realized she was grinding her teeth.
She glanced up to see the Boston Public Library looming ahead and walked quickly up the stairs to enter the warmth. The two stone lions at the top of the marble staircase stared impassively at her as she passed them, wandering the marble halls until she came to the Abbey Room, emblazoned with paintings by Edward Abbey depicting the quest and discovery of the Holy Grail. She leaned against the doorway, admiring the vivid works and letting her mind drift.
She had finally begun to feel safe, snug in her creaking, drafty apartment. That was before she saw him—she would recognize that face anywhere. The nightly nightmares kept it fresh, undimmed by time. She heard his name—the name he used in daylight—for the first time as the bartender handed him the bill. She shouldn’t have been in that part of town—but the cobbled streets and gaslights of Beacon Hill drew her in, reminding her of home in that small Russian town, of a simple time before her home meant blood pooling on the wooden floors her mother meticulously mopped and the china from her many times great grandmother’s dowry smashed and smeared with crimson.

The wine bar had seemed cozy, welcoming, and she sat at her corner table letting the flow of conversation around her sweeten her wine. She noticed him after a quarter of an hour, sitting at the end of the bar. His silver hair caught her eye and the expanse of his broad shoulders made her fingers go cold. The slightly crooked nose and pointed chin were unmistakable and the smile that he flashed the bartender almost made her drop her glass. She turned her head to the wall and drank as he got up to leave, scarcely able to breathe until she heard the door shut and saw him walk past the windows as he disappeared into the night. Richard Moretti. The name resonated in her brain. She knew him before only as Sinistrari.
She finished her wine and waited for the tremors in her hands and knees to subside before paying and slipping quietly out of the restaurant and making her way back to her flat. She immediately got out her laptop and searched for Richard Moretti. She had no doubt he would be a man of importance. When she found out the reach of his public influence, however, she was floored. CEO of a large XYZ company, he was known for his generosity and charitable nature. Photo after photo showed him shaking hands with someone and flashing his blazing smile for the camera. She shut the laptop as a wave of nausea rushed over her. It seemed to stretch belief that he could be in the city in which she chose to hide. She did not think he would leave Europe. She cursed herself for not checking—but what would she have used? Perhaps Richard Moretti was one of his many names, just because he originated in Italy did not mean he used his real name. She panicked then and opened her computer again, hammering out an email to Delancey St. Clair—a search for him found his cocky grin smiling up at her from the website of Holler, Grim, Albrecht, & Mors. A name she saw over and over in association with Sinistrari—Moretti. His legal counsel.
Despite that, she clicked on Delancey’s company email and sent him a message from one of her many disposable addresses. It was apparently too much to hope that Del would notice the message within her chosen handle. WilHMurray. Wilhemina Murray. As an alias it was obvious to her eyes, but, apparently not to his. The library suddenly seemed oppressive and she turned away from the intricate Abbey paintings and walked slowly down the stairs and out into the blustery day. She couldn’t believe Del was working for the firm that supported such ilk as Moretti—she had to get used to thinking of him that way. The last thing she needed was to go spill the name Sinistrari to someone. Looking up at the gray sky, all the anger seemed to leech out of her. What right did she have to expect Del’s help? She drug him straight into the middle of her mess ten years ago in Budapest and left him without so much as an explanation. Or a goodbye.

At lunch, she had searched the collected and sophisticated face of the young lawyer in front of her for a sign of the impetuous Delancey—little more than a boy—that she thought she knew. She remembered the last day—the last night. Remembered the chill of the hotel room as she slid out from beneath Delancey’s encircling arm and warm sheets and slipped out of the room. They had gone to the ballet that day—she convinced him and he protested in the Louisiana drawl she found so charming. He hadn’t lost that, at least. He was still charming, of that she was sure. A face like his would win the most stable woman over—and she had been so far from equilibrium. She remembered the faintest taste of his cologne on her lips as she pressed a farewell kiss to his bare shoulder and left when the sun was just peeking over the red roofs of Budapest.
Could she really blame him? She dragged him into a world most people still didn’t know existed outside the annals of fiction. She wouldn’t have believed it herself if she hadn’t seen them herself—jaws unhinging like a snake’s and a double set of sharp teeth descending to tear out the throats of her mother, father, her brother Piotr, her sister Nastia—all snuffed out in gouts of hot crimson.
The certainty she was having a nightmare faded when one of them stepped forward, his teeth receding as his face returning to normal. Normal but for the smears of blood around his face. He bent down towards her, his sharp chin catching the dim light. The strange noises that drew her from her bed had given no warning of this—the floating, nighttime drowsiness only enhanced the nightmare effect. And so, she did not shy away from the man who crouched down in front of her, hands and face dripping with her family’s blood.
He greeted her in Russian. “Hello, little one.”
She stared mutely at him, in dreams, one could not speak.
“What is it Sinistrari?” One of the other men asked, wiping his face with a red handkerchief he pulled from somewhere inside his coat.
“A child, Valac. Only a child.”
“What are you waiting for, then?”
“This one lives.” The man in front of her tilted his silver-haired head to the side and regarded her.
“What?” The one called Valac’s voice dropped to a hiss.
“When she wakes again, this will all be as a dream.” Sinistrari’s voice never broke its deep, gentle cadence.
He leaned towards her and opened his mouth wide again. Mina shut her eyes, certain that there would be a snap of teeth and she would awaken, but there was only a rush of breath across her face—strangely cooler than the warmth of the living room—and smelling of cold earth. She opened her eyes and saw the familiar shapes of her bedroom cast into shadow by her flickering nightlight. It wasn’t until the next morning that she saw the bare, bloodied footprints that streaked her bedroom floor and recognized them as her own. The six year old Mina’s testimony of monsters was discounted with much sympathetic headshaking and murmurs of trauma. Her aunt in St. Petersburg took her in and, once Mina was stirred into the mixture of four cousins, treated her no differently than one of her own.

She walked through the Boston Public Garden—where some of the trees still clung to their colorful autumn crowns—feeling aimless. She didn’t want to return to her apartment. She thought she would meet with Del and have all her problems solved. A completely ridiculous notion–born from some lingering damsel in distress fantasy. If he couldn’t help her, it would be just another disappointment she could pencil into the column reserved for Delancey St. Clair.

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Old Friends


© Hannah Sears

© Hannah Sears

continuation of the story begun with the Initiative and the Firm, if you wish to avoid confusion, at least read the Firm before this one.

          Del knew the office emails were swept periodically, but nothing in his message or the spam emails should give anyone pause. No one knew about Budapest–the emails could be a past fling, or a disgruntled acquaintance. He grinned wryly at the thought. When it came to women, there was the good kind of crazy and the bad. He had no problem with the first, but he knew dabbling in the second was a good way to burn. His inbox dinged–a message from his boss. Marcus Colubra wanted to see him at 8:30 a.m. Del checked his Rolex–a gift from the Firm for earning his spot as an Associate Partner–and saw it was 8:20. The walk to Marcus’ office would take him that long. He straightened his tie and nodded to his colleagues as he walked down the long hallways that led him to the massive double doors. People joked about getting company golf carts to navigate the office. Marcus’ doors were supposedly taken from an ancient temple in Ethiopia. Del wouldn’t be surprised; Marcus was a self-proclaimed procurer of rare objects with astronomical price tags and equally complicated pasts. Del opened one of the heavy panels and peeked in.
          “Ah, Delancey. Come in, come in, son.” Marcus’ lips twitched in a small smile.
          Del gritted his teeth and tried to keep his face pleasant, Marcus was the only one who could get away with calling him “son”–and only because he paid Del disgusting amounts of money and held power over his basic existence at the Firm. He stepped forward to shake Marcus’s hand, feeling the papery skin shift over the Executive Partner’s bony fingers. Marcus waved at one of the hulking leather chairs in front of his desk and Del perched on the edge. He knew from past experience that settling back made one sink into the chair, and he wanted Marcus at eye-level.
          “Scotch?” Marcus held up a faceted decanter.
          “Ah, no thanks,” Del said. He was from Louisiana, and it was five o’clock somewhere, but in Boston it was before 10 am and he had to draw the line somewhere.
          “Not a scotch drinker?” Marcus poured a generous amount into a Waterford crystal glass.
          “Not before I have my coffee, sir.”
          “To each his own.” Marcus lifted his glass slightly in a toast before sitting in the throne-like chair behind his desk.. “I haven’t spoken to you since you wrapped up the Parkhurst case. A decisive victory, wasn’t it?”
          “Yes, sir,” Del shifted slightly under the effusive praise. “The prosecution didn’t stand a chance. Mr. Parkhurst was…very appreciative.”
          “I’m certain he was. I hope you understand the great amount of trust we placed in you, allowing you to handle Parkhurst. They are one of our oldest clients.”
          Del swallowed before answering; the switch to the “royal we” was rarely a good sign. “I appreciate your confidence in me and, if I may speak honestly, sir, I enjoyed the opportunity to work with such an important client.”
          “You exceeded our wildest imaginings, Delancey. I don’t mind admitting to you that my expectations were exceptionally high. I’ve been keeping an eye on you, my boy, since we first dredged you out of your Louisiana swamp.”
          Del knew his boss meant no offense, but the joke fell flat and he forced a smile, waiting for the older man to continue.
          “We’d like you to take on more responsibility, if you’re willing,” Marcus said.
“I’d like that very much, sir,” Del said.
          “Glad to hear it. Since you became an Associate Partner, you have been briefed on some of our…special cases.”

          Del nodded his affirmative, everyone higher than the mail-room knew about the special cases–whether they were supposed to or not. Marcus set down his glass and folded his hands on the desk, his dark eyes fastening on Del as he cocked his head to the side. Del sighed inwardly; every attorney had a flair for the dramatic, but not many enjoyed it quite as much as Marcus Colubra. Del could imagine stage directions as Marcus pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. Get on with it, Old Man he thought.
          “We’d like you to take on a very special case, Delancey. One that will be different from anything you’ve worked before. All other cases will be delegated to your associates–we want you focused. This is one of the Big Ones.”
          Del heard the capital letters and tried to sound awed as he responded that he was honored by their notice, of course he would do whatever they asked.
          “It’s a very unique case–even for us–and it’s imperative that you exercise the utmost discretion. You’ll submit your budget, expenses, progress updates, and billable hours to my office. We’ll discuss your pay once the ink is dried, but I can assure you, Delancey, it will be well worth your time.” Marcus leaned back in his seat.
          “Yes, sir,” Del said. “Thank you sir.”
          “Very well,” Marcus’ teeth flashed white against his dark skin. “Thank you, Delancey.”

          Del nodded, knowing he was dismissed and stood, trying not to hurry out the door. If he had to say “sir” one more time, he was going to need a glass of scotch. Back in his office, the day ticked by more slowly than he would have thought possible. It was Friday and he had nothing on the books, nothing to occupy him except the tingle of unease as the clock inched closer towards 3:00 p.m. and letting his imagination run rampant about his new case. Without a name, Delancey could only guess it was one of the so-called “Big Five”–a mixture of companies, individuals, and families–who received top priority. He gave up trying to guess after a quarter of an hour combing the internet for the few names he knew. For all he knew, there were people even higher than the Big Five. Just thinking of the levels and layers of secrecy that were part of daily life at the Firm made his head ache.His clock was stuck at 11:30 a.m. and he suddenly couldn’t stand his office for another minute.
          Pulling on his coat, he slipped out of his office and down the silent elevator to the ground floor. He nodded at the security guard and pushed through the revolving door. The air that hit his face was damp from the rain the low clouds promised. Del flipped up his collar and shoved his hands in his pockets, striding down the street until he reached Copley Square. Dead leaves whirled in eddies created by the icy wind and he hunched his shoulders, staring up at the Romanesque front of Trinity Church with its stone facade, columns, and archways. The roof of the church was red and he couldn’t help but think of Budapest. It wasn’t Marcus or the new case that made him tense. It was those damn emails. He didn’t want to wait until three. He wanted to see her now so that he could wring her scrawny, little…

          “Hello, Del.”
          Fingers of cold crept down his coat collar and into his bones that had nothing to do with the biting wind. Del turned to face her.
          “Hello, Mina.”
          Mina Volkov, standing in front of him in Boston. He could hardly believe it. Her slight frame was swathed in a stylish black coat with a collar like a stovepipe that reached her chin. Her hair was black this time–he’d see it blonde, red, and even blue–and angled at her jaw, making her high cheekbones stand out. It also emphasized the stubborn jut of her pointed chin. Del grimaced.
          “This isn’t the Top of the Hub,” he said as she stared up at the church.
          “Obviously.” Her accent was barely noticeable compared to the first time they met.
          “Did you think I wouldn’t come?” he asked, resisting the urge to grab her shoulders and shake her.
          “I didn’t know.” She was still looking at the church and he wondered if she, too, was remembering their last night in Budapest.

          She was blonde then and her hair was long. They were just leaving the ballet and it was snowing and she was laughing. laughing at him, at his confused awe as the white flakes came drifting down. It was the first time he’d seen snow falling. If he didn’t know Mina, didn’t know the curve of her cheek, the set of her mouth, he would hardly have recognized her today. He could think of nothing else to say. The obvious questions–Why are you here? What’s this about?–were questions to which he already knew the answer. Budapest.

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The Firm


© Hannah Sears

© Hannah Sears

While you don’t need to read anything prior to this, I suggest you check out The Initiative first

          Delancey St. Clair hadn’t arrived at the law offices of Holler, Grim, Alberich & Mors later than 7:50 a.m. in five years. On his first day at Holler, Grim, Alberich, & Mors–known by employees as “the Firm”–he was ten minutes late and thought he was going to lose his job and breakfast during the earsplitting lecture from his superior. Since then, come blazing heat, deluge, or freak blizzard, he was on time. The newest receptionist smiled timidly at him, sliding through the elevator doors before they snapped shut. Del smiled back; she was cuter than the last one. He knew he made them nervous, always arriving before they opened the office. A silly tenet of office protocol, really. Some people never left, showering in the company gym’s locker-room and keeping three extra suits around. At the Firm, the lights were always on and the place was never entirely empty.
          He winked at the new girl as she settled herself behind the tall mahogany and glass desk. The walls across from her were covered in awards: Boston Business of the year, nine years running, the Beacon Award for Diversity and Inclusion, four years running, and countless other plaques and meticulously framed certificates–all polished to a mirror-like sheen. He wondered briefly when the cleaning staff came in; he never remembered seeing anyone. Shrugging it off as another of the Firm’s many mysteries, he continued down the thickly carpeted hallway to his office. In one of the offices across from his, several men in worker’s coveralls were ripping up the carpet. Del shook his head; they went through too much carpet here–especially with the new Executive Partner. He paused to admire his nameplate–Delancy St. Clair, Associate Partner–the black letters were still bold against the brass plate, barely a month old. Of course, it didn’t matter that there were dozens upon dozens of Associate Partners at the Firm, it was just another rung on the ladder.
          Del slid into the buttery-soft leather chair and started up his computer, drumming his fingers on his glass-topped desk. His law degree from Louisiana State University hung on one wall and a bookshelf of various law books lined the other. He had a few decorative items from his travels–some of his more unique cases often took him out of Boston–but no photos. No clutter, he thought, surveying the room. The third wall, behind him, was solid glass and if he glanced over his shoulder, he would see fog draping the buildings in Back Bay. It was his favorite time of year–when fall was flirting with winter and the trees still wore manes of riotous gold and flame.
          He skimmed his emails, consigning some to the trash and answering others. he’d wrapped up a tough case the week before–another “W” added to his record–and was grateful it had been a relatively slow week. He could use a few days to unwind. But the week was almost done and Del felt twitchy. He ran a hand through his dark hair–worn longer than most considered professional and certainly long enough to irritate his mother–and adjusted his silk tie. Eyeing his spam folder, he noticed it was fuller than usual and opened it, scanning through misspelled advertisements for porn sites masquerading as online dating services and phishing scams. As he reached the bottom, he saw three emails; each sent a day apart the week before from the same address. He didn’t recognize it–WilhmMurray17@aol.com–but the subject line sent his heart rocketing into his throat before sending it down to rest in the toes of his handmade Italian leather shoes. All three had a single word in the subject line: Budapest.
          Del’s mouse hovered over the first message, sent at 4:26 a.m. on October 23rd. He swiveled around to face the Boston skyline instead. The fog blurred the tops of the tallest building into the slate-colored sky and for a moment, instead of the towering glass peak of the John Hancock building, he saw the white spires and brick colored domes of Budapest’s Parliament building, and, just beyond it, the flash of the Danube. He swore suddenly, violently, and glanced over his shoulder at the thick door. Keep it together , he told himself. Turning back to the desk he rubbed his hand roughly across his chin before clicking on the first email.


It’s Budapest all over again, but this time, you’re sleeping with the monsters.


          He exhaled slowly, it was more concise than he expected–not that it made much sense. He clicked the second.

I know who you work for. Bastard.

          This was was unsigned by even a single letter, but it was unmistakeable. After the first shock of seeing “Budapest” and realizing the sender could only be one person, Del felt calmer. He clicked the final email.

Top of the Hub, 3:00 p.m. November 8th.

          He felt chilled as he double checked the date; November 8th. Damn her , he thought. He clicked the reply button. The blinking cursor reminded him of an animated exclamation mark, silently demanding an answer.

Lovely to hear from you. I can’t remember the last time we spoke–must have been at the ballet in Hungary. I apologize for my delayed response; I hope you haven’t made other plans. I will meet you at the Top of the Hub at 3:00 p.m. today.
Delancey St. Clair

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I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that I’m not not quite sure

Chuck Close said that “Inspiration is for amateurs” but I’d like to disagree. I can see how inspiration can easily become just another excuse, or a crutch, but I find it helpful rather than harmful.

I find two things inspire me easily. One is photography–whether I’m taking photos or just looking at them, there’s something about looking at interesting or intriguing pictures that kickstarts something in me. It’s the beginning of my first real winter here as a new New Englander and I can’t even handle how gorgeous freshly fallen snow is in a city like Boston. It makes me feel. I took a long walk in the snow (my first snow here!) and took pictures until my phone died. I’d left my headphones at a friend’s place so it was just me and that peculiar silence that snow settles on a city. 




As hinted above, I’m rarely without my headphones. I spend a lot of time listening to music. It always gets my brain moving–even if I’m just thinking or remembering or, hell, crying. In case anyone else is in an inspiration desert (not that deserts can’t be inspiring but…cut me some slack here), I’m going to post my current “playlist” as it were. 

Bastille – (Technically the whole Bad Blood Album) Pompeii

Bastille – Flaws

Bastille – Daniel in the Den

The Ballroom Thieves – Wait for the Water

The Ballroom Thieves – Delia

The Ballroom Thieves – Save Me

Joshua James – Crash This Train

All Good Things – Invincible 

Twin Forks – Back To You

Greg Laswell – Comes and Goes (in Waves)

Snow Patrol – This Isn’t Everything You Are


*Disclaimer I have not watched most of the videos linked here so apologies if (a) the quality isn’t great or (b) there’s anything inappropriate

Bastille Day Came Early…

I can’t believe I live in this wonderful, beautiful, magical city. I got the chance via a friend to see the band Bastille play today–for free–at a secret event that was invite only. I was VERY late to the Bastille discovery…as in I learned most of their songs today after purchasing their amazing album and playing it on repeat. So why this post? In part because I just finished watching the 2005 Pride and Prejudice (I’m not giving my opinions here) and the phrase “perfectly and incandescently happy” is used. That’s what today was. An incandescently happy day.

© Vers Les Etoiles

© Vers Les Etoiles

On Boston

Anyone who has been following this blog probably knows that I am a recent graduate and that in December I was concluding the nerve wracking process of applying to graduate school for a Master’s of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. After months of waiting and harassing admissions officials, letters started coming in–rejection, rejection, rejection. When I had one school left to hear from I sat at my computer and constantly refreshed the application portal, waiting for my decision to magically appear. Instead, I got a phone call. I couldn’t answer it because I was at the office but when I saw there was a voice-mail I I couldn’t listen to it quickly enough. The first words were (finally) “Congratulations on your acceptance.”  This program happened to be my top choice, not only because of the program itself and its many unique aspects, but also because of the location. Emerson College in Boston, Massachusetts. I had been waiting to announce this news until after I visited Boston and was 300% sure that it was where I wanted to be. I knew I would blog about it and my trip to Boston, but I kept putting it off, not sure exactly how to frame my thoughts.

     Emerson is actually located on Boylston Street in downtown Boston, a street name which is now frighteningly recognizable to people who have never been to Boston and know next to nothing about it. It was on Boylston Street that yesterday, the celebrations at the finish line of the Boston Marathon were turned into a scene of chaos and casualty. I didn’t know anything about the bombing, initially, until a friend who knew I had committed to Emerson College texted me.

     “Did you hear about Boston??”

     Of course I turned to the internet and there at the top were fresh news sources of the blast–some less than 30 minutes old. I watched the live footage of the newscast with the sound off. I read the live blogging of the investigation. Names of places jumped out at me: Copley Square, the Prudential Center, Boylston Street. All these were places I walked around ten days ago. If you’ve ever seen a movie and been able to point out “I’ve been there, I’ve been there,” it is usually with a sense of satisfaction and nostalgia. When I was walking around Boston, I know I saw many places featured in movies and felt that same jolt. As I watched the news, it was with an entirely different feeling of “Oh my gosh, I was just there.”

     My trip to Boston was the deciding factor in whether or not I would actually move over 1,800 miles to spend three years in school in a city where there are actually seasons and winter is the real thing. I fell in love. I had heard it described as a “the most European city in America,” and it was true. Old buildings stood cheek by jowl with shining glass and metal structures, around every corner was an old Gothic looking church and the cobblestone streets were picturesque to the extreme, even when I was tripping over them. On our last day, we saw a Greek festival, went to church in one of the older churches in the city and I enjoyed my last bowl of New England clam chowder. My tour of the school and discussion with the students and advisers had confirmed my decision in the MFA Program and my whirlwind trek across the city–looking at apartments, navigating the T, searching for restaurants–showed me that Boston was where I wanted to be, without the shadow of a doubt. I knew I would be cold and would probably get lost. That living in a city like this where I know no one and don’t have a car would be scary and challenging, but as Boston dropped away below the airplane, I already felt homesick. Not for my home in Texas, but for my new and future home in Boston.

     As I watched the news throughout the day with horror and with grief, I wondered if anyone I had met, however briefly on my weekend in Boston, was running the Marathon. I wondered if one of the buildings I saw in the background was my future school. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I hate running. I’ll do it, but I’ve never felt the runner’s high and the farthest I have ever run is a minuscule number of miles. While I was in Boston, advertisements for the Marathon were plastered on the walls of the T stations, the sides of buildings, the sides of buses. Our guide on the tour we took on our last day talked about it and I began to think that it would be pretty amazing if at some point during my residency in Boston, I could be a part of it. A crazy part considered running in it, although most of my brain knew that wasn’t likely to happen. I had heard of the Boston Marathon, but I never realized what a big thing it was, that it is a holiday for the city. A holiday that will never be looked upon in the same way.

     When things like this happen, I think for many people the first reaction is fear. I’m not saying I’m brave, or that I don’t worry about things, but yesterday’s events did not make me afraid to move to Boston. I spoke in my last post about grief, and it is unfortunate that the theme of sorrow is so appropriate yet again. We should grieve for the lost and the injured in Boston, even if we don’t know anyone there, even if we have never been to Boston. This is a time to come together, and not just because we are Americans, but because we are human beings. So Boston and all it’s residents–not just those directly affected by yesterday’s attack–will be in my thoughts and prayers not only because I will soon call it home, but because it was a horrific and tragic event. It is our duty to those injured and deceased to live our daily lives, but it should be with them constantly in our thoughts. So many people on the news and on social media have mentioned the hope in this seemingly hopeless situation–from the stories of citizens running back towards the blast to help to the story of the marathon runners who, though finished with the race, continued to run to the hospital to donate blood. While it is tempting to see only the evil that prompted this attack, to see only the destruction and the death that is present in this fallen world, it is important to remember that there is light in the darkness, there is hope even in the blackness.

     As Dumbledore once said:

 “Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, when one only remembers to turn on the light.”

     May not only those in Boston but all of us remember that the darkness is not complete, the blackness is not impenetrable, and the night does not last forever.