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They say that Death is omniscient; a benevolent being clothed in spidery drapes with the souls of the unforgivable sewn into them, a cold void for a face and wielding its double-edged scythe like a man on a mission.
They say that Death is equality. It comes for all – there are no distinctions between who it takes. Throughout the whole of time Death takes. Relentless and unforgivable. There’s nothing to death. Not when you know that death is inevitable.
They say that Death is a hurricane – unpredictable, a ruthless, savage beast that shreds through the way of life and tears loved ones away from each other.
For Nora, Death comes in the form of a broken promise.
It’s Thanksgiving. Candles decorate the house – on the coffee table, by the roaring fireplace, on the shelves – Nora isn’t quite sure why her mother went all out with the candles but it makes the house warmer. Often she finds herself staring at the tiny flames in fascination – fragile wisps casting a golden-yellow hue, a little pool of melted wax at its base as they flicker in the temperamental way fire does.
Still, there was an emptiness in the building.
Her mother rushes around, always moving, cooking cleaning, talking. Not once does she pause to think of her husband. She can’t afford to, not with Nora around, hoping and dreaming for her father to return.
No one wants to tell her that hope is a dangerous thing.
Sighing, Nora curls up on the couch, tucking her knees into herself, arms wrapped around them like a barrier. Her eyes remain fixed on the candles on the table, dancing in and out of sight, quivering from even the slightest breath.
“Do you think he’ll be back in time?”
It’s a whisper – Iris had never heard her daughter’s voice so small – barely audible over the clutter of cutlery. But her mother freezes, places the fork she was holding on the table with a gentle clink and joins Nora in the sofa’s embrace.
Nora refuses to meet Iris’ eyes as her mother leans over and folds her daughter’s hands into her own. It’s only now that Nora realises that, despite the ridiculous number of candles, her hands were icy.
“Nothing has ever stopped the West-Allen family from celebrating Thanksgiving together. And,” she continues, tenderly tipping Nora’s head up to look at her, “we won’t be starting now.”
There’s a firmness in her voice, an unwavering faith, that Nora almost envies. Iris West-Allen is one of the strongest women she knows – her own special kind of force that would move mountains to ensure her family’s happiness.
Tears burn at the back of her eyes as she throws her arms around her mother, staring at one of the many flickering candles that illuminate the living room.
Somehow, Nora makes it through the night, barely reassured by her mother’s words with every passing minute but keeping the flame of hope alive – fanning it and protecting it from the winds of despair.
Everything is ready in the West-Allen household – Nora’s mother made sure of that. When her husband comes home, everything will be perfect. The rest of the family had arrived for Thanksgiving dinner, congregating in the living room. It’s cramped but cosy, an armchair by the fire ignored in favour of sitting on the leaning against the couch or lingering by the walls.
No one wants to say it out loud.
Each and every one of them are wishing desperately for a miracle.
Nora gets lost in the quiet hum of conversation, the way the wrinkles around Grandpa Joe’s eyes get deeper when he smiles and her baby cousins with an innocence that she craves so much. Uncle Cisco and Aunt Caitlin arrive a bit later – hugs are exchanged, some lingering longer than others as they remember and offer their own reassurance.
And then there’s a knock on the door.
There’s a moment where no one moves. Nora makes eye contact with her mother. Grandpa Joe’s eyes widen infinitesimally and Uncle Wally clutches Auntie Jesse’s hand.
Nora scrambles to the door right behind her mother, knocking over a plethora of ornaments in their wake. The rest of the family on the edge of their seats, a new light *coming into* their eye
It’s her mother who opens the door first. Nora stands further back, bouncing on her toes, lingering like a nervous butterfly ready to lift off and catch her father in her hug – to feel the warmth of his arms around her once again.
A sharp, bitter gust of wind whips through the hallway and extinguishes a candle. Iris’ doe eyes widen, lips parting and voice catching in her throat as she crumples to the floor, shoulders shaking, tears tracking silver scars down her cheeks.
Standing at the door is a man, rather prim-looking, barely shivering from the cold. There is nothing familiar about him and yet he carries her father’s possessions, tucked away in small box like a cruel joke of a gift.
Her heart stutters and all movement ceases. It becomes too much for her – her mother’s gut-wrenching sobs, the hollowness in the pit of her stomach, the rows on rows of candlelight that create a façade of joy.
“I’m sorry but Mister Bartholomew Henry Allen died heroically this afternoon…”
Nora stops listening. She already knew.
Nothing in this household would make things bright again. The only thing she wanted was the twinkle in her father’s eyes, the quirk of his lips when he told a particularly silly joke, the sureness in his embrace.
Nora didn’t care if he died heroically. She didn’t want a hero.
She needed her dad.
you have come of age with our young nation
we bleed and fight for you
sometimes it seems that’s all we do