The Damned – A Fiction Short Story by Rose Lind

Trigger warning: Themes of societal abuse, isolation, occultism and misfits. Also swearing.

The Damned

Part 1: The Childhood

Lavinia belonged somewhere else. Nobody knew where, exactly, but most agreed it wasn't here.

She was a most unusual child; everybody noticed. From around the age of two, at exactly 4:00 pm, she would eat a quick snack—a banana or a piece of cheese—step onto the makeshift kiddie stairs at the bathroom sink to brush her teeth, go to the potty, and snuggle into bed fast asleep before the sun had even gone down.

By the age of three, after the hallway light was swapped out for a dim, ten-watt bulb, it was as if she inhabited a secret domain in that darkness. She would arise at 3:00 am. She never needed an alarm, nor did she ever have to be woken. Back when backyards still had chicken coops, her mother would say, "She beats the roosters, everytime, to pour herself a plastic tumbler of milk."

By four, she was digging through her mother's sewing cabinet, hunting for dark fabric scraps to dress her dolls—cutting jagged holes with safety scissors, pulling their tiny arms and necks through the fraying cloth. Her designs became far more exotic when Aunty Linda finally sat her down to teach her basic hand stitches, starting with a simple running stitch.

"Have you got your knot tight?" she said.

"Yes," replied Lavinia, pushing the needle down into the fabric.

"Keep your needle straight—watch it, it's sharp. That's right, pull the thread tight. You've got it taut, good."

From then on, each doll’s wardrobe grew lacy and layered, and every single one received an unprompted Victorian name. Wynfreyr was the big plastic doll from Christmas 1968. Genevieve was the rag doll that had slept in her cot since she was six months old. Edweena was a scrubbed-clean, second-hand find from a garage sale, and Phineous was a machine-washed, rescued fabric pompom clown.

One afternoon, while her mother was at the laundry tub downstairs, she was jarred to catch distinct French phrases floating through the window from Lavinia's tea party in the yard: "Mademoiselle, un peu de thé?"—which Lavinia would then repeat in English: "Would you like a cup of tea? S'il vous plaît."—followed by a whispered, "Oh, yes please!" or a crisp, deliberate "Bon appétit."

But to Phineous, she would only speak enunciated English. "Why do you only speak English to him?" her mother finally asked one day. Without a blink of an eye, Lavinia replied, "He gets uptight."

By five years old, the inevitable milkman jokes started to trail her wherever her parents took her. Her parents had assumed she’d grow out of her looks, too—hoping her gangly, gummy smile and awkward, tilted shoulders might disappear. Her father would try to shrug it off, slipping an arm around his wife. "At least we got her name right," he'd say, deflecting, while her mother nodded in agreement with raised eyebrows to keep it light. The joke only took a darker turn the day her father overheard someone whisper the word vampire—and, well, the rest was history.

Part 2: The Same

As usual, Lavinia pulled herself from bed while the rest of the Southern Hemisphere slept. The hallway was thin, squeezing the faint light into a sliver as the bedroom mirror traced her movement toward the kitchen for coffee.

In the bathroom, another mirror watched Lavinia while 'Largo al factotum' played. Her puffed, flowy silk sleeves—cinched at the wrists with shirred elastic—outlined her arms as her hands gathered her long grey hair, twisting and pinning it into a loose bun.

Though she hadn’t worn makeup in over a year, she did not hesitate to paint on heavy black eyeliner, blinking back the sting as it set. She paused, leaning in toward the mirror and squinting. Hmm, doesn't look too bad. As it dried, The Crone's Digest YouTube channel warning nagged at her thoughts: "My beautiful Cronies, heavy liner ages a woman faster." She stopped and sang out loud with the opera, "Figaro, Figaro, Figaro."

Making her own mind up, she smirked and threw caution to the wind, coat-brushing her lashes with electric blue mascara. "I don't care," she muttered, slipping on her glasses to finish with a swipe of forbidden red lipstick.

Black had never suited her before—it used to drain her complexion and make her look gaunt. Until last week, that is. What changed? Who knew? But right now, in her new second- hand black silk dress, she glowed with an otherworldly, pearlescent radiance—like an older, archetypal Snow White.

Straightening from that thought, she clasped a green jade waterfall necklace around her neck to stare at her reflection. Happy, she turned a slow circle with the music, watching the hem swirl outward, and whispered, "That thrifted dress! Wow. Perfect."

After throwing on her woolen coat and tying the waist belt, she made a calendar entry for tomorrow: Walk to the secondhand shop. Get more bargains.

Part 3: The Crows

Bound for work, the car rolled down the drive when Lavinia caught a shadowy shape in the side mirror—its obsidian eye flashing unflinching alongside her blinker.

"Still in the bad books," she exclaimed.

She could tell by the size and shape that this crow was usually the friendly one. Driving down the road, she thought bitterly about how, for years, she had fed the local crows on Saturday mornings—a sort of old wives' tale remedy for what they called her problem: Saturn afflictions. But last week, she forgot.

And my oh my, forgiveness is slow in their world.

You read about how they have a sense of community, how they name you if you’re kind, even make collective decisions in their clan. But never did she realize, that they would be like the military.

Coming home late Saturday night feeling bad for the slip-up, she had fed them first thing Sunday morning. Well, that’s when things got cold. They didn't caw; they just glared.

She spoke aloud to the empty car. "Like I was issued a chit for a late show. Or gone AWOL."

And since then? Shunned—not just by one, but by the whole bloody lot.

A small ache, like separation anxiety, knotted in her stomach as she sped out of the estate, the dark outline of the Reserve fading behind her.

She amped up the volume, letting the heavy trance bass hit viscerally through the seat.

Between the red and black

Don't tell me no

Do tell me yes

Oh-oh-oh-oh, oh, oh

The beat thudded in sync while her headlights refracted off the slick, wet asphalt.

Between the red and black

Just say yes

Not no

Oh-oh-oh-oh, oh, oh

Red and blue strobes sliced through her windscreen as a silent police car flew past, creating a sudden void in her eyesight.

Oh-oh-oh-oh, oh, oh

The dashboard lights stood alone before the steady streetlights re-engaged her.

Between the red and black—

Oh-oh-oh-oh, oh, oh

A male vocalist screamed: Are you ready?

Part 4: The Sift & Thrift Shop

The Sift & Thrift shop sat right at the street entrance of the Old Flour Mill. Sheila, like all the shopkeepers and precinct regulars, was friendly, singular, and deeply unorthodox.

"Hi! Great to see you again," Sheila called out.

"Yeah, how are you?"

"I'm good, but isn't that fog rolling in?" Sheila asked, peering through the shop front. "It was freezing when I walked down Brisbane Street earlier."

"Sort of," Lavinia murmured, trying not to be rude as her eyes glanced outside. Returning her attention to the racks, she started sifting through the long dresses, her fingers sliding over the vintage fabrics, savoring their texture.

"Oh, we got some real beauties in yesterday," Sheila added, noticing Lavinia's focus.

Lavinia, deep in her thoughts, didn't hear or answer. She knew she could easily duplicate any of these styles herself, but she didn't fancy sewing from scratch anymore. A more forward part of her preferred sifting through other people's memories and cast-offs—bringing them back to life with a bit of embroidery, patches, or dye.

Lavinia saw something, and she pulled the dress out so it was face-on. "Wow, this might work," she murmured.

Grabbing the hanger from the rack, she tucked the hook under her chin and pressed the loud, 1960s ankle-length dress against her body, checking that the shoulder seams aligned with her own. "Right length," she noted, tilting her foot outward from beneath the hem.

Its bold geometric print—concentric circles of bright pink, red, and gold—paired with dramatic leg-o'-mutton sleeves made a striking statement. Satisfied that even that decade's strict size 14 measurements would fit her, she thought those endless wanderings through the Reserve had paid off, trimming her down without her noticing.

But as she slid the zipper, the teeth stuck, and inside the bodice the lining felt dry and brittle.

The next was a beautiful olive long-sleeve dress featuring a double drawstring at the waist and big, oversized rectangular pockets sewn right onto the hips.

"Oh God, it's me," Lavinia exclaimed.

Sheila looked up from her crossword puzzle, still feeling a bit bruised by how her earlier attempt at conversation had been sidelined. She spoke aloud to the shop, "Four-letter word for precipitation?" Answering herself, she muttered, "Ah, rain."

Lavinia lifted the dress near the lamp, but the fabric appeared dull and heavy. She rubbed the material between her thumb and forefinger—it felt completely wrong. Scratchy. It would be unbearable against the skin.

Next was a black ruched dress. Yuck.

A white linen one—frumpy.

A yellow polyester dress. No, no heavy polyester.

A stretch-knit A-line black number—nice, but not her style.

A sky-blue print. No.

Another black dress. Double yuck.

And then, it stood out: a red hood.

Pulling the garment from the rack, she realized it was a full cloak. Instantly, a vivid memory resurfaced: years ago, she had painted a bridge in Montville with a figure in a red robe crossing toward a grove of tall redwoods. A sudden chill ran down her spine. She’d read about this kind of phenomenon and muttered under her breath, "A classic return of the repressed."

Sheila chipped in from the counter, "How are you going over there?"

"I like this, though I'd never wear it," Lavinia said, displaying the cloak. "I mean... it’s like my subconscious mind is playing tricks on me."

"How so?" Sheila asked, leaning forward.

"I painted something almost identical over twenty-five years ago."

Sheila paused, tapping her pen against the counter. "Well, what’s the difference between who you were then and who you are now?"

"I got pulled into duty," Lavinia said softly, "instead of living in my creator energy."

"Then put it in your wardrobe," Sheila advised with a gentle nod. "That way, every time you open the door, you’ll see the self you used to be—and integrate that experience right back into your life."

"Nice," Lavinia murmured, holding the red cloth close as she walked to the counter. "I'll take it."

"That'll be fifteen dollars. Cash or credit?"

The till pinged open. "Do you want a receipt?"

"No, thanks."

Lavinia stepped toward the doorway, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the change in light. Outside, the world had grown dull, and the sight of the low, creeping fog cued Sheila to speak again: "It's going to be a full solar eclipse soon—less than an hour!"

"Oh, I didn't know," Lavinia exclaimed.

Part 5: The Bridge

Lavinia felt flat. What on earth had she gotten herself into? She couldn't look up—one glance at the eclipse would burn her retinas out. And it wasn't just cold; it was bloody cold. She shivered violently, her teeth chattering as the air clawed at her vitality. An icy, falling dampness added to her distress, seeping straight through her clothes into her bones, which answered with a dull, throbbing ache.

Then the wind picked up, its sharp bite forcing an automatic gasp of "Oh God" from her chest.

She hadn't dressed properly at all. What had she been thinking? A sweater, denim jeans, a woolen vest, and a singlet might have been fine for a morning walk, but not for this. She had simply forgotten what every local knew: the Ekka always brought the August winds, and they were completely unpredictable—shifting from dead stillness to a howling gale in seconds.

The cloak.

Reaching into her calico bag, her fingers caught the lining of the squashed red velvet. She pulled the garment free and threw the heavy cloth over her shoulders. Settling the seams in place, she lifted the oversized hood over her head.

It hung so low over her face that she instantly felt four years old again, huddling under a bedsheet with her brother. She could almost hear Geoffrey’s voice: "Woo woo, there's ghosts, Vinny!"

She would giggle and answer, "There is not, Silly!"

And then, dropping into that mock-serious, crotchety voice, her big brother would add, "Fräulein, the world is so dark under here..." If she didn't laugh, he’d tickle her until she squealed that she needed to go to the toilet, prompting their mother’s familiar shout from the kitchen: "Geoffrey, stop tickling her!"

The memory brought a sudden bloom of comfort.

With her nearly numb hands, she fumbled with the heavy buttons near her throat until they were fastened. She gathered the front panels, overlapping them tightly and clutching the cloth against her chest with her left hand. With her right, she instinctively slipped her fingers into the deep, warming, hidden side pocket.

Her fingertips brushed against a piece of paper. It felt old, thin, and brittle.

Then came the stillness. The wind stopped instantly. Her tense muscles relaxed as the deep, comforting warmth of the cloak took hold. The relief gave her a moment to look ahead into the invasive shadow. There, just visible through the dimming light, sat the wooden bridge—the threshold to her path into the Reserve.

Part 6: The Jury

Heavy wings flapped overhead as four shadows settled into the gums at the far end of the bridge. The largest crow let out a single caw—less a call to its flock, more a judge handing down a sentence.

"It's about bloody time," Lavinia muttered.

Her joke fell flat. She couldn't see their eyes, but she felt the weight of their silence.

Then, total blackness.

She felt the memory of her World War I veteran great-granddad’s hand on her shoulder: "Honey, you have one of two choices: a wound or a scar."

A screech ran through her brain. Blinded and in traumatizing pain, she reached out, hands groping in the dark, feet shuffling until her palms struck the smooth wooden railing at the edge of the bridge.

For seven dark minutes, the sentence held.

The silence pressed in further—cold, heavy, and full of judgment. It brought a crashing wave of the exact loneliness she’d spent a lifetime fending off with doll tea parties, fabric scraps, and blasting music: the terror of being an alien creature in an isolating world.

Then, the light in the sky flickered like a dodgy fluorescent tube.

Her heart hammering, a sudden impulse made Lavinia grab the brittle paper from her pocket. Shaking and squinting hard, she turned the vintage cash register receipt over to find a short message written in faded, blue ballpoint ink:

Remember who you are, Lavinia!

Tea at 2? Love Wynfreyr

P.S. Phineous is still uptight.

"Remember who you are," she said.

She repeated it until power surged up her spine.

"Remember who I am!" she roared at the end with a scream.

She pointed her fingers to the sky, quickly whispering to whatever stood behind her: "Sans le temps, la physique est abolie." Then saying it in English, "When there is no time, physics is abolished."

Clicking her heels together, she commanded, "Vienna!"

In a flash, the crows and herself disappeared.

The bush snapped back to attention as the sun reappeared—breathing warm, familiar, and friendly, as if nothing had happened.

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