Home Who: Rowan Where: His old house When: Late morning
It hadn't really been a conscious decision to go back to his mother's house. He'd been off in the vague direction of the neighborhood, trying to go further afield and away from the more picked-over areas in the center of town, and he'd recognized Maple's old school. After that, he'd angled along a familiar street, and when he saw his own roof, he'd just found himself lofting downwards, keeping an eye on the ground for movement out of habit, and landing in his own backyard.
The sliding glass door had been shattered, and he had to pull the light slippers he'd brought with him on in order to even make it inside the house. Everything there was a mess: the furniture had been torn up, broken, or knocked aside; the furnishings had been torn into strips; the books and movies had been shredded and tossed around. The cupboards had been spilled open everywhere, though Rowan's poking around in the back did come up with some canned goods, a box of Easy Mac, and plastic-packaged snacks that hadn't been stolen or spoiled. They went into one of the two backpacks he'd brought with him.
That wasn't what he was here for, though. Now that he was inside, he knew what he was here for. He crept through the demolished house, eyes wide and heart beating heavily inside his chest. There was no fear here, but there was an intense, painful sadness. Grief, even. This or that item had been spared, and it wrenched at his heart every time he saw something whole. He had to pick it up and take it with him, no matter what it was: one of his mother's salt and pepper shakers; his little sister's barrettes; a book he'd hated, but Oak had loved; a dream catcher.
He avoided the master bedroom. He didn't want to know what had become of his mother's body, or his youngest brother-- both of them were in there, curled up together on the bed where they'd died. The room where he'd locked Maple and Oak no longer had a door-- or a window. They'd clawed their way out, eventually, leaving behind destruction. Rowan slumped down onto his own bed, wings half-spread against the wall behind him, staring around him and trying to reconcile this devastation around him with his happy memories about the house.
When he saw the whole stuffed animal left behind, the very last one that he himself had left over from childhood and had donated to Maple, he couldn't hold it back any longer. He snatched up the little stuffed dog, held it to his chest, broke down, and cried. Loud, painful, racking sobs for everything he'd lost, everyone who had died, and the ruin that had become of his home-- his family-- his childhood. It'd been days since he'd really cried. More than a week, even. Ever since that first day, and the rare night he'd been alone in his room, without Juniper or Liah or anyone to be strong for. Anyone to hold himself together for.
And even now, in the back of his mind, he couldn't help but think: at least there was no one here to see him.