Bring Me To Life Inspired by the song of the same title by EvaneScence Part one: Death’s touch Buck laid on the cold ground feeling the warmth drain from him as he felt his spirit slipping from his body. The pain radiated through him with a force that he had never known, and it doubled as the man’s boot caught his injured side. "Die, you breed," the voiced hissed in the darkness. Buck rolled to his side, coughing, tasting the blood as the man’s boot hit his stomach again. "You will die. I will watch you take your last breath." Buck struggled to move and collapsed back onto the ground. Everything faded away, no sound, no man to torment him, no cold, only silence, peace, and comfort. “They’ve come for me,” he thought, but still, he was not able to make his body move. The man stood above Buck, watching as the Indian gasped, struggling to breathe as death came. “Die?” the man thought, “damn you die.” The stab wound on Buck’s back still oozed warm blood that steamed as it touched the cold, frozen ground. The man stood there for a moment satisfied that Buck had taken his last breath. "You will never touch my sister again, ever. She will not carry your half-breed child. I will see that it dies with you," the man said as he spat on Buck’s body. The snow started to fall softly as night set in, large flakes that looked like cotton quickly blanketed the ground and the only sound Buck heard was that of the soft wind whistling through the trees. Part 2: The Dark Pale Flower was running away, always running away from the other young members of the tribe. They were cruel and hurtful to her, calling her names like Stinking Rose, White Whore, Kokosh (pig), and they would pelt her with rocks. One young man had gone so far as to strike her repeatedly, saying that if her mother had truly wanted to become a Pawnee she should have sacrificed her daughter to the Great Spirit, because no white child should be allowed to live among them. Pale Flower was white, painfully white, and it was something she hated. All the children around her had beautiful, black, flowing hair and dark skin. Her mother had spanked her often when she was little for putting mud in her hair, desperately trying to turn it dark instead of the fire red that it was. Even her half sister, Morning Dove, had beautiful dark hair and dark eyes, and, though she was half white she looked Indian. Morning Dove was beautiful and Pale Flower hated hearing the others express their sympathy to Morning Dove for having her in the family. Pale Flower had finally decided to leave. She had just walked away and no one knew or cared. Her head dropped to her chest, “it would have been better if my mother had just left me to die or sacrificed me as my tormentor had said,” she thought. Pale Flower stumbled as she walked, her feet half frozen, when she saw him. He was lying face down in the snow with a pool of red surrounding him like a dot of ink on a blank page. She drew closer, kneeling down beside him, quietly whispering a prayer thanking the Great Spirit for taking his spirit swiftly. She touched his face to close his half-opened eyes when she recoiled, shocked, as she had felt a warm breath escape his body. She moved quickly and touched his face again. He was alive…his spirit was dangling to his body like a loose thread on a blanket. There was a house just down the hill, but nothing else for miles. Pale Flower stood and ran for the house hoping... When no one answered her knocks, she pushed the door open, peeking in and looking around. Quickly she grabbed the blanket off the bed and ran back to the fallen man. Pale Flower rolled the man onto the blanket, and tugging on the corners she dragged it through the mounds of snow. When she reached the house she slipped her arms under his and pulled him unceremoniously up the steps and into the house. She tried to hurry as he winced in pain and a gasp escaped him. She pulled off his shirt and rolled him to the side, looking at the deep gash. She ran outside, grabbing some snow and packed it into the wound to try to stop or slow the bleeding. As the bleeding slowed, Pale Flower began looking for some bandages. Finding a cloth and some water, she began to gently clean his body. He was lying there on the floor, his all but naked body shivering in the cold. She worked quickly to dry his limbs and wrapped him gently in the sheet, covering him with the quilt she found on a chair. As he laid, there motionless on the floor, she knew he was dying, and that nothing she could do could prevent that. “No one should die alone in the cold snow, butchered like an animal,” Pale Flower thought. She touched the man’s face. It was deathly cold. She moved to the fireplace, placing the wood next to it in a small pile, and taking the matches from the mantel she lit a fire. It did not take long for this small one room home to become quite cozy. She sat there staring at this man lying in front of her and wished she could do something to help him. He was in so much pain. She closed her eyes, rocking back and forth, holding her legs in front of her. “Please help me. Please take his pain away. Please,” she begged over and over. When she opened her eyes she was startled to see an old man beside the dying one. "Are you here to take him?" she found herself asking. The old Indian stood in front of her and smiled. "No, I am here to help you." "How?" she asked nervously. The old man moved toward her and she found herself backing away from him. As her back touched the wall, she stood there, her eyes riveted to his. "Do you wish to heal him?" the old man’s voice grew stronger. Pale Flower nodded her head. "Make his pain stop," she whispered. She had spent hours watching the injured man’s face contort as the pain grew. She had watched silently, helplessly, as tears squeezed from his eyes. "Please help him," she pleaded. "You must, Pale Flower, or he will die," the old man whispered as he touched her forehead and vanished. "I can’t!" she yelled into the nothingness. "Yes, you can." She heard a voice behind her, but when she turned, the room was empty. Only she and the injured man were present. Pale Flower knelt beside the dying man and gently unwrapped him from the sheet. She looked down at his young face, and decided he could not be much older than her. "Who would do this to you?" she found herself asking him as if she expected an answer. She wiped the blood from his cuts again and rolled him to the side. The sheet was puddled with his blood, which flowed freely from the wound on his back. She reached out with the rag and wiped at the blood. Frustrated and angry with herself, she held the rag over the wound, pressing firmly on it. It quickly soaked through her rag and she threw it to the side, grabbing another, the frustration growing in her. She began to shake as tears welled in her eyes. "Why won’t it stop. Make it stop," she yelled again into the darkness as the tears spilt from her eyes onto his skin. "Please, make it stop." Pale Flower closed her eyes and leaned her head against the injured man’s side, whispering to him. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else to do," she cried as she heard him gasping for air, a sound she knew too well. It was a death rattle. The death rider had come for him and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Pale Flower felt a hand touch her hair and a soft voice whisper to her, "Thank you." "For what? I couldn’t help him," she cried, her face still buried in Buck’s side. Why had the old man left her? She sat up angrily to tell this spirit what she thought of his tricks when she realized that the dead man was lying there looking at her, breathing. "But you died," she whispered backing away from him. "I heard you die." Buck looked at her, confused. He was home, but how? He remembered walking toward the house and then pain, unbearable pain, and nothing. Who was she, this strange, young, white woman wearing a buckskin dress? Maybe he really was dead. "Who are you?" he asked, a little afraid to hear the answer. "I saw you die," she said, moving tentatively toward him. She reached out slowly to touch his face, startled by his warmth. She shook her head. "But you were bleeding," she said, grabbing the rag soaked in blood. "You were bleeding and I couldn’t stop it." She forcefully rolled him to his side and looked at the wound. What had only a short time ago been a gaping hole in his back was nothing but a flesh wound that had stopped bleeding. "Who are you?" Buck asked, grabbing the woman by the wrist as he rolled onto his back. He looked up at her, seeing the fear dancing in her eyes. "I’m alive," he said softly, struggling to sit up. "Lie down," she said, pushing him onto his back again. "I didn’t die," he insisted. "Yes you did," she said firmly. As he struggled to sit up again. "Please rest," she said softly. "I had to watch you die once. Please don’t make me do it again," she said, her voice pleading. Buck let out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. "Who are you?" he asked for the third and final time. "Pale Flower," she said softly, staring at her hands. He opened his eyes to look at her. She did not look Indian but he had heard of half-breeds that could easily pass for whites. Still, she was pale, too pale. "Is that a joke?" he could not help but ask. "No," she said angrily. "My father is Pawnee. Well, my father is dead, but my new father is Pawnee." "But you’re white," Buck said, slowly putting the pieces together. "Yes, and I don’t know why my mother didn’t leave me to die, but she didn’t, though I wish she had." Pale Flower had banished Buck’s pain, but hers persisted. She sat there, surprised to not find that look in his eyes-the look of hate and disgust. How could that be? He was obviously Indian and if was not there now, she was sure it would come later. She spoke quickly, her voice sharp. "I’ve heard it all, Stinking Flower, Pale Face, White Whore… so don’t, unless you have something new to add," she whispered in a defeated tone, as though she knew that if he had barbs to throw he would, regardless of what she said. "Why are you here?" Buck was still trying to figure out what had happened. "I was walking and found you lying in the snow, bleeding." "What happened to me?" he asked, as if she would know. "I don’t know. I thought you were dead, but as I reached down to close your eyes, I realized you were breathing." "How did I get here?" "I took that blanket and pulled you back here. The wound on your back was so deep and I didn’t know what to do, but the old man said I had to help you." "What old man, Teaspoon?" Buck asked, excitedly looking around. "No," she said, embarrassed that she had mentioned the old man aloud. How could she explain to him that a spirit talked to her. If he did not already think she was a loon, he would now. "What old man?" Buck asked again. Pale Flower moved closer to him, placing her hand on his chest. She left it there, feeling his chest rise and fall as he breathed. She let out a small sigh. He was indeed alive. How could that be? She smiled weakly at him. "Let me help you to the bed," she offered as he struggled to stand, but he pushed her away. As he tried to walk, the wound on Buck’s back pulled and his right leg could not bear his weight. As he stumbled, she caught him and placed his arm around her shoulder, supporting his weight as they walked to the bed. Buck sat on the bed and Pale Flower reached down, gently lifting his legs onto the bed. She retrieved the quilt from the floor and covered him with it. He had not laid there long when he fell asleep. Pale Flower sat on the floor next to the bed, still amazed by what she had witnessed that night. She sat, motionless, staring at him as he slept. As Buck laid there, he drifted deeper to sleep. In a dream, he looked around he recognized Millie’s father’s house. As he turned around, he saw Millie sitting on a chair in the middle of the room. As he moved to be by her side, John grabbed Millie out of the chair. “I will see that your half breed child dies!” John yelled as he pulled the large knife that hung on his belt, plunging it into Millie’s swollen belly again and again. Millie fell into Buck’s arms, her life swiftly leaving her. Buck yelled, startling Pale Flower. She rushed to the bed and, as his eyes opened, he saw her sitting beside him in the darkness. He reached up, running his fingers softly through her hair, and pulled her close to him. Pale Flower could feel his warm breath on her face, and before she could stop it, the injured man’s lips met hers. They were soft and warm as they moved gently over hers, lovingly. Pale Flower could not stop the feelings that rushed in her. She felt a small part of her fill with warmth. It was the first time in may years she remembered feeling anything but pain. As their lips parted, he collapsed back on the bed, still afraid to let her go. He gazed deeply into her eyes with a look that melted her. “I love you, Millie,” he said, his eyes wandering over Pale Flower’s form. Pale Flower was having trouble catching her breath. It felt like he had stabbed a knife deep into her chest. “Sleep,” she whispered, unable to stop her voice from shaking. She watched his eyes close slowly and silently slipped off the bed. She sat there, feeling the pain well again inside her. Why had she allowed herself to feel anything? How could she have thought he saw her? She turned and looked again at him sleeping soundly. She did not know who Millie was, but in her heart she could not help but envy her. As the morning light streamed through the window, Buck glanced over to the floor where Pale Flower lay curled in a tight ball. He tried to move his legs off the bed, but when he tried, he winced in pain. Pale Flower sprung up as if he’d yelled for her. She moved gracefully to the bed and checked his wounds; they were almost healed. As she redressed his wounds, she spoke softly to him. "Who is Millie?" she asked. "What?" Buck questioned. "Millie. You… were calling to her," she said softly. Millie. It all started coming back to him. Millie was his fiancée. She had told him about their child as they she waited for the stage. She was going to see her aunt in St. Louis. He was walking home from seeing her off when… When what? All he remembered was waking up with a strange woman resting her head on his side, crying- this strangely beautiful creature that had wept for him, mourning his passing. He stared at her as her fingers glided around his waist, securing the bandage. He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts of her from his head. "Millie is my fiancée. She’s in St. Louis," he replied as he eased back on the bed. "Your fiancée? Oh." She turned away from him, knowing she could not hide the disappointment on her face, but her voice betrayed her. "I better go," she said, turning toward the door. "Why?" he questioned, realizing he did not want her to leave. "You’re fine now." She smiled weakly at him and slipped out the door. Buck limped to the window, watching her walk to the edge of the field. The morning light was dancing off her fire red hair. When she reached the hedgerow, he saw a young Indian brave ride up to her. He jumped down from his horse and backhanded her, knocking her into the snow. He then grabbed her and threw her over the horse, mounting up behind her and riding away. Buck sighed. He knew Pale Flower’s father would punish her for running off, and given she was white, it would in all likelihood be ugly. As he walked back the bed, he could not shake her from his mind. Buck owned this small farm. What if her father found out? He would surely kill her for disgracing him. Buck stood and moved quickly to dress. He would go. He had to. Part 3: The Light That afternoon Buck rode into the Pawnee village leading a mule that was bound to the saddle horn. He held his side tightly as the horse bounced along. As he neared the village, he saw Pale Flower at the edge of the field. Her hands were bound behind her back and the ropes that held her were tethered to a tree. Pale Flower was kneeling in the snow, leaning against the tree, when she felt Buck’s gaze. She looked up to see the wounded man whom she had helped standing in the distance. Her eyes closed and her head dropped to her chest. He was not really there; she had just wished to see him once more before… Buck could see that he did not have much time. He swallowed hard and asked a nearby young man who Pale Flower’s father was. The young man told him that Frog Hunter was her father and pointed out their home. Buck quickly made his way to the home and jumped off his horse. "I am here to see Frog Hunter, the father of Pale Flower," Buck said formally. A woman, obviously Pale Flower’s mother, motioned for him to enter and he did. The man he assumed to be Frog Hunter was busy fastening feathers to the back of an arrow. "If you are Frog Hunter, I am here to ask you for your daughter’s hand," Buck said evenly. He cared deeply for Pale Flower from the moment he had laid eyes on her, but had no intention of marriage. However, he knew he had to get her away from Frog Hunter or she would indeed die, and this was the only thing he could think would work. "I will give you a young mule for her." Frog Hunter laughed. "A mule? One mule for my daughter? She is worth ten times that," he said, pointing to a striking dark haired girl. "Not her," Buck said. "Your other daughter-Pale Flower." "She is not my daughter," he snapped. "Leave." "I know she sits at the edge of your village. I will leave you the mule," Buck said, expecting some response. He had purchased the mule for his farm. It was the only thing he could think to offer that would not insult her father. Frog Hunter ignored him, and as Buck walked from the home, “If her father does not own her,” Buck thought, “then I will take her. Let them try and stop me.” "Why do you want her?" Pale Flower’s mother asked cautiously, hesitating, as she had no right to talk to him. "She saved my life…I love her," Buck said, shocked by the words that sprang from him. He had felt a love for her from the moment he had laid eyes on her as she wept at his side. He handed her the rope that held the mule before mounting his horse and quickly riding toward Pale Flower. He leapt from his horse and ran to her, pulling his knife and slicing the ropes that held her. She did not move, not even to look at him. He quickly took off his coat, putting it around her shoulders and pulling her into his arms. It was then he realized she was gone. Her eyes stared into nothing-lifeless. He felt the lump in his throat growing as he held her lifeless body cradled in his arms. She had been so kind to him, helping him as he lay dying in the snow. Why could he not save her now? As he looked up, an old man stood in front of him. "Why are you here?" the old man questioned. "I came for her," Buck said, pulling Pale Flower closer to him, his face buried in her neck, feeling her icy skin on his face. She was so cold and his warm tears froze as they fell into her tangled hair. “I’m sorry, Pale Flower,” Buck whispered, half hoping her spirit was close by and willing to take his with her. The old man looked closely at Buck for a moment before he spoke. He stepped forward, touching Buck’s forehead. “No,” Buck whispered softly as he watched in his mind’s eye as Millie crumple to the ground, her small body swimming in the pool of blood that surrounded her. Buck felt her spirit leave and tears fell uncontrollably down his face. “Why are you showing me this?” Buck asked the old man. "You can not save her or your child," he said in a somber tone. “You lie,” Buck hissed at the man. "But you can save her." Ignoring Buck’s words, he pointed to Pale Flower lying in his arms. "What?" Buck asked, the tears welling again in his eyes. The old man looked at him sternly. "You know in your heart what I have shown you is true. Millicent can not come back to you, and try as you would have, you could not have saved either lives… but you can still save her," he said, pointing to Pale Flower’s lifeless body. "If you choose." Buck looked up at him, unable to speak as silent tears fell from his eyes for himself, for his child and Millicent, but, most surprisingly, for Pale Flower. He knew, as the old man spoke, that Millie was indeed gone that John had killed his child as he had threatened. Buck looked up at the old man still in front of him. "Please help her,” Buck pleaded. "Don’t let her die like this." The old man placed his hand on Pale Flower’s chest and suddenly Buck felt her gasp. When he looked back to the old man, he was gone. He sat there, holding Pale Flower. Her eyes looked at Buck and quickly darted around. "Where am I?" she asked cautiously, struggling to sit up. "Why are you here?" "For you," he whispered. "Let’s go home." "I am home," she said, her heart heavy. "Not anymore." He smiled at her. "I asked your father for your hand and he agreed after I gave him a mule." "But you have a wife," she said, not sure what to make of all this. "And you got hornswaggled if you really gave him a mule." Buck laughed as he picked her up and put her on his horse. He swung into the saddle behind her. She turned and hugged Buck tightly. He could feel her heart beating as her body rested against him. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked her softly. "My father tied me to the tree," she said thoughtfully. "He said he’d leave me for the wolves… and then you came." He smiled at her. She had died. He had seen her, but she did not remember. He thought back to her conversation with him earlier, and her words echoed in his ears: "The old man told me I had to help you." He kissed her head as he pulled a blanket out of his satchel and wrapped her in it. The old man had given Pale Flower back to him, just as he had given Buck back to her. “Perhaps,” Buck thought, “we are meant to be. We have saved each other from the dark.” Bring Me To Life by EvaneScence How can you see into my eyes like open doors? Leading you down in to my core where I’ve become so numb with a soul My spirit sleeping somewhere cold until you find it there and lead it back home Wake me up in side Wake me up inside Call my name and save me from the dark Bid my blood to run before I come undone Save me from the nothing I’ve become Now that I know what I ‘m without you can’t just leave me Breathe into me and make me real Bring me to life Frozen inside without your touch without your love Darling Only you are the life among the dead. All this time I can’t believe I couldn’t see Kept in the dark but you were there in front of me I’ve been sleeping a thousand years it seems Got to open my eyes to everything Without a thought without a voice without a soul Don’t let me die here there must be something more Bring me to life Email Erin HOME