by R.E. Rowe
VOICES
THE REINCARNATION SERIES, BOOK 1
by R.E. Rowe
Copyright 2015 by R.E. Rowe
Cover Illustration by LLPix Designs
Book illustrations copyright 2015 R.E. Rowe
Train illustration by Petros Athanasiou
Rose illustration by Kate Syska
Rooster illustration by Alyona Vodophina
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Voices is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, places, theories, and dialogue in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, organizations, or locales, is coincidental.
VOICES
THE REINCARNATION SERIES, BOOK 1
Two troubled teens find romance but the truth they discover might just destroy them...
In a small town in Arkansas, two lives that seemingly have nothing in common will converge and change each other forever. A brilliant but tormented street artist and an ex-track star whose career was cut short by a heart condition.
Aimee DeLuca had a promising athletic career before her heart gave out during a high school track and field contest. Aimee struggles to find her way after spending time with a deceased grandmother during her near death experience. Reizo Rush is a street artist whose torment fuels his desire to add color to the gray walls of the city. But Reizo's tagging and the two voices only he hears land him in perpetual trouble with both his teachers and the law.
During a chance encounter, Aimee inadvertently causes Reizo to rethink his exit plan. The two quickly find out they have much more in common than love. When they stumble upon a century-old storm cellar hidden underground on Aimee’s uncle’s ranch, they unearth a cellar full of artifacts, a diary, and a hundred-year-old Will. Once the news of the discovery leaks out, a drug-dealing teen and a mysterious soul named General are determined to bury the truth along with anyone who gets in their way.
Follow the author on twitter @rickerowe
Voices/R.E. Rowe—1st ed.
ISBN 978-0-9909992-1-8
Dedicated to dreamers who dream up dreamers
“A single vibration emerged when the weight of nothing pressed in upon itself and became something.”
~Hack, Carmina's Notebook
Dear Reader,
I'd love to hear your thoughts on this series. If you can take just a moment and write a quick review, I would greatly appreciate it. Even one sentence will help.
Thank you! ~R.E. Rowe
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Train Image
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Rose Image
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Rooster Image
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
About the Author
Connect with R.E. Rowe
Other books by R.E. Rowe
Acknowledgements
chapter one
Forty-three minutes without a heartbeat—a little longer than a sitcom. About the time it takes for first period at Theodore High. It’d been five years since I’d seen Grams. She looked amazingly happy, considering she was dead.
After waking up from heart surgery, the first words I uttered in the recovery room were “Did my team win?”
“Miracle, miracle,” a nurse whispered. I guess she thought I’d have brain damage.
Another nurse cried. A male nurse asked me if I’d experienced anything strange. He said some patients have what they call a “Near-Death-Experience”—NDE for short. After all, I’d been officially pronounced dead before the doctors brought me back to life.
I told him, “No, nothing worth mentioning.” Lying was easier than telling the truth. There’s no way I’ll ever talk to anyone about those forty-three minutes—especially not Mom or her boyfriend, Hank. What would I tell them? “Hey, remember when I was dead? Well, I hung out with Grams on a bright day at Uncle Pete’s pond.”
Not a chance. I’d get tagged a wacko and locked up at Willowgate, just like the crazy kid from school.
The nurses told me it’d been a miracle that I had survived with only chest compressions until I arrived at the ER. I agreed, of course, but I knew different. Grams had said, “It’s your choice, dear. Stay here or return.”
Being a track star and honor student, I wanted to return.
And so I did.
I blink away these thoughts and slurp in a mouthful of milky flakes while peering at the track star on the cereal box. The glint of excitement in the athlete’s eyes is familiar. But the feeling of adrenaline and winning races is a distant memory.
Gardenia perfume invades the kitchen as Mom scurries in and fills up a travel mug with coffee. She smiles while sinking a teaspoon of sugar into the mug. “Aimee, aren’t you excited?”
I place my bowl in the dishwasher and nod. “I guess. I’m mainly looking forward to painting at Uncle’s pond.”
Mom takes a paper sack out of the refrigerator and hands it to me. It’s been part of our daily routine for as long as I can remember. She sends me into the world each day with a kiss and a packed lunch.
“Uncle Pete will pick you up early, but you’ll still need lunch. The artist must be fed.” She winks.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Her cell blasts some upbeat tune from the ancient past. “Let’s go. I’m presenting closing arguments in court this morning.”
I swim in Mom’s flowery wake as we walk out the door and into the garage.
Mom answers her cell, connecting it to the car’s hands-free device. “I’ll be at the office in twenty minutes.”
As usual, I push in my ear buds to avoid listening to lawyers’ ramblings while we drive. Hopefully, junior year will be better if I get a car, like she promised.
Mom raises her voice. “I’m ready . . . I know, I know . . . it’s our responsibility.”
I gaze out the car window. My pulse quickens and my stomach chu
rns. Even with the music distraction, I still feel Mom’s emotions. I let my mind drift as she navigates morning traffic.
Cancer took Grams’ life five years before my NDE. But when I saw her that day, she looked beautiful, like in the framed picture Mom keeps on her bookshelf. “It’ll be hard, darling,” Grams had said. “But I hope you’ll decide to return. There are still things for you to do.”
A couple of years later and I still have no clue what “things” she meant.
I glance at Mom gripping the steering wheel and feel her nervousness and anxiety. It must be a big legal case for her today.
I remember the day I left the hospital. It was a shock, feeling the energy from things around me. It’s like suddenly feeling hot in an air-conditioned room or feeling chilly when it’s ninety-degrees outside. It’s hard to explain, exactly, how I can feel excitement coming from saw grass swaying in the wind and strength emanating from oak trees baking in sunshine. I’m not psychic or anything, but my intuition is off the charts. It sounds ill and delusional, which is why I’ll never talk about it.
The first day back to school after my heart surgery was the worst. I quickly realized the people around me were crushing me with their emotions. Feelings of worry, excitement, anger, love, and hate swirled the school hallways from my classmates and hung over my head in class. Trying to concentrate on schoolwork while being flattened by so many emotions all at once was impossible in the beginning.
At first, my friends had been supportive when I needed my space. But soon they realized I’d changed for good. Gossiping about Kelly’s ridiculous shoe purchase and texting about Sharon and Roger hooking up after a Friday night football game became boring. Going to a pep rally to wait for the crazy kid to attack another mascot turned into a ridiculous waste of time. What’s the point of rushing around, worrying about what people think, or worrying about saying something stupid? All the little things used to stress me out. Not anymore. Now people do.
Mom drives the car up to the curb and stops in front of Theodore High School in the heart of Franklinville, Arkansas. Waves of anticipation and excitement from kids walking through the school gates roll over me.
I hesitate before pulling out my ear buds and fight the overwhelming urge to run. I’d usually pretend I was sick and ask Mom to take me home, but today is the last day of the school year.
I can do this.
A man’s voice from Mom’s office blasts from the car speakers.
Mom mouths to me, “I’ll call you later.” Then she leans over and kisses me on the cheek, exactly like she always does.
At the start of freshman year, I’d been the girl who set track records. I was the popular girl with friends, the fashion trendsetter, and the designated shoulder to lean on.
I was all of that before I died.
But I was none of it after the doctors brought me back to life.
chapter two
Two voices moved into my skull six years ago and stayed. Not the fun, imaginary-friend kind. These voices are distinct. Clear. Talking whenever the hell they want. I’ve tried to make them leave, but nothing works. They just get more intense and argue, like I don’t exist. Telling me what to do, what not to do.
Dr. Stewart talks to Mom as if I’m not sitting two steps away on his examination table inside Willowgate Psychiatric Hospital—the oldest building in Franklinville.
“Let’s increase Reizo’s dosage for six weeks.” He pronounces each word with a heavy Russian accent. “We are dealing primarily with auditory hallucinations.”
We?
Stewart likes to use big words, but I know what he means. He thinks I’m crazy.
“I will clear Reizo for the last day of school, but he must be monitored...”
Dr. Stewart rubs his shaved head and shifts his lanky frame from one black shoe to the other. “There is a possibility it is hereditary...”
I want to punch something when Mom’s almond-shaped eyes well up with tears.
“Based on old family stories, Reizo’s third great-grandfather had issues,” Mom says. Her voice wavers like a slide guitar as she twists her brown ponytail with three fingers. “His name was Wesley Rush. He was one of the first settlers in Franklin County.” She pauses as if to search for the right words. “When my husband was alive, he told me his Grandpa Wesley had been committed to a psychiatric hospital back in the late 1800’s.”
Mom clears her throat with a quick cough and adjusts the floral dress over her slim figure. “He heard voices too.”
The doctor looks up from his clipboard and stares at Mom with cold blue eyes straight from Siberia. “I see.” He scribbles something on a paper without looking.
From experience, I know distracting myself is the only way to get through the exam. I force a long deep breath and gaze at the only splash of color inside the white exam room and let my mind drift.
Just as I calm down, two voices start up in my head. In a failed attempt to get them to shut up a few years back, I named the lady voice Honesti and the guy voice Bouncer.
“I told Reizo the meds would make him worse,” Honesti says in a soft voice.
No kidding. I straighten my back and readjust myself on the sheet of paper covering the exam table.
“Poor Reizo. He was scared, wah,” says Bouncer in a husky rasp. “Baby man is weak, ain’t that right? He’ll never be ready. Pathetic. Just tell Stewart to take a hike. Grab a needle. You know what to do.”
What a jerk. I nearly tagged his voice “Mobster,” but decided “Bouncer” was more accurate, since he pushes words in and out of my head whenever the hell he pleases.
I focus harder on the framed, crimson rose hanging at an angle as if it were wilting. Tracing the length of the petal edges with my gaze, I explore the picture like a honeybee searching dark voids for nectar.
“Wesley died after an accident not long after he was committed,” Mom whispers to Dr. Stewart.
Bouncer continues. “Don’t blow it, pretty boy!”
“Died? Oh, I see.” Stewart writes again on my chart and mumbles a series of big words. “Maybe we’ll try a new medication for a few days.”
Taking Stewart’s constantly changing pill assortment has been the biggest mistake of my life. My world crumbled. No more voices, just hissing static, dizziness, and drowsiness. At first, the silence worked for me, but not long after, more side effects kicked in and my creativity turned to mush. The meds nuke my talent. I have zero energy. I’m dizzy all the time. I can’t concentrate, sketch, draw, use spray-paint to make three-dimensional masterpieces with “wildstyle” writing, or anything else artistically worthy.
Hell, when I’m on Stewart’s meds, I can’t even draw a simple oak tree. At best, I can barely manage a throw-up tag. Visualizing scenes to paint is impossible. Painting in 3D? No way. Drawing in two-dimensions? Hardly. I really had no choice—now I palm and flush the meds.
Some people do calculations in their head for a distraction. Rhyming words and poetry is what I do during examinations to distract myself. Lately it’s been the same poem, over and over.
I am alive. I am dead. Dreams strive. Feelings shred.
“Keep your cool,” says Honesti. “Dr. Stewart is almost done.”
Keeping my mouth shut, I stare at the thorny rose stem and imagine it puncturing my skin. The last thing I need is Stewart suspecting I’m not taking his ridiculous pills.
Dr. Stewart continues. “He will need to be committed again if there is another incident of violence. You know this, yes?”
Hello! I can hear you, jerk wad.
Mom reluctantly nods as I press hard on my temples. Dammit. I can’t spend my entire life with voices rambling all the time inside my head. But no way am I going to take Dr. Stewart’s meds either.
The sun rises. The sun sets. The dark prizes. The unpaid debts.
Adding color to the old brick and concrete around the city is my life. Creating works of art on public buildings and sidewalks is what I do. It’s who I am.
I refuse to lumber around like a creative zombie with no skills. I’ve been through all the possibilities.
Why should I care? Why do I cry? Spirits glare. Hopeless sky.
There’s only one way to evict the trespassers.
Exit Plan.
WELCOME TO THE CLOUD
Login: general
Password: *********
Cloud: How may I be of service, General?
>>run system check
running..............
Cloud: I am done with system check.
>>report
System Online
75 enforcers active
Keepers: 100%
Reckoners: Active
Cloud Memory: Online
Upload Status: Active
Download Status: Enabled
Pairing Status: Active
Experience bell curve status:
Perfect, Mode=Mean
Error rate: Nominal
Anomalies:
10 Enforcers missing
2 Reckoners communicating with one enforcer
Quantum Interference Detected
>>report special status
Password: *********
104 Followers Active
?Would you like to activate?
>>No
>>logout
Good-bye General
Login:
chapter three
Uncle Pete’s pond reminds me of a postcard. A duck quacks on impact as it lands in the pond. Its mate splashes down nearby. Sprawling oak trees shade overgrown shrubs. Patches of tall green grass, sprinkled with bright white flowers, dance in the light alfalfa breeze.
After accumulating enough extra credit to leave school after second period, school is officially out for summer. Eleven weeks of solitude to paint and take in the wonders of nature at the pond.
I move my paintbrush in a sweeping movement to the melody of songbirds and the hum of honeybees buzzing from flower to flower. With no one else around, I know the excitement I’m feeling is my own.
Energy from living creatures around the pond inspires me. It’s impossible to spend time at the pond during the school year. Mainly because of homework, shorter days, and doing the accounting books on the weekend for Mom’s boyfriend, ex-Marine Hank Mullins.
Hank runs a one-person tow-truck company in Franklinville. He’s a large-framed man at six-foot-five with thick, weathered hands that come from spending fourteen hours a day towing disabled vehicles around the county.
Mom used to do the accounting for Hank’s business, until she passed the Arkansas Bar Exam. Now she’s a partner at a law firm and gives occasional lectures at the junior college on weekends, so I’m stuck organizing the books for Hank. Not my idea of fun, but I don’t mind helping out.
