Mind Terrors 1

by D I Russell

  She looked down at the Laymon novel she clutched in her other hand, one of the few she hadn’t read, a nice fat five-hundred-pager too.

  Another check of her coins. Just short.

  She considered trying to talk the assistant to sell at a discount, and immediately dismissed the idea. She could barely talk anyway, preferring to hand over the cash and mutter a small thank you than engage in pleasantries. Bartering was beyond her capacity.

  “There you are!”

  Samara turned around as her mother emerged from between two cluttered bookcases. Dragged along in her wake came Kelly, wearing an awful pastel pink sports coat. A marshmallow trying to look cool.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “I got bored,” said Samara. “And there was nothing in there I liked.”

  “We came here for you,” stormed her mother. “You can’t exactly go to your big art show dressed like—” She waved her hand. “Dressed like that! You always look like you’re going to a bloody funeral!” Her mother took a deep breath. “Don’t think that we’re going to this show, with all the other families, and have you looking like…”

  “Like something Marilyn Manson forgot to sing about,” said Kelly, smirking.

  Samara glared at her sister. “Never thought I’d see you in a bookshop,” she replied. “Not afraid your idiot friends might see you? And that coat’s hideous, by the way.”

  “Yeah, because you know about fashion—”

  Their mother growled. “I’ve had enough of this. Will you two knock it off? Samara, stop having a go at your sister.”

  Samara’s eyes widened. “What? Really? I’m the one in the wrong again?”

  “And Mum bought me this,” said Kelly, throwing in the quick jab.

  Typical. Their mother had brought them shopping with the misguided intention of Samara picking out a nice, boring dress for the art show. Not that it would ever happen. She had no intention of allowing her family anywhere near the show. She refused to let them shit over her work, to shit over her, and then jump in at the end, all fake smiles and forced pride. Even so, her sister had managed to snag a prize for herself, as usual.

  “Come on,” ordered her mother. “We’re going back in that shop and picking out something nice.”

  “Okay, fine,” said Samara. “But please…any chance I could borrow a fiver until next week?” She lifted the book. “It’s one of the last ones I need. Been after it for ages.”

  Her mum laughed. “Oh, you have to be joking. Put that rubbish back. We’re leaving.”

  “But Mum—”

  “I said we’re leaving!”

  Kelly had begun to withdraw, taking a few quiet steps back before sneaking out behind the bookcases, her head bowed to keep her hidden. The pleasure from fuelling the fire had been outweighed by the possible humiliation of their mother losing her temper and causing a scene.

  “You buy her a brand-new coat and I can’t even borrow some money for a book? For a fucking book?”

  Like she’d been slapped across the face, her mother physically reeled for a moment. Pointing at her daughter, her voice descended to furious rumble. “Don’t you dare ever speak to me like that. Don’t you dare.”

  “It’s not fair,” answered Samara, doubt growing through her, its twisted roots penetrating her rage and sapping its strength. A little girl again. How they liked to wield this power.

  “You’re right. This isn’t fair. You don’t make it easy on any of us. You don’t stop to think how you affect this family. I can’t even take my own daughter shopping without drama. Jesus. Why can’t you be more like…” Her mother swallowed and shook her head, her own fury now spent.

  “Like what?” Samara pressed. “Like Kelly?”

  “No. No…I’d never… Just why can’t you be more like everyone else, Sam? Out with your friends instead of watching those movies? Picking out something nice with me. Not being here, buying this—” She nodded towards the novel— “shit. Put it back on the shelf. I think you’ve embarrassed yourself enough.”

  Oh, fuck you! Fuck you!

  Samara faced the shelf and slammed the book back between its neighbours. The back cover opened and bent back, the thick novel refusing to slip back into place. The teenager cursed and pulled the book back out, straightening the cover, trying to ease it back home on the tightly packed shelf.

  “Samara?”

  She ignored her mother, determined to return the book to its rightful place without ripping it. She’d be back for it in time.

  “Samara!”

  “What?”

  “What’s that on your arm?”

  Samara froze and glanced down at her sleeve. While struggling with the book, the loose fabric had slid down her arm, gathering by her elbow, revealing the pale skin of her wrist and forearm.

  Her mother stepped forwards, reaching for the exposed arm.

  Heart racing, Samara spun away from her, darting around the far side of the bookcase, running for the door.

  “Samara!”

  She passed the confused assistant behind the counter and bolted out into the shopping centre. People stopped to watch her run from the bookshop, her mother’s calls echoing after her.

  6.

  Samara looked up and met the girl’s eyes. There was precious else to look at. The void consumed them from every side, bar the worn table that formed their battlefield. And such a worn theatre of conflict, appropriate for the head-to-head taking place. Initials of lovers branded into the smooth wood, long burned by all manner of metal implements, heated to almost glowing by cheap Bic lighters, confessions of love marked for all to see. Band names. Band emblems. Ainscough is a nobbish cunty twat painstakingly etched in the wood. Marks awarded for creativity, bonus points for taking the time to scribe such a sentiment. Poor Ainscough, whoever he may be. The couples. The bands…probably all broken up by now. Torn asunder by life, by time. This was less a war table, more a record of relationships lost.

  She sat opposite. Long, dark hair, scalp spilling ink down to her shoulders. Fingers gripping the edge of the table, the surface as familiar as the cracks in her bedroom ceiling.

  Samara stared across the flat landscape.

  The locale was perfect. The comfort from the reassuring proclamations burned or carved into the table, the silence, the endless dark that surrounded them. Above and below. A perfect vacuum of sensation. No sight, sound, or smell. A sensory void. Nirvana for addressing purpose.

  The girl smiled, raising a forefinger that predictably began to elongate, the tip protruding, a dark hook, an insectile stinger. She placed it on the tabletop, upon which a grid of black and white squares had appeared, burned into the wood. The tip of the claw penetrated the beer-stained surface, scratching up years of accrued company as it advanced, making its move. Her opponent grinned, only her slack mouth visible through the black veil.

  Samara contemplated her decision, studying the board. In an endless dark abyss, she was free from any distraction. She lifted her hand from the table, flexed her fingers, and selected her piece. A shot glass, filled to the brim with a flat, ruby liquid. She considered the possible moves and determined, slid the piece forwards.

  Her opponent showed no signs of concern or confidence, rigid in her contemplation.

  Samara grinned, her finger still tight around her last move. She lifted the shot glass from the board, almost toasting the spectre that sat before her.

  “Check.” Samara raised the glass to her lips and tipped the fiery contents into her mouth. She swallowed, relishing the lava burn down her gullet to the glow in her stomach. It stung like mouthwash, and she quickly inhaled cold air over her teeth.

  Her opponent remained transfixed on the game.

  The lights slowly began to rise, and Samara slumped back against the rear of the high-walled wooden booth with a giggle.

  The front door slammed open, and everyone looked to see who had entered. Everyone knew everyone.

  “I thought it was Dale,” said Lily, sitting opposite
. She looked back to Samara and frowned. “You okay?”

  Samara had called her friend from the nearest public phone. Lily, of course, had immediately obliged to a night of fun. She’d just been paid from her weekend bakery job and was even funding the evening.

  Samara grinned and slammed the glass down on the table. “Fucking grand. So I’m not normal.” Her fingers hovered from the spent shot over to the neck of her bottle of Metz. She lifted the chilly lemon drink into the air. “This is more fun. To you, dear mother.”

  Lily swept up her own drink, a half-pint of snakebite and black, and chinked the glass together. “To your mum!” She declared, and after sharing a quick glug, winked at Samara. “Hey…when’s your sister joining us?”

  Samara leered over the bottle. “I believe she’s too busy fucking herself. Perfect couple!”

  The girls laughed and struck their glasses together a second time.

  “Hey,” said the tall guy sitting beside Samara. “What we celebrating?”

  They shared their booth with a couple of guys who had bought them more than a fair shout of drinks. The tall guy, a dark mop of hair on his very high head, seemed nice enough, but was either drunk, stoned, or an imbecile… Lily had already staked her claim. If he was in proportion…

  His friend sat in the corner of the booth, not just watching his current company, but the rest of the growing populace of The Scholar. He acted like his friend’s keeper, owner of the big, dopey dog, correcting him and ushering him to quell his enthusiasm.

  “Easy, Kieran. Leave the girls alone. They’re having a moment.”

  Samara smiled at him over the neck of her bottle. Fuck proportion. Just because Kieran was a good head and shoulders above his mate…that wasn’t all that mattered. The way Mike was so laid back, the way his friend seemed driven to appease and yet he could sit back like he didn’t care.

  “My mum wants me to be normal,” said Samara.

  Mike contemplated this for a second before sitting up in his seat. His fingertips explored the surface of the table. “Then fuck your mum.” He picked up his empty bottle of Holsten Pils by the rim. “I’m out. Anyone else need one while I’m going?”

  Samara surveyed the battle ground once more and swept up her bottle of Metz, the opaque plastic cover hiding the remaining drink. “I could go another.”

  Lily peeked at Samara and the bottle in her hand. “I’m good,” she said. “Sam, you want to go the bar with Mike?”

  Samara sipped at her drink. She’d have to get a move on to finish it before the next, but this was the night for fast drinking. Was Lily trying to get time alone with big boy Kieran? Or was she trying to allow Samara a moment with Mike?

  Did it matter?

  “Come on,” said Samara. “Lily, shift out the way. Let him through.”

  As Mike struggled to move along the narrow bench, Samara downed the rest of her drink. She paused, her narrow fingers gripping the cool neck of the bottle.

  The front door slammed open, and everyone looked to see who had entered. A table at the back of the room cheered, and the new face grinned, pointed a happy finger, and headed through.

  From the front of the warm room, her pale face hovering on the other side of the glass, the girl watched through the window. The slight breeze ruffled her dark hair, sending it across her face in ebony spider webs. Black, hungry eyes watched Samara. The figure sucked in the cold night air in long, lingering gasps, yet no fog clouded the cold glass.

  I won’t let you in. Not tonight.

  “Come on, Mike,” she taunted, looking away from the spectre out in the dark. “Get a move on.”

  He finally reached the end of the bench and lurched to his feet. “There,” he said, dusting himself off with a dramatic flair. “One has escaped from the darkest recesses of the booth and seeks both alcoholic sustenance and female company. Exquisite Samara…super…sexy Samara…would you accompany me to the bar?”

  “About damn time,” she said, laughing along with Lily.

  She followed him past the other packed tables towards the long bar. Two deep, behind the patrons that sat on high stools along its polished, wooden length, Samara and Mike joined the waiting customers.

  “Good to get away,” he said, voice back to normal, shedding the tones of the adventurer. “Catch a breath. I’m sorry about Kieran. He comes on a bit strong. His mum dropped him on his head as a baby. But who can blame her? He was five foot by age three, big freak he is.” He placed his hand on the small of her back, drawing her in close. Samara allowed herself to be led, tingling from the intimate touch. Mike spoke close to her ear over the din from the jukebox and patrons clustered at the bar. “He has his eye on your friend. Is she seeing anyone?”

  Samara shook her head. “No,” she said.

  Mike tapped his ear and turned to the side. “Speak up. Bit loud.”

  Samara pressed her lips against his ear. “I said no!”

  They exchanged positions, Samara nearly giggling.

  “Does he stand a chance?” Mike half-yelled into her ear. “I mean…we’re all having a good time, but I’d rather tell him if it’s a no go. Save wasting his night and hers.”

  Samara licked her lips and leaned in close. “I think he stands a good chance.”

  “He’ll be happy to hear it! What about you? Are you seeing anyone?” Mike turned his head, raven hair clutching the pale skin of his skeletal face, lower jaw reaching down to swallow her head whole. His voice descended to a guttural growl. “Or are you here all alone?”

  Samara jerked back, closing her eyes for a moment, washing the image away.

  “No,” she said after a moment. “I’m not seeing anybody.” She sucked in a long breath. “Any update on that drink?”

  “Okay,” said Mike, his voice returned to normal. “I’m trying.”

  Samara felt him move away and she finally opened her eyes.

  Mike had found a gap in the battalion of thirsty customers and had driven forward, claiming his place at the bar. Already they were surrounded by reinforcements: veteran drinkers returning from established tables or privates fresh from the front door, still wrapped in their coats and scarves, done battling with the elements and now tussling for attention by the barmaid. Samara didn’t care. First come, first served. An ancient rule, pure in its simplicity, powerful in its enforcement. She needed a drink. Another Metz maybe. A shot sublime. A liquid embrace, fuzzy and protective.

  She leaned onto Mike, wrapping her arm around his waist, resting her face against his lean back. The crusader, battling for his maiden. “Hey!” she cried. “Bit of service?”

  “It’s okay,” he said over his shoulder. “They’re busy. Give it a minute.”

  “Come on…”

  To the side, a girl with dirty blonde dreadlocks, face riddled with piercings, spoke to a guy with long dark hair, pointed beard, and thick eyeliner. She grinned at Samara, mouth hanging loose, a shark striking through concealing shoals of blustering fish.

  Samara looked away, staring at the back wall of the pub. The booths were wider, housing larger tables and low dividing wooden walls. Huddled groups of fat men with long beards; burlesque teenage girls with painted almond eyes and alabaster skin; young men, silver teeth, green hair and leather trench coats. Samara blinked, seeing the girl with each cohort, smiling a challenge at her, mouth hanging askew.

  Not welcome here.

  Come and try.

  TRY

  “You okay?” said Mike. “You’re kinda hurting.”

  Samara released her grip. “I thought… But…not even here…”

  “Sam?”

  She turned away. Of everything he offered, of all the things she thought she needed, only one mattered. Just one. A drink. He was hopeless.

  Barely enough wonderful alcohol flowed through her blood. Not sufficient to forget the scene that awaited her at home. Not enough to forget the spectre that lingered between her and every other person in the bar.

  Confirming her decision, the girl padded long the
ceiling above her, crawling like a spider, reluctant to drop but happy to stay close.

  She had tried. Fuck it! She’d tried so hard. Knowing what kept it at bay. Driven to the point of either rejection or embrace. The devil always lingered. Did she fulfil the cinematic hero role and overcome her? Or simply accept her constant presence?

  TRY

  “Fuck you,” muttered Samara, arriving back at the table. Fuck Mike. Pussy couldn’t even get a drink at the bar. Fuck Kieran and his idiot simplicity. And fuck you too, Lily. So easy for you. You don’t have her to deal with.

  “Everything okay?” asked Lily. “You don’t have a drink.”

  The front door slammed open, and everyone looked to see who had entered.

  Recognising the harried figure rushing into the pub, Samara knew nothing was okay.

  7.

  Samara slammed her bedroom door, the old image of thick black goo sealing it shut once again rushing through her head. It would take more than her dark, imaginary adhesive to keep her safe. Her breathing came in ragged gasps, ribs squeezing tight around her lungs in a deadly embrace. She sucked in a deep breath to fend them off.

  Pacing back and forth, the inch-thick rubber soles of her boots pounded a firm beat on her carpet.

  The bed. Did she have the strength to move it? The adrenaline surging through her veins, driven by her panicking heart, lent her confidence. Samara grabbed one of the thick bedposts, her lacquered fingernails digging into the soft wood. She tugged. The mattress and mountain of pillows shook, but the bed refused to move. The legs had long sunk into the carpet, forming ruts that held them fast. Samara growled and, gritting her teeth against the pain, jerked the bedpost harder.

  From the hallway came the sound of ascending footsteps, each one ringing through the house like cannon fire.

  “Come on,” Samara roared. The bed declined to yield.

  With sanctuary denied, she sought another route of escape.