The Recipient

by Dean Mayes

A low, rhythmic thump becomes audible, rising in volume. A beating heart. It exudes comfort and security.

  Soft white light coalesces, bending and separating, forming distinct shards that pierce the blackness, spreading out across colourless clouds, absorbing light and transmitting hues of blue.

  The awareness of herself emerges from the sound of the beating heart. She is comfortable and safe. She allows herself to exist.

  Her awareness expands to include her body. She moves her arms and legs. She floats, unrestrained by gravity. She does not know where she is but she is completely free. It is invigorating.

  She stretches her arms wide, spreading her fingers as far as she can. She uncurls her legs, extending them out before her; stretches her toes and lets herself go. Soft tendrils of light caress her naked skin, the tips of her fingers, the soles of her feet. She feels a tactile warmth and pleasure that gently tickles her and she laughs silently. Her hair crackles. Her skin prickles.

  It is a pleasure unlike anything she has felt before.

  Where is she?

  It is not water. She can breathe comfortably here. But it is neither air nor space. There is density to her movements as she twists her body around, tumbling and turning gracefully in this cloudscape.

  Is she even alive?

  Blinking at the cloudscape, she watches as one of those billowing forms shifts, sending out a long, finger-like projection that approaches her, seemingly sentient and aware. It spirals inquisitively around her body.

  She extends her hand towards the fluffy blue mass.

  A crackle of electricity flickers from her fingertip and dances across the billowing form and it recoils sharply, retreating as though startled.

  The colours in the clouds shift abruptly. Black tendrils stream from her finger and quickly slither across the mass, consuming light and colour. She blinks again, this time in alarm. Dark tendrils expand greedily across her field of view, heralding this new malevolent presence.

  Hues of yellow and orange seep from the mass where they coalesce and bind themselves to the cloud forms, darkening and transforming into deep and thickening reds.

  It is happening.

  Her body is grasped by a force unseen. It brings her into an upright position, then she feels herself descending.

  The heart beats faster, louder.

  Her naked skin twitches and shivers. Biting cold replaces the serene warmth. Clothing coalesces over her body: harsh denim that scratches her skin. A starched cotton singlet that quickly becomes sopping. The wet clothing clings to her cold skin, and looking up, she realises it is raining.

  Her bare feet touch a hard surface and she looks down, seeing bitumen all around her. She is standing on a road, a lonely outback road in some desolate wasteland that is unfamiliar. She looks around her, searching for a landmark, something familiar that will identify her surroundings. Another disembodied flash lights up the sky nearby and thunder rumbles through the thickening clouds. In that moment, she sees a road sign—not on the road before her, but in her mind’s eye. The lightning reflects off it so brightly, the lettering is too difficult to interpret. Squinting in the fading light, she tries to see.

  ‘Laster…’ is all she can make out before darkness swallows the image.

  Searching around her, she tries to find the sign as it exists in her immediate environment. But it is nowhere to be seen.

  Eruptions of light flash from within the cloud mass above. Rain falls harder, denser. It splashes against her skin and runs sticky and viscous, like honey.

  Dread seeps into her.

  The thunder rumbles towards her again, carrying with it a deep, guttural moan that vibrates through her. Her breath quickens. For the first time, she is compelled to move.

  She turns, stretches her legs, tries to run. But gravity bears down, making movements incredibly heavy.

  A flash of light erupts and in the moment of disorientation that follows, she witnesses something: a scene from her mind plays out in front of her.

  A lone figure, shrouded in shadow, stands there—an evil presence. Unnaturally tall, masculine but unidentifiable in the dissipating flash.

  The low moan gains in volume and pitch. It is filled with torment and pain.

  FLASH!

  The shrouded figure steps forward and slaps her with an outstretched hand. She crashes heavily to the road, opening wounds in her shoulder and legs. She cries out, but it is a silent cry. She tries to get to her feet but slips on the slick bitumen that streams with the falling rain.

  The figure pounces, pinning her body to the road. She feels her hands being lifted above her head in the grip of the stranger who remains shrouded in darkness. Again, she cries out in pain as her hands are shoved against the road.

  The figure sits back on its heels. With its free hand, it reaches out and hovers over them both for a moment. Then, balling it into a fist, the figure smashes it down, striking her chest with all the force it can muster.

  FLASH!

  She screams as pain blossoms through her entire body.

  The thunder and the moan meld into what is clearly a female voice. It cries out in terror. Is it her own voice?

  The hands disappear into the cavity in her chest. Her fractured mind is curious, despite her terror. She struggles against the grip of the figure. The bitumen tears at her skin as she flails impotently. The hands of the figure squelch about inside her. The moans grow more shrill now. They are wails. They are screams.

  The viscous rain turns a deep, ruby red and she tastes the metallic flavour of blood. She lifts her head skywards. The sky is bleeding.

  The screams become unbearable and then she realises that it is she who is screaming.

  The hand retracts from her chest and hovers above it. The assailant leans forward to show her the contents within. A disembodied cackle rips through the air, swallowing the horrified screams. Rivulets of crimson course down over a masculine jaw.

  She is consumed by terror. Drenched in blood, too paralysed to move.

  Then, suddenly, she is free.

  She is now standing a few feet away from the figure, yet it is still straddling someone underneath.

  She looks at her hands, staring at them. She cannot understand. She wants to turn and run but the figure’s silent magnetism holds her in thrall. The figure turns its face towards her, but the darkness shrouds its features.

  The figure beckons with what is held in its hands.

  She leans forward to see.

  It is a heart. A beating and bloody heart, crawling with maggots so numerous that she can hear them squelching over the muscular tissue. A black slick oozes from the severed arteries and veins that feed into the disembodied organ and drips over the hands that hold it.

  Lightning flashes and in that instant, she becomes aware of the presence beneath him.

  That presence is moving on the ground between her and the figure, struggling to free itself—as she had struggled just moments before.

  She tilts her head, confused.

  Her eyes drift down.

  A face, contorted in anguish, disfigured by ragged slashes, thrusts itself towards her and howls in terror.

  The face of a woman.

  “HELP ME!”

  ___

  Casey erupted from the nightmare and thrust the blankets from her as she scrambled back into a sitting position, punching at the air with her fists. She screamed into the darkness as she fought against disorientation and fear. Her breaths came in ragged gasps and her pulse was racing. Suddenly, nausea gripped her and she whipped her hand up to her mouth just in time to catch the bolus of vomit that shot forth, which then sprayed onto her singlet.

  The last vestiges of the nightmare dissipated and Casey realised that she was in her own bedroom in the apartment and safe. She was free from the grip of the horrible dream—yet another horrible dream.

  Feeling pins and needles prickle her hands and fingers, she fought to slow her breathing and she blinked into the darkness, afraid to close her eyes again in case th
e nightmare returned. Slowly, steadily, she prevailed. She brought her ragged breaths to heel. She began to think again.

  Flipping on her bedside lamp, Casey cast a cursory glance down, spying the mucous vomit that now clung to her singlet. She scowled in disgust.

  “Fuck.”

  Gingerly lifting her arms, she prepared to extricate herself from the offending garment when she froze and looked across the tousled blankets she had thrown off just moments before. There were blood stains all over them.

  The nausea threatened again as Casey looked about herself in desperation, searching for the source of the bleeding.

  Scrambling from the bed, she went through into the bathroom and peeled off her top, tossing it aside as she flicked the light switch and approached the mirror.

  A series of angry welts criss-crossed over her sternum and oozed blood, despite most of it having congealed and dried.

  Casey gasped, lifting her hands up and inspecting her fingers, her nails. There was blood on them, caked and dried around her fingertips and underneath. There were ragged tags of skin as well, her own skin.

  Gazing into the mirror at her own reflection, fingers of horror crept up her spine as full realisation dawned.

  Slowly, Casey reached out to the tap and turned it, filling the basin with cold water. Taking a flannel from a rail she dipped it into the stream of water then touched it to her chest, wincing as she wiped away the caked blood. Then she began to shake involuntarily and felt her head begin to spin. Trying to concentrate, Casey dipped the flannel into the basin. Ribbons of blood billowed out in the water as Casey lifted the material and continued to clean. The shaking did not stop.

  She leaned over the basin cradling her head in her forearms as she battled to calm herself.

  She plunged her face into the cold water until her entire head was submerged.

  In the ice cold, with her eyes squeezed shut, Casey saw incoherent flashes. Holding her breath, she allowed them to assail her all at once. Then, suddenly, an image from her nightmare emerged.

  A face. A young woman’s face.

  As quickly as she’d plunged her head into the basin, Casey yanked her head up and blinked as rivulets of water streamed down her face. The image hit her like a blow to the gut. Her emotions froze. Her mind stopped.

  A single question remained.

  Who was that?

  CHAPTER 7.

  The black Volkswagen sedan pulled up outside an attractive red brick house on a leafy, suburban street. Casey killed the engine and leaned back in her seat, surveying the house pensively. She held the key in the ignition, wrestling with whether to actually leave the car, until she slowly withdrew it; then she removed her sunglasses.

  The house and gardens were immaculately groomed, largely the result of her father’s labours. A freshly-painted cream picket fence with an ornate letterbox framed lush green lawns, the centrepiece of which was a pretty Japanese maple with deep red leaves. It was centred in a circular bed resplendent with colour. Completing the scene was a restored railway bench seat where she knew her father often sat to admire his domain. He was a proud man.

  At this home, on this quiet street, the world had always seemed so much more vibrant and alive compared to the dark, cloistered warehouse Casey sought comfort in.

  Casey rested her hand on the door handle. Her visits to her family home were rare now. If it weren’t for the gentle prodding of her father, Casey doubted that she would bother putting in an appearance here at all.

  She had conflicting memories of her life here.

  The Oakwood Avenue house had been a tranquil childhood home, safe and nurturing. She’d been raised in a loving family. Her mother and father had both worked hard to provide for both herself and her brother Angus. They wanted for very little and were encouraged to pursue their dreams and aspirations. Accordingly, they had both flourished.

  After Casey’s surgery, that love became constrictive, suffocating. Her recovery presented challenges for her and everyone around her and her initial needs were so great, she could rarely leave the confines of this house. The walls quickly closed in on her. Her family’s concern for her well-being became twisted by the realities of what she had endured and continued to endure.

  While her father and her brother were able to recognise this and curtail their protective behaviour, her mother could not.

  Perhaps due to an innate sense of motherly protection, Edith Schillinge took it upon herself to care for her daughter, to assist in every aspect of Casey’s recovery. From researching and implementing a healthy diet, reading up on appropriate physical activity, ensuring she was up-to-date with her daughter’s medication management to encouraging healthy living, Edie immersed herself in the minutiae, believing that whatever she could to do to assist Casey would be a welcome distraction.

  In the beginning, Casey had welcomed it.

  Over time, Edie’s involvement became overbearing to the point of intrusion. For a young woman wanting to recapture some sense of normalcy and, more importantly, independence, Casey railed against it. Mother and daughter clashed bitterly. Casey refused to submit to the endless scrutiny of her health and well-being. She began to distance herself and fight for the freedom she so desperately wanted.

  She decided to pursue the career she had put off for so long. Then she moved out of her home altogether—to put as much distance between her mother and herself as she could. While her father understood and supported that need, Edie could not. Their relationship fractured.

  But her move opened up more problems.

  The nightmares began; and they stayed, tormenting her night after night. Like they had done just last night. To even think about what had happened filled Casey with horror and disgust and she squeezed her eyes shut in order to banish the memory.

  Bringing herself back to the present, Casey’s eyes drifted across the front of the property to the carport. Her father’s 4WD sat in the left-hand space. The right-hand space—where her mother’s BMW would normally be—was empty.

  Good, Casey thought. Timed that well.

  A flash of resentment passed through as she recalled Fedele’s revelation that he had spoken to her mother, but she batted it away, gripped the car’s door handle and took a deep breath. She opened the door and climbed out just as her father came into view from the side of the house, armed with a wheelbarrow.

  Upon seeing the VW, Peter stopped, waved and smiled broadly.

  Breathing steadily, focusing only on her father, Casey locked the car and walked briskly around to the path. The exaggerated feelings of vast space around her threatened as she approached him. She quickened her pace as Peter held his hands out and embraced her warmly.

  “Hello, love,” he greeted, planting a kiss on her forehead. “This is a pleasant surprise. How are you?”

  As he held her, Peter noticed the rapid breathing and sensed the crippling agoraphobia clawing at her. He’d worked out a long time ago how to keep Casey anchored, to stave off the panic so she could bring it under control. His patience was welcome.

  She drew back.

  “Good, Dad. I’m good,” she responded quietly, standing away from him and holding herself straighter. She nodded, confirming as much to herself as to him that she had, for the moment, prevailed.

  She glanced at the wheelbarrow filled with soil and then across to a neat, paved area against the fence where a similar pile of organic material lay.

  “At it again, huh?” Casey observed with a sardonic grin.

  “Of course. Got new vegetables to get in. I’m aiming for a champagne crop of cauliflower this year—even better than last year.”

  Casey laughed and nudged him in the ribs.

  “Give me a hand. My back’s killing me.”

  Casey took hold of the handles of the wheelbarrow, hefting it and rolling it towards the pile where she deposited the load. Peter watched her, smiling proudly, admiring her tenacity, her unflinching focus, knowing that the battle still raged inside of her. She’d always been like that,
even before. Tenacity was a quality that had never changed, despite all the other changes.

  She returned the barrow with a grin and set it down between them.

  “Wanna have a look at what I’ve been up to?” he ventured hopefully, gesturing towards the rear of the property.

  Casey glanced over his shoulder at the back gate, then she looked towards the empty space beside his 4WD.

  “She’s out,” Peter said reassuringly. Casey could hear the tightness in his voice as he held up his hands defensively. “Don’t worry. She won’t be back for a few hours yet.”

  “C’mon,” she nodded, relaxing a little. “Before I change my mind.”

  Picking up a shovel, Peter took the wheelbarrow and gestured to Casey to go on ahead of him.

  They passed through the gate just as an apricot-coloured Cocker Spaniel bounded up to Casey, barking enthusiastically. It leapt up, planting its paws on her thighs and wagging its tail furiously.

  “Hello, Sammy,” Casey greeted, dropping to her haunches and scratching the dog affectionately behind his floppy ears. Sam was actually her dog, but Casey had long ago surrendered him to her father, knowing that the warehouse was no place for an active pooch such as this.

  That Peter was not at all disappointed by her decision had assuaged much of the guilt she harboured about leaving him here. Holding her palm out flat, she motioned for Sam to lower himself and he submitted obediently. She grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow from her father once more and hefted it forward as the dog fell into a measured step beside her and then bounded across the back lawn towards the vegetable garden.

  “So,” Casey began evenly. “Where is she?”

  Peter eyed his daughter, surprised that she would ask the question. “Doing a few extra hours for Stephen today. I did suggest that you might call by today. But she was already committed.”

  “Probably a wise idea,” Casey said simply.

  An awkward quiet descended between them until Peter gestured towards his vegetable garden.

  “What do you think?”

  Casey looked upon four rectangular beds, each bordered by a timber box which Peter had built himself. The pungent odour of fresh compost rose from the soil which Peter had patiently collected over many months and had turned into each bed. Freshly planted seedlings poked up into the mid-morning sunshine, lined up in impeccably straight rows and spaced equidistantly. Stooping down, Casey dragged her fingers through the soil of an empty box and lifted her hand to her nose.