Flood

by Maria Quinn

  "Then why run?"

  "It is illegal to hunt this time of year." He points out

  Shrugging, I head back towards the tracks, hoping he would follow and not want to go after the noise further. I heard him clicking, taking more photos, “you better not be taking pictures of me but.” I jest.

  He laughs and follows suit.

  Turning I put my picked flowers in his front shirt pocket, “such a gentleman.” I say sarcastically, patting the flowers into the pocket.

  “I wasn’t I swear! He gets defensive while chuckling, “I got all of you, not just your butt.” He says grinning.

  I punch him in the shoulder, “you know I don’t like my picture taken.”

  “I shoot what speaks to me.”

  I gave him a sarcastic smirk. “You're lucky it’s not hunting season, or I might shoot what speaks to me,” I say elbowing him.

  We travel for miles playfully bickering like brother and sister, how it should be. I wonder if this will be one of the good old days I think back to when I’m older. I wish there were a way to know when you're in the good old days before we left them.

  * * *

  "Maybe it was a sasquatch." I joke, swatting away the following bugs. Clouds of insects seem to follow you in the summer, buzzing in your ears, until soon that's all you hear, even when they're gone. The sun smiles as it sears my skin, baking me alive in the lack of shade.

  “My uncle swears he saw a whole herd of bigfeet cross the road once." He laughs.

  “That sounds like the beginning to a bad joke,” I say chuckling as well.

  The rising heat leaves me wishing for snow, though I know I'd curse it if winter was here. I long for the soft summer winds that are clearly lacking presently. Trudging through the thick heat, we approach the train yard up ahead. Just visible is a malevolent group of people behind a graffitied train car, among them Robert, of course. You won't find a shady dealing without him it seems. We catch his eye, the rest turn to look at us, eyeing us with malice.

  "Come on, let's head back," Greg says herding me around like a sheepdog.

  Slightly resisting, I look back just in time to see Robert give us a short wave and sinister smile. I wave back.

  "What are you doing?" He asks smacking my hand away.

  "I was just being polite." I counter, defending my actions.

  "I think that's beyond them." He says curtly.

  I make a sour face in return. Kindness isn't a waste. I look back one last time as we distance ourselves from the five criminals, not four, and swim our way back through the humid terrain.

  37

  The silky glacial water is smooth and velvety as I put my feet in the river, but it has an icy bite. The baby deer and their mother up the creek don’t see to mind as they lap it up. I feel around the clear depths for a rock to take, only the perfectly round ones will do.

  I watch the deer slowly trickle into the forest and out of view, bringing a sense of isolation over me. Fingering the smoothness of my perfect blue rock, I can’t help but think how the world could have stopped existing and I wouldn’t even know. A darker thought, I could be murdered out here and no one would ever know. Shaking the thought, I continue my stony search, humming the bad thoughts away. This wooded palace has always given me a sense of calm, no need to ruin it. A bird chirps in the distance, seeming to say “relax, freak,” and so I do.

  Looking at the trees, their twisted faces shout the opposite of the bird's words, perhaps I should heed their warning. Looking at my three rocks, I must search for one more or that ominous feeling would come again; I continue my search. Winding around the large boulders James enters my thoughts suddenly, and I can’t help but wonder if there is something I genuinely dislike about him or if I’m subconsciously not admitting a truth about him. My face flushes before even forming a thought about the truth, that I may like him, a truth I’m too embarrassed to even write down in my journal for fear what it might think of me. A denial sets in once again, he can’t like me though, not after everything, how I treated him, and what I am.

  Finding my forth rock, pink and speckled brown, I climb on a riverside boulder to dry off. A cold breeze is in my lungs, the sun hides behind the clouds and the shadows grow long and deep. Getting up to leave, I am faced with the screaming ghost again, taken aback I instinctively smack it, angry at its intrusion in my happy place, my calm place. She fades like dark chimney smoke, up and away. Angry that my once strange and convoluted hallucinations have taken such a macabre, horror movie turn, I decide to stroll home through the flower fields of Mrs. Browman, something that has always been an uplifting experience. Collecting my river bounty, I roll up my thigh high black socks and slip on my flats before heading off down the small meandering trail.

  This is a very long way home, but an incredibly worthy one. The rainbow field filled with the partial buds and blooms of poppies, tulips, daisies, and more is usually occupied by girls taking pictures for their social media accounts, but is thankfully and serenely empty; full only of bees and hummingbirds. A smile slowly crept its way across my face. Putting the rocks in my pack, I began running in between the heaven scented rows, spreading my arms just enough to feel their downy tops without damaging them. I run the whole length of the field until I reach a small grassy clearing, laying down out of breath, the grass wrapping around my legs and clovers in my hair. I close my eyes as the sun comes out to play, kissing my skin with warmth. Laying there for quite some time, I feel full and whole, like I had just eaten the best chocolate cake in the world.

  Rejoicing in the summer light and blue skies, I feel myself finally come alive along with the temperature, like waking up from a long hibernation. Sitting halfway up on my elbows, I notice something deeply peculiar, the youthful buds that were closed and growing have now fully in bloom. The birds and the bees are frantic with joy; standing all the way up I take in a site of a fully blooming field that was once sparse with budding flowers. Hallucinating, I must be, or there is something in the fertilizer. Stepping forward I take a fragrant poppy in my hand, the petals almost seem to dance at my touch. Humming to myself that this isn’t real I continue home slightly unnerved, yet appeased that if I am seeing things, it’s not the ghost.

  * * *

  Stepping in the hot shower, I wash away the bad parts of the day and keep the good. Letting the heat take me, I stand there for what seems like ages basking in the hot pleasure; I live here now. Hands pruny, I fill my small bathroom with a thick steam as I step out into the sauna-like atmosphere. Wrapping the thick cotton towel around me, I habitually look in the mirror even though the steam engulfes it, obscuring any view. Opening the vanity cabinet, I grab my lotion and close it to find a fresh handprint on the mirror. Placing my hand over it, I realize it’s too small to be mine. Rolling my eyes I wipe it away, I will not let my mind get to me, but I swear if there is another screaming ghost behind me I’m smashing something.

  The open window dries my hair, bringing a fresh breeze into the room as I journal the day's events in my underwear, trying to stay cool. Looking out the window, I watch the fireflies synchronized flicker, almost panicked as if they know something. Trying to not make something out of nothing as usual, I close my eyes and fall into my pillow, listening to a dog bark in the distance, thankful for the noise as the silence is always deafening. The silence is when I hear things, whispers, the corners of my mind go wild with words, but for now, the dog lulls me to a thankful sleep.

  38

  Wading through the darkness is like swimming in the ocean, my strides are heavy as the water is thick, it is a slow process like walking through honey, just not as sweet. Cobalt blue goldfish meander by, I follow them but I'm not fast enough and they disappear into the darkness. Bright patches of light open up far overhead, I jump up and swim to them. The closer I get the clearer the patches are, some are people, some are places, I swim to the closest one wanting to escape. I reach through the blinding brightness with one arm, testing the mystery, and feeling the dryness of air and
land I decide to go all the way through. Then I wake up.

  Even though it's the middle of the night, the moon is full and the sky is bright, illuminating the fog carpeting the ground. I am not alone; my ghosts are with me, surrounding my bed. The one is familiar, the others are new, each a little different but really altogether the same—long black hair covering their faces, long white dirty nightgowns dripping with water, and milky white skin. Covering my head with my blanket, I wish for them to leave. Let me finish my dream. The blanket is violently yanked off me exposing my body, skin prickling with goosebumps.

  This is new.

  The ghosts are gone, but the blanket remains on the floor. This must be another dream, I tell myself, a hallucination. More annoyed than afraid, I roll over and fetch my blanket and try to get some rest, ghosts be damned.

  * * *

  Morning came too soon and with it, sticky humid summer breezes. I contemplate the nightly disturbance and consider if my new medication is to blame. Skipping just a few days wouldn’t hurt, just to see if the ghosts go away. Keeping with my habits will forestall any spiraling, I convince myself. Knocking my pill bottle into the nightstand drawer, I pause to make sure my decision is a wise one; yep, I tell myself slamming it closed. I am in control.

  39

  Lea snacks on fries at the counter while watching me work the tables. “I can tell when your smile is fake.” She says eyeing the plate of pancakes freshly slid on the counter awaiting its customer.

  “When I’m here it’s fake,” I say with a plastered grin, delivering the plate to Mr. Miller in his corner booth. Coming back, I put on my usual not amused look and lean into Lea, pilfering some fries while staring out the window.

  “Watching for your boyfriend?” She sinisterly chuckles.

  I smack her arm and giver her a stern look that made me feel like my mother. There’s no need to watch for him, he and his gang are here every day for lunch like clockwork.

  “For real though,” I lean in close, “what should I do about him? He’s in here every day making faces, and I’m here every day ignoring him, this can’t go on forever.”

  “Well,” she says putting down her fries as if about to give some life-affirming advice, “I say your both adults, stop playing footsies and sex him, or let him know for a fact there will never be any sexing.”

  “So eloquently put,” I mock, eating the rest of her fries, seriously contemplating my feelings for him.

  “Just give him a try, if it doesn’t fit, move on.”

  “He’s not clothing he’s a person,” I murmur in hushed tones as I notice James and fellows pouring into the diner.

  “If he were clothes, he would fit you like a glove.” She says seductively.

  Pinching my lips in annoyance, I grab a rag to wipe down the tables.

  The bells chime and my heart skips a beat. Lea is fundamentally right, and I know it. Feeling high on the possible simmering romance and knowing I’m managing week 3 without medications, I make the decision to ride this wave of euphoria and act on my feelings. But one look at his face makes my body weak and hating to admit it, a little shaken. I’ll make my decision tomorrow. One more day won’t hurt though, just one more day of playing blissfully unaware.

  40

  One day turns into many as my cowardly ass keeps making excuses of ways to not confront James about our little dance. Though, he isn’t making any confrontations either, so why should I? A little more shaky than usual, I drop a dirty plate while bussing a table. The shatter triggers something in me, something unknown. Pausing to grasp at this foreign feeling I notice Mr. Miller coming to help clean it up. Shaking off the unnerving feeling, I clean up the mess before he does my job for me completely.

  “Thank you so much, I’m so clumsy.” I apologize shaking my head, brushing my hair back.

  “Accidents happen,” he says softly while delicately picking up the pieces.

  I offer my hand to him for the reminding pieces to throw away and his touch is ice. “Wow, those are so cold can I get you a coffee? On the house for helping.” I offer with a genuine smile.

  “Sure,” he says returning my smile, wiping his hands on his pants, seeming almost nervous.

  I return with a coffee, “your here late tonight.”

  He cradles the cup gently, “yes, I don’t know what it is about this place, I seem to get a lot of work done here.”

  “Probably because it’s usually so dead.” I let out a short laugh, continuing to bus the rest of the tables.

  “Your good friends with Gregory right?”

  “Uh, yea,” I say a unsure of this line of questioning.

  “He’s a bright student, worries about you.”

  “Worries about me?”

  “Am I mistaken?” He asks adjusting his glasses.

  “No no,” I say abruptly, “he just has a funny way of showing things, that’s all.”

  "Fucking shit ass!" The owner spouts uncontrollably, as he finishes closing out the kitchen.

  Looking at the clock, I notice closing time has came and just barely passed.

  Taking the hint, Mr. Miller gets up to leave.

  “No you can finish your coffee, I'm just cleaning,” I say.

  “No no, I should be off it's late, thank you though.” He says re-adjusting his glasses and grabbing his books.

  “I'm off too,” the owner says as he heads out the still open door, night.

  “Goodnight,” I say as I hear his distant curses down the street.

  Alone at last I can finish and leave. After taking out the trash and hitting the lights, I hear the roar of hissing cicadas as I open the door to leave. As I lock the doors that shattered plate feeling came over me once again. Stepping back I look around afraid someone is following me but find nothing. Leaving the feeling in the alley, I walk around to lock the front door. Twisting the keys, I'm faced with the reflection of my ghosts in the glass door. Looking behind me I once again find nothing but the hanging sky, clouds churning, preparing itself to storm. The sky stirs and the wind picks up as I step around back to my car. Fidgeting with my keys, I drop them when I see the ghosts sitting in my car. This can't be happening, I stopped the medication, they should have stopped. Why are they with me. Stepping back from the apparitions I abruptly run into someone. Quickly turning around I find myself facing Robert, clad in almost clean clothes and leather jacket.

  “You alright?” He glaringly questions.

  “I'm, I'm fine,” I just, looking back to the empty car, I just thought I saw something.

  He looks overhead then peers into my soul, “it’s gonna' rain.” He states dropping his cigarette and rubbing it out with his heel.

  His eyes are deep waters I had no time to swim in. “Yea,” I look at the simmering oranges inter mixing heavy clouds, “I should go. Thank you, “I appreciatively say opening my door.

  “For what?”

  For running off the ghosts, “um, I don't know.” I let out a nervous laugh.

  “Anytime.” He says while watching me get in the car and drive off.

  Thinking I'd see a ghost in my rearview mirror, I am thoroughly relieved just to see Robert, a strange feeling. Finally, I get a chance to talk to him and my head ghosts blow it. A mist of rain begins as I drive through the winding roads with too many trees that look too much like people and too many to count. The only thing I counted tonight were 5 ghosts.

  41

  Day by day the annoying apparitions start appearing more and more much to my disdain. Perhaps it's like a song that you can't get out of your head until you really listen to it, I just need to listen to these ghosts, recognize them, paint them. Staying up painting late into the night is made easier as Lea keeps me company on the bed, drinking from a bottle of wine because its "girls night," while quipping about the undead and how to get rid of them.

  "Vampires, for instance, all you need is a pencil to kill them." She begins her defense.

  Tuning her out I listen to the screams of the coyotes and the distant whistle
of a passing train which no one knows what it holds. Sadness begins to feast, and a subtle yet persistent feeling of being out of place haunts me. Internalizing these melancholic emotions so Lea doesn't notice backfires as they bleed onto my canvas.

  Sometimes I think I'll start feeling better, ride the feeling of new beginnings I'm always going on about, but then the giddiness wears away to a crushing existential dread an all I want to do is crawl under my blankets and never wake up. I fight the overwhelming urge to cry because I'm heading nowhere in life and I'll never be as talented as the people around me.

  The worst thing about depression is remembering who you were before, it is not like riding a bike, it's like needing to go to physical therapy to learn to walk again or feed yourself. It's hard not knowing who you are, or if what you are currently is an amalgamation of medications. Most of all, I miss wanting to be awake, wanting to be excited about something. I live for those moments when I feel most alive, when the sadness stalls and the plane just glides on its wings; exciting yet peaceful. Pausing to reflect I let the paint drip onto the floor, perhaps I need to start retaking my medication, maybe I really can't control it on my own. Continuing to paint helps evade the feeling of defeat.

  What I hate most is having feelings that aren't mine, like an alien parasite has taken over, after living most of my life emotionless and with hard indifference, how am I suppose to control these random onslaughts of feeling and empathy? I don't know how to use them, and I want them to go away. My mind and body are in conflict.

  My feelings are often alien to me, not of my own; one time I cried watching Godzilla because he's just so misunderstood, another time because I saw a shoe on the road that was missing its pair and I knew how lonely it must have felt. Normally these things will not bother me, but yet they do.