Nightmare in Niceville

by Amberle Cianne

  And in my dreams, I thought I heard a man’s voice whisper my name over and over again, “Lily . . .”

  3

  A Man

  “Lily . . .” I whispered.

  I crouched under a tree and sat down, holding the tree for support so I wouldn’t fling myself toward the house and give myself away. The grass was moist with dew. The full moon was huge this evening, and I felt like howling at that glowing circle in the sky like a lonely wolf.

  Ahh, Niceville. What a pleasant little town that I was about to alter forever. I bet the only interesting thing that happened here were drunken college kids getting arrested for disorderly conduct. It seemed like that type of place, but I would fix that.

  I saw Lily today. She almost saw me, but I quickly ran off while she was fumbling with the keys to her front door. Yes, the door should be locked to keep the wolves away.

  After she went inside, I strolled the streets with a skip in my step from the excitement of being within reach. I meandered downtown and familiarized myself with the quaint little village. I sat on benches and watched people walk—women with strollers and their precious bundles of joy, men walking their peppy dogs, loving couples jogging. I breathed in the fresh air. It felt good to be alive. And free. And so close to the girls, my girls.

  It had been two months since my release from Florida State Prison. I had served sixteen of my twenty-five year sentence. I got off early for good behavior. I’d kept my head down, never talked back, and never fought with anyone. I played the “changed man lookin’ to be free” role, and it had paid off in the end. They handed me what I went in with—a pair of dirty jeans, a ratty, stained t-shirt, a pair of torn-up sneakers, and ninety-three dollars and forty-two cents to my name. The clothing barely fit anymore; I had gained some muscle and lost some fat while in prison. The money had bought me some items off McDonald’s dollar menu, a pair of sneakers at Wal-Mart, some colored contacts, and some hair dye.

  I thought back to my days in prison, though it wasn’t that long ago. But I would never forget that one day . . . the day when all of this had seemed possible.

  I had dropped my food tray on the scratched metal table, then sat down, gritting my teeth. My cellmate slumped next to me. The food had never been very appetizing, but it was the usual greenish-gray-colored soup, or the slimy and gritty “pasta.” The bland food, the dirty white clothes, the dull white walls, and the gray . . . it all made me want to rip my hair out.

  “You know, I’ve always envied your hair color,” I said to my cellmate.

  “You know, you’re kind of a freak. And I mean that in a good and bad way. We’re all crazy in here, right?” he chuckled darkly. My cellmate was always clean-shaven, and he’d made sure to keep his reputation clean. He was on his best behavior since his release date was coming up in three months, just like me. We, well I, was getting out of this living hell, and I had some major things planned.

  “Indeed . . . do you remember when I told you about my Mackenzie, Sophie, and my precious Josie?” I had asked.

  “Yeah,” he grumbled.

  “Well, their deaths remind me of your story. Cruel fate took my wife. And then I took my girls—I had killed them—but they remind me of how you tried to kill Lily and Ashley . . . and failed. Don’t you want retribution? I know I would.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you mean,” he snapped.

  “Don’t you want to finish what you started? I don’t know how you stand it.”

  “No, I’ve gotten over the past. I’m just trying to pass the time until I’m out of this hellhole. Maybe you should do the same . . . and stop bringing up my past! It’s getting old real quick,” he said as he shoved flavorless mush into his mouth.

  “You know, I’ve always wanted green eyes.”

  He slowly turned his head to stare at me.

  If only he knew what was coming.

  I stared at the lumpy mashed potatoes on my plate. I threw my food out, disgusted, and headed toward my cell. Suddenly, Josie’s face had flashed into my mind without my permission. She was always doing that, pushing her way into my thoughts. I had to stop and regain my balance. I needed to get out of here before Josie killed me with her haunting memories. Then another image hit me.

  “Josie . . . don’t leave me,” I sputtered.

  “Don’t . . . worry . . . about me. Just . . . take care . . . of the girls,” Josie whispered between short raspy breaths. Seeing her on the old bed in the guest room, with blood-spattered sheets and pillows, ripped my soul from the inside out. Josie was my world, my love. She coughed, and it sounded so wet, so full of her blood. She rolled onto her side and was violently sick into the little bin by the bed. Everything was red. She rolled onto her back again and closed her eyes, breathing heavily.

  “Promise me,” she had said, her eyes full of love despite her condition.

  “I–I . . .” I sobbed, not being able to finish the sentence.

  “Get . . . the girls.”

  “I can’t leave you. There’s no time. And I want them to remember you in your health. Not like this.” I looked down, ashamed of myself. She nodded, a tear sliding down her gaunt face. Her hand twitched and I took it fervently. Her lips tried to smile. I gently touched her clammy cheek.

  “I love you, Josie.” I held back tears.

  “I . . . love . . .” She gasped, coughed, and tried again. “I love . . . you . . . t—” the T sound faded into a soft exhale. Her eyes stared off into nothingness, losing their warmth. I fell to the floor and sobbed.

  Screaming. People screaming. Someone had run past me, pushing me into the wall. I turned and pressed my back against the wall like a frightened animal. I was disoriented. Why were there so many screams? A fight had broken out. Guards were screaming, and the men were yelling at each other. Everyone was screaming.

  Josie was always haunting my mind, but that was the day everything finally made sense. That was the day my flashbacks seemed hopeful rather than reliving a nightmare. My cellmate came out of our cell, confusion on his face. As I’d stared at him, I could almost swear that I was staring into a mirror. I knew then what I needed to do.

  And now, here I was . . . sitting underneath a tree in the cozy little town of Niceville.

  If only they knew what was coming.

  4

  Lily

  The alarm went off for work, causing me to jump. I scanned the room groggily. I rubbed my eyes and sat up. I definitely didn’t sleep well.

  As I stumbled down the stairs, the smell of pancakes, bacon, eggs, and coffee mixed with the sound of sizzling food made my stomach grumble and my steps a little more graceful.

  “Morning,” I said as pleasantly as possible considering the early hour.

  “Good morning, sweetheart,” Mom said as she was frying eggs on the stove.

  “Morning, Lily,” Ashley said sleepily. Her sparkling green eyes fought to stay open. Her light-brown hair messily stuck out in strange angles. She had Mom’s hair, silky and pretty. I had my father’s hair that was thick and hard to manage—another reason why I left it straight—but it was soft, thanks to shampoo and conditioner. Mom had chocolaty-brown eyes, but Ashley and I both had pretty green eyes. We got our eye color from our dad. I liked the color, but I hated the fact that they were from my father. They were a constant reminder of him. Our dad was a painful and frightening subject to think about.

  Ashley was only a few days old, and I was ten at the time. My father had started to drink a lot, and it became a problem. I spent most of my time in Ashley’s room after that started. When my father would come home at whatever time of night, Mom would hurry me into Ashley’s room, and I locked the door like always. She wouldn’t come in the room with us because he would follow her in. She had protected us at all costs.

  So, I would sit holding Ashley while I listened to my father screaming and yelling and cussing. Mom would yell back, and I could hear her voice shaking. I knew she hated yelling with every part of her being. I would hear him slap her, and bang
ing noises from all over the house. Ashley would whimper, and I rocked her in my arms so she wouldn’t cry. I’d grit my teeth to keep my own tears in. Trying to keep Ashley safe and calm was the only thing that kept me from bawling.

  Each night was different. Sometimes, he’d get closer and closer to the room, and I would rush to the closet with Ashley to hide. The doorknob would jiggle, and the door would shake in its frame as he shoved and kicked it. But Mom had always gotten him away in time—I’d hear something shatter against the door, something that she’d thrown at him. Or she would yell, which would earn her more bruises.

  My heart never slowed down on those nights . . . sometimes I worried that I would wake Ashley because it pounded so hard. Then, after what felt like days, my father would go to his room and slam the door. He would pass out for a long time until he felt like drinking again. Mom would knock on our door quietly, and I’d run to unlock it. Her face would be all busted up with new bruises or a busted lip. Once he’d even broke her wrist. She had lied to everyone and said she fell down the steps. Even though she was in pain, she hugged me and told me that everything would be all right. She’d grab Ashley, rocking her back and forth. Afterwards, she would clean all her scratches and bruises with the First Aid kit she’d stashed in Ashley’s room. We would fall asleep in there. And my father would usually be gone when we woke up.

  One day, my mother had finally put an end to it by getting a divorce. We’d moved in with my Grandma and Grandpa Strykes in Niceville, which was nine hours away from where we used to live with my dad. She had gotten a restraining order against my father for all of us, but she’d never gone to the police about the abuse. I always wished she had. That awful man deserved all the punishment he could get. It seemed like she almost wanted to protect him from the law even though he had put her—and us—through so much. It infuriated me if I thought about it too much. I was just glad they were separated.

  But the divorce had made my father extremely angry, and one day he came after us in a drunken state. He had ended up killing three people on his way to our house by crashing into their car—a man and his wife, and their three-year-old son in the back seat. And he kept on driving without a second thought.

  My friend Chelsea and I were playing on the front lawn. We had a dollhouse, Beanie Babies, and Polly Pockets strewn all over the grass. Then he flew onto the curb and into the mailbox. My mom had been watching us from the porch, and she ran frantically to my side, grabbing me and Chelsea. She tried to rush us inside, but my dad tore out of the car in a fit of rage, a few beer bottles rolling out after him. He had a gun in his hand, and he was staring at my mom. My mind was so frozen I had no time to react. I didn’t cry or whine or speak. I just stared at that black, evil thing in his hand.

  “This is what happens when you try to leave me, baby!” he had yelled and cussed. His words were slurred from the alcohol, and he pointed the gun at me. I remembered my heartbeat being the only thing in my head, like when you put a shell to your ear and heard nothing but the ocean.

  My mom jumped in front of me and screamed, “No!”

  A shot rang out.

  The loud noise echoed all around me, and I had moved for the first time—covering my ears with my hands, squeezing my eyes shut, and crying out. Chelsea was crying and holding on to me. I remember waiting for pain.

  I heard screaming, but it was a man’s voice. My mom dropped to her knees and flung her arms around me. I opened my eyes in shock and saw my father on the ground holding his leg, screaming in pain. The sound of sirens blared in the distance, piercing my ears. I looked behind me and saw Grandpa standing in the doorway, holding a long gun in his hand with a hard look on his face. Grandma had rushed over to us with tears in her eyes.

  “Lily, look at me,” my mom said, gently shaking my shoulder.

  All I could hear was ringing, and my mom’s voice was blurry underneath the ringing.

  “Are you okay, baby?” she asked me. Her voice was a little breathless and she was crying. She stroked my face while holding Chelsea’s shoulder. I couldn’t find my voice, so I nodded.

  She looked at Chelsea and said, “Come on, sweetie.” She picked us up and took us into the house. The ambulance had taken my father away, as several police cars followed behind. One of the cops had stayed behind to talk to my mom and to Chelsea’s mom, and they talked for what seemed like a very long time. My father had been sentenced to six years in prison, though he should have gotten a life sentence for all the crap he put us through. And the innocent people that were dead now. And all the injuries he had given to my mom, and the emotional damage he had done to us. Ashley had been the only one untouched.

  Life had gotten normal again, except there was no Dad. I was actually happy about that, though. Life was finally better for us. Chelsea’s mom had freaked, and I wasn’t allowed to play with her anymore. It was OK though because we had moved anyway.

  I was glad my father was in jail. I felt safer and thankful. But I wished my dad hadn’t changed. That would be a perfect life. I remembered the happier times, before the drinking started. My dad and I used to go fishing, and the three of us would go camping before Ashley was born. I was around five or six when we did all of the fun things together.

  “You gotta be patient, Lily.”

  “But you already have two fishes!”

  “Two fish,” he’d corrected.

  “You have two fish.”

  “That’s because I don’t move the bait so much, Lil’. Cast out . . . there . . . that’s perfect! Now just wait, you’ll know when to pull.” He patted my head softly. After what seemed like hours to me and my impatient mind, I had finally felt a tug!

  “Daddy! Daddy!”

  “Pull Lily, pull!”

  I had reeled in the line as fast as I could. At that moment, I never wanted anything more than that fish so my dad could be proud of me. The fish flew out of the water and hung there as I jumped around triumphantly.

  “Good job Lil’! You caught a Sunfish.”

  “Daddy, can we take it home? Pleeeaaasse?”

  “No honey, he needs to stay in his home.”

  “Why?!” My tears started to pool over.

  “Because he belongs here, not in a tank.”

  “But I want to take him home,” I pouted.

  “He has a family in this lake, hon. Do you want them to miss their Daddy?”

  “No,” I said glumly wiping my tears away.

  “Then let’s put him back.”

  “Okay,” I sniffed and we put the fish back into the lake.

  That had been my first fish. Why couldn’t I be like those fish in the lake?

  My father had worked in a good-paying job, and everything was normal and happy back then. But then he lost his job, and he and Mom started fighting. He would leave and go to the bars, and then he changed.

  After the whole incident, and with my father locked away in prison, we eventually moved out of Grandma and Grandpa’s house into our own. My mom had put me in therapy for a little while, which helped. I used to get nightmares all the time, but as time passed, so did the dreams. We’d recovered and moved on. We never told Ashley, but she never asked much about him. I was sure the day would come, but I hoped it wasn’t for a long time. And when that day did come, Mom and I would tell her what we could, depending on her age.

  Roger Pillens was my father’s name. I hated to think it. I liked my mother’s maiden name, Strykes. That was our last name now.

  “Lily, are you okay?” Mom’s voice brought me back to the present. I didn’t realize I was staring off into space and not eating. I looked up quickly. She was giving me a worried look.

  “Oh! I’m fine, I zoned out, sorry,” I said with a nervous laugh. She looked at me for a moment longer, then at Ashley, then went back to eating. I practically inhaled the rest of my food. I never breached the subject of my father with my mom. I didn’t want to upset her, and I didn’t really have anything to say that hadn’t already been said.

  People at scho
ol sometimes made comments about their parents, and when the subject came up, I said that my parents were divorced. And that was that. Nobody ever asked anything more. The only person who knew was Emily, but that was because she was my best friend and I’d known her for so long.

  After breakfast I went upstairs to take a shower. I waited a minute for the water to heat up, then hopped in. I let the warm water relax my muscles and cleanse my thoughts. I loved showers. They washed away my worries and my stress. My shampoo smelled like wildflowers; I breathed it in and sighed. I washed my face and stood there for a good five minutes before finishing. I already wished I could turn it back on. I dried off and got ready for work while Mom and Ashley got ready for their girls’ day out. They had girls’ days often, and I went with them when I could. I had to work a lot when Mom had days off. I didn’t mind, though, because I liked my job.

  I grabbed my iPod off the charger, ran outside, and jumped into my mother’s car.

  As my mother drove, I said, “The movie is at nine. Em is picking me up at eight thirty, and I’m going to her house after. Is that okay?”

  “Okay, honey. That’s fine with me. Have fun and a good day at work!”

  We pulled into the bookstore parking lot where I worked, Angie’s Books. I hopped out of the car and looked through the open window.

  “Thanks, Mom. You guys have a good time too! See you at eight!”

  “Bye, honey. Love you,” Mom said.

  “Bye-bye, Lily. Love you!” Ashley called from the back seat.

  “Love you guys too,” I said, and turned to walk into the store.

  As I opened the door, the tiny bell sounded. I walked through the aisles and to the back of the store, where the lockers were stationed. Jean Almontia, one of my co-workers, was sitting on a bench. I’d always been jealous of her long, wavy, red hair since elementary school. Everyone would always play with it during recess, including myself. Her eyes were green, but not quite as green as mine. She had a lot of freckles on her arms and a few on her oval-shaped face. She was a lot taller than me and skinny like a twig. She was gorgeous like a runway model—the ones who were giants and didn’t have very many curves—but when you looked at their faces you couldn’t stop your mouth from popping open.