The Wake Up (The Seers Book 1)

by Angela Panayotopulos

  The Wake Up

  Angela Panayotopulos

  Copyright © 2020, 2018 Angela Panayotopulos

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages in review.

  ISBN: 1725066491

  ISBN-13: 978-1725066496

  Characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  First printing September 2018

  Third printing February 2020

  Book Cover Design: Angela Panayotopulos

  #DEDICATION

  For the heartbreakers

  who make us stronger,

  And the heart-menders

  who make us whole.

  The baby bat

  screamed out in fright:

  ‘Turn on the dark,

  I’m afraid of the light.’”

  -Shel Silverstein

  #Table of Contents

  Part One

  #OnceUponADevil

  1 / Horned

  2 / Lexi

  3 / Seeing

  4 / Sandman

  5 / Roadkill

  6 / Pandora’s Son

  7 / Distortion

  8 / Fireflies

  Part Two

  9 / The Ruling

  #OnceUponADecember

  10 / Khalil

  11 / The Tzami

  12 / Dominic

  13 / Swallows & Butterflies

  14 / Fallen

  15 / Pieces

  Part Three

  16 / Exposed

  17 / Saw

  #OnceUponADreamer

  18 / Mask

  19 / Dragon Tea

  20 / The Break Up

  21 / The Problem With Werewolves

  22 / Pancakes & Pink Elephants

  Part Four

  23 / Reflections

  Part Five

  24 / The Butcher

  25 / Judas

  #OnceUponAWar

  26 / Black Snow

  27 / Point Zero

  28 / Rage

  #OnceUponARebel

  29 / The Night Shift

  30 / El Greco

  Part Six

  31 / Companions

  32 / Tokens

  33 / The Firefly Tree

  #OnceUponALegend

  34 / Gabriel

  35 / The Revisionists

  36 / Ya’aburnee

  37 / To Grandfather’s House We Go

  #OnceUponAFracture

  Part Seven

  38 / Eulogy

  39 / Storms & Priestesses

  40 / Retaliation

  41 / The Wake Up

  42 / Belief

  43 / Lazarus

  #Acknowledgments

  My deep gratitude and endless love extends to two people I’m blessed to call my parents, who set off this writerly madness ever since they (oops) let their wild-haired child loose in Patrick Henry Public Library. And to the rest of my Pan-Pan family, by blood and by love, who fill my heart more than I could have hoped for. To my extended family, too: Theio Jimmy and Theia Voula and the Euripides clan (Sophia, Chris, Maria, and Evy!)—these folks make up the angels whom I’ve met on Earth.

  This story wouldn’t be possible without my incredible brother Amar Zabarah and his insistence that I finish it. It’s also thanks to my extremely talented fellow writers and friends G. Panagakos and P. J. Devlin for their unconditional friendship, unfiltered advice, and humbling faith in me from way back in the day. You also wouldn’t have quite this version in your hands if it wasn’t for the insightful Todd Barselow.

  I’m grateful to my teachers, both formal and informal, those who spoke in classes and those who spoke through books, who awed and inspired me, who ignited (and continue to ignite) my imagination and all the feels. A special shout-out goes to my personal literary heroes: Neil Gaiman, Laini Taylor, Robin McKinley, Philip Pullman, and C.S. Lewis. Among the millions of other lives you’ve touched through your work, count me in that number.

  And then there’s what Stephen King calls the I.R., the Ideal Reader, who is the person you ultimately find yourself writing to. My words go out to you, my partner-in-crime and my favorite adventure. George, you make my heart smile and my world brighter.

  And a final shout-out to that gleaming white contraption that has misinterpreted whatever manual Jesus left behind, converting water to coffee. (My coffee maker! In the acknowledgments! Do you know me at all? Yeah, y’ all should’ve seen that coming.)

  #Foreword

  “What happens when you’ve worn a mask to the point that it is more skin than shield? Ink taints water. Mask fuses with skin. If someone tries to pry it off, they could unglue most of your face along with it. That could get ugly.”

  –The Wake Up

  Having read this book twice as of the time of this writing, I’m still in awe and more than a bit jealous at the skill with which Angela has crafted and told this story. I find myself, too, left with a conundrum I’m having difficulty addressing within myself. The theme of light versus dark, from an inner perspective as well as an outward perspective, is nothing genuinely new in the literary world; however, the approach taken in The Wake Up is quite refreshing indeed.

  We all wear masks, whether or not we realize it or acknowledge it. Some have masks for work or for friends or family. There are those who are even capable of crafting and donning a different mask for every interaction they have with the world around them. But to whom do we show our real selves, the deepest darkest parts resulting from the electrical impulses of neurons and synapses firing in perverse, eager anticipation of such interaction? Does anyone ever really peel back each layer of each and every mask, and shed every semblance of feigned personality and persona?

  Imagine you’re alone in your bathroom, observing yourself in the mirror. At this point, all alone, is what you’re seeing the real you? Have all the layers been shed in this quiet moment of literal reflection? Or is there skin deeper yet to uncover, to lay bare, if only you’re brave enough to do so, to confront what you may discover there in the murkiness and shadow, perhaps not wishing to be seen and exposed to the light? Personally, I don’t think I want to know what’s lurking deep down below—not within myself and certainly not within anyone else. For some reason, I find the thought disturbing beyond belief.

  And therein lies my conundrum: how does one really know one’s self fully without digging and poking and prodding that which instinctively desires to remain buried deep within the recesses of a mind and soul designed to keep such knowledge from easy, accidental access. At what point does the mask fall away to expose the demons and angels living within?

  In The Wake Up we find ourselves with the ability to see beyond skin deep—or, more accurately, we’re able to see a manifestation of that which is hidden, a reflection of the true nature of a person. Some embrace this as beautiful and natural. Others see it as unnatural, vile, horrid—enough so to wage war on those who can See. This is not unlike the actual world in which we live, and in particular this New Era of bigotry and hatred we find ourselves stuck and struggling to get out of in the year 2018. Those brave enough to stand up to the forces who would oppress that which is different and unique sometimes find themselves in the minority. But with strength and perseverance, a firming of moral character, and a multitude of patience, we can together overcome this backwards resurgence and work together to make the world a better place.

  We all face choices in life: good,
bad, and ugly. Making the right choice isn’t always possible. Choosing to expose ourselves to others may seem like a good idea at the time (thanks to those pesky chemicals in the brain), but caution in this regard is always warranted. That said, we cannot live fearful lives, ever worried about what this or that person thinks. Sometimes we must strive to live our best lives regardless of others, and an easy starting point for this goal is right there in the mirror.

  What we choose to show of ourselves to ourselves informs the face we show to others.

  Each of us has a dual nature: darkness dwelling beside light. It’s up to you how much of each comes through. Learn to tame your demons—we all have them, you know. Learn to cage them lest they transform you into the metaphorical “monster” under the bed. We all have angels inside, as well, that we must learn to let out so they, through us, may make the world around us a brighter place. Your take away from The Wake Up may very well be different from mine, but know this: you have the ability to choose the face the world sees. You have the ability to shift this face as frequently as you like; never forget this responsibility is on you. No one else can choose how the world sees you, no matter your circumstances.

  I, for one, hope you will choose to let the inner light shine rather than shutter it. When you choose to shine, it’s infectious. Others around you will shine, too, and this is how we all make the world a better place.

  -Todd Barselow

  Davao City

  July 20th, 2018

  Part One

  Hell and Heaven are states of being, not destinations. They are worlds we carry within. Don’t expect to find angels and devils—not in the way you’ve envisioned them. As God is called Allah, so Man is called Monster. Don’t be fooled by titles. Call a skunk a rose and it will continue to reek.

  Hydras do not crawl out from between the weatherworn pages of fairytale anthologies. On the contrary, they ride the subway and order food at the local drive-through and enjoy stolen kisses at the cinema. Only one head is visible to the naked eye. They tend to avoid reflective surfaces.

  Each head is a sin; each belch of fire is a sin put to action. But you should know that the shadows differ. There may be seven heads, or three, or one. Those with one head are particularly tricky. Who’s to say if they’re human or hydra? You’d have to kiss them, bite them. You would know them by their mouth. The name of their sin is tattooed on the inside of their bottom lip, so they can lick and taste its sweetness.

  #OnceUponADevil

  “The Devil is real. And he’s not a little red man

  with horns and a tail. He can be beautiful.

  Because he’s a fallen angel,

  and he used to be God’s favorite.”

  –American Horror Story (2011)

  If you were to have asked her, Miss Sanders would have enthusiastically told you that this was the best hour of the school day, hands down. It was Art Hour, when the kindergarten classroom filled with instrumental music that a prior teacher had dubbed onto a cassette tape, when twenty little heads bowed over their papers and their crayons, when the most important thing in the world was to get to the yellow crayon before someone else broke it because a green sun just wasn’t the same.

  Art Hour was the only time when the little snot-nosed terrors shut up. Miss Sanders would not have told you that, of course, because it wasn’t a professional thing to say. But she’d sure as Hell be thinking it.

  Why did kids adore coloring? Did the taste of power intoxicate them, a sense of being the creators of their own universes? Did they revel in the mindless meditation of it, stretched over their stupid scribbles with the poise of little Buddhas? Miss Sanders couldn’t tell. Her hangover threatened to split her head into a thousand pieces. The kids hummed and colored, oblivious of how much she appreciated the peace and quiet. Peace, so she could grapple with her demons. Quiet, so she could almost hear the Hellfire crackling beneath the crust of the carpeted schoolroom.

  Katie Sanders was doing this gig for the normalcy of it, it being the most harmless job she’d been offered. Her snub-nosed face and corkscrew curls gave people the impression that she was as kid-friendly as she was cute; she’d been hired by the principal practically on the spot. She was an Ivy League grad, with a squeaky-clean record that deserved Geico’s lowest car insurance rates. She hid behind the planet’s most innocuous, unassuming job title.

  Who would have ever suspected that adorable, petite, freckle-faced Katie had pushed her grandmother down the stairs more than a decade ago—wheelchair and all—because the old woman had refused to tell the teenager where she’d hidden her will? Katie had only wanted to scare the hag, to shake her up a bit.

  She hadn’t meant to kill her.

  Actions have reactions, nonetheless. People rarely show up at Hell’s doorstep clutching a map of bad intentions. Katie’s father, of course, had always beaten himself up for being a cheapskate because he hadn’t replaced the wheels on that crummy old wheelchair. They’d all blamed the deflated rubber, reasoning that one of the tires had steered Granny off-course when she’d teetered too close to the stairwell. Katie Sanders had done nothing whatsoever to disabuse them of that notion.

  “Miss Sanders,” one of the little girls piped up.

  Oh my God. Miss Sanders closed her eyes. I can’t even.

  “My mommy always makes me brush my hair when I wake up in the morning.”

  The teacher opened her eyes and forced herself to smile. “Very good, Alexia.”

  “Lexi,” the child insisted, pausing her coloring for the conversation and craning back her little face to stare up at her teacher.

  Miss Sanders felt her plastic smile melting from the heat of her migraine. She ignored Lexi and continued walking down the aisle. Beyond the classroom windows, brewing thunderclouds darkened the skies. In the glass pane, Miss Sanders could see her reflection clearly: red dress, frizzy hair, and a ghost-white face in desperate need of blush and lip-gloss. The stress was getting to her. The tube of lipstick in her boyfriend’s bathroom had not been hers, but she’d chosen to nurse a bottle of Jack Daniels instead of confronting him. Why couldn’t she just throw her doubts up and away along with last night’s bulimic mess? Why couldn’t she just go and push him down a staircase and avenge herself for putting up with his lying ass?

  She knew why. Love. It was the only explanation. That was what love did to you. It wormed its way inside you and leeched you of your courage. It made you weak, reliant on other people’s opinions and expectations. It paralyzed you.

  Is this about Granny? The thought was like a knife tracing the ridges of Miss Sanders’ spine, less than a hair’s breadth from slitting her skin. Fear stiffened her body. Am I going to Hell? It wasn’t the notion of eternal damnation that scared her—it felt too vague to be frightening—as much as the idea of meeting her grandmother again. She still remembered the vicious old woman’s last rattling whisper after Katie had scampered down the stairs, feeling both vindicated and horror-struck by what she’d done.

  I’ve seen your horns, the old woman had said. I’ll see you in Hell.

  A familiar voice piped up again, shredding through Miss Sanders’ thoughts. “Doesn’t your mommy tell you to brush your hair?”

  Miss Sanders whirled around to glare at Lexi. She pushed back her permed hair with manicured fingers. The dark-haired brat was just a couple of desks away. Cramming kids into cubbyholes was illegal, right?

  “I’m only saying this because I care about you,” the child quipped. She held up one hand, palm out and fingers splayed. A peace gesture; something her folks did at home, apparently. The unexpected gentleness in the child’s voice made Miss Sanders pause. Lexi’s tone was serious and her eyes were concerned. Perhaps she’d learned that from her mother. “Sometimes when I wake up my hair is super messy. My mommy calls it a rat’s nest.” The other kids snickered at the phrase, glancing up from their artwork. Lexi and Miss Sanders ignored them. “But some of your hair is sticking up. Like this!”

  Lexi proudly held up her dr
awing.

  It was of a stick-figure woman wearing a red dress and red glasses. Her hair was short and yellow and curly. Two unmistakable horns, black and spiraling, reared from the stick figure’s head.

  Miss Sanders screamed.

  1 / Horned

  “Son, the greatest trick the Devil pulled was convincing the world there was only one of him.”

  –David Wong

  When the school bus pulled up at Lexi’s stop one cloud-riddled October afternoon, she got off alone. The two neighboring children who usually accompanied her were home sick that day. The bus rumbled away, its gleaming yellow body disappearing around a bend in the road, consumed by veiny crimson leaves that shrouded the trees like sweaters threaded with blood.

  In many ways, Lexi was a normal teenager. She boasted a weakness for chocolate, boy bands, and fairy tales. She was lucky enough to know little enough to fear nothing more than wasps, the dark, and the darker figments of her imagination. This very imagination gnawed at her now, raising the hair on the nape of her neck, with a small voice in her mind pointing out that Tuesday afternoons were usually more spirited.

  There was no neighbor mowing the lawn. There were no families raking leaves. No joggers. No people walking their dogs. A flock of crows cawed as they cleared the trees, their voices like screeching saws cutting through bone. Lexi could hear cars that gunned along the boulevard further back, which stretched perpendicular to this suburban street, out of sight.

  She did not notice the man.

  He emerged from a parked car as she walked by and grabbed her. Lexi felt the force of his hands as he hauled her backwards, her feet clearing the ground as he lifted her. When Lexi opened her mouth to scream, air deserted her. Instinctively she flailed her hands and feet, squirming in his arms. A foot collided with his leg—a lucky strike at the height of his kneecap, so that he loosened his hold with a grunt. She broke free.