A New Dawn

by Jae Vogel

  A New Dawn

  Jae Vogel

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  © Copyright 2016 by Jae Vogel - All rights reserved.

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

  Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

  Chapter 1

  There had been times—many of them—when Aurora had typed in “darkness dreams” or “dreams of total darkness” just to see what Dr. Google had to say. Rarely did everyone’s favourite physician have anything helpful to add.

  Darkness is symbolic of incomprehension, the unconscious, of malice, death, and concerns about the unknown.

  To dream that you are lost in the darkness indicates a sense of loss, uncertainty, or despair.

  But Aurora always forgot this advice when the dream was upon her. Tonight, it began as it always did. Darkness. On every side. Below, above, pressing against her skin like a physical thing. It felt soft, smooth, like satin; something that filled her with such dread should have felt cold or clammy. But no. She was adrift again in satiny darkness, having no way out, not knowing which way she even came in.

  Her real body in her bed twisted about, tangling slim legs and slender fingers through her sheets. In her dream, the darkness began to move. It was gradual, like something long-dead taking its first, hesitating breaths. It felt wrong, like something that should not be. And as the darkness flowed and whirled around her, the fear began. It was the hot-blooded fear of a roller coaster and the racing-heart excitement of a first kiss, not all bad but completely terrifying. And Aurora was, as always, completely terrified.

  And now, the next act. The darkness began to tighten its noose, as it always did. Closer and closer, spinning in smaller circles until Aurora felt certain it must be about to strangle her. It never strangled her, though, not even tonight. In the waking world, her muscles tightened painfully, twisting together in anticipation.

  Through the darkness—Aurora felt it more than saw it—a hand reached. Whether it was to save her or harm her, Aurora never knew, but it grasped for her through the depthless, endless black night.

  Her cell phone blared a clanging alarm and Aurora snapped awake, panting. Sunlight filtered in through her curtains, slanting through the city buildings outside, finding its way here to where it was most needed. Nothing would have been half so welcome as the sight of sunlight after another one of the darkness dreams. They had been recurring all through her childhood, for as long as she could remember. Her mother had never had money for a psychiatrist, but whenever Aurora went to the school councillor the dreams were labelled as manifestations of abandonment anxiety.

  Wasn’t that something. Abandonment anxiety. Why ever would Aurora have that? It surely wasn’t her father walking out when she was little, no, definitely not that.

  Of course, Aurora reasoned as she fought out of her tangle of bedsheets, who didn’t have abandonment anxiety? Was there anyone in the world who liked being left high and dry?

  In the soft rays of sunlight, dust motes hovered and danced; realistically, it meant their apartment was old and musty, but they were strangely beautiful in the morning light. Aurora watched them float for a moment, still drowsy, wrapped in her quilt.

  “You up, baby?”

  “I’m up, Momma,” Aurora replied. An enormous yawn began halfway through the small sentence. She smiled and turned towards the door. “I’m up.”

  Never once in her life had Aurora woken before her mother. When she was in grade school, this had seemed natural. Why question it? That was just the way things were, and had always been. Aurora had just assumed that she didn’t need to sleep. The way children often do, Aurora had shrugged it off, seeing no need to worry.

  When she was in her teens, Aurora found out the truth of things; Ramona Potier was an insomniac, afflicted severely with an inability to fall asleep or even to stay asleep. She’d always made use of this handicap to work extra hours, as many as three jobs at once, to provide for herself and Aurora in New York, where even three jobs was sometimes not enough. It had cost her, in the end, and eventually Aurora had returned home from school senior year to find her mother curled up and shivering in the bathtub—she’d had a nervous breakdown. Overworked, the doctor said. Take a break. And here’s the bill.

  So at seventeen, Aurora had to assume responsibility for both of them. The last few months of high school had been terribly close, but she’d graduated and moved straight into the work force, taking up her mother’s mantle to keep a roof over their heads.

  That was five years ago. Five years of waitressing, bartending, shop keeping, running newspapers or pizzas (as circumstances demanded). Her high school friends had moved away to college, careers, their futures. And Aurora was here. Making ends meet. Stuck in an exhausting limbo where one day bled into the next and there was an endless need for another paycheck.

  Ramona wasn’t able to work anymore; something had seemed to break inside her the day she had her attack. Now curiously quiet and reserved, she rarely left the apartment. Her days were spent obsessively cleaning and obsessively looking after her daughter, to the point where Aurora sometimes felt no less than suffocated.

  Aurora snapped her sheets back into place just as Ramona’s voice sounded outside her door.

  “Aurora, sweetie—do you want me to bring you your cereal in bed?”

  Aurora rolled her eyes; most days, she could keep her exasperation to herself. “No, Momma, I’m going to come out and eat with you.”

  Rubbing sleep and the last bits of the dream from her eyes, Aurora opened the door to her room and joined her mother in the kitchen. A tiny table was squeezed in the corner by the window; Ramona was sitting here, and it looked like she’d been sitting there for hours already. Her skinny frame was settled in her usual chair, hair up in a scarf, gazing out the window absently.

  “What’cha thinkin’ about?” Aurora asked cheerfully from the kitchen. She poured a bowl of cereal (Cinnamon Toast Crunch) and splashed in some milk. Her mother still hadn’t answered by the time she put both box and carton away and took her seat at the table.

  “Oh, nothing,” Ramona answered finally, dreamily.

  Aurora swallowed the sharp reply that came to mind. She already knew what her mother was thinking about. The same thing she was always thinking about this time of day, in this still hour, when another sleepless night had passed. Aurora’s father. Where the daughter was plagued by fitful dreams and simmering resentment, Ramona only ever seemed to remember him wistfully, lovingly, as if she had forgotten the part where he walked out.

  As if he’d never done anything wrong. That, more than anything, made Aurora angry.

  But she had grown a talent for holding her tongue when those feelings arose. Ramona knew it made her daughter mad to talk about her absent husband, so she never did anymore.

  Aurora sighed as she gulped down her cereal. “Well, much more of this, and I’ll be late to work.” She leaned over and kissed her mother’s forehead, then retreated to the sink to wash her dishes.

  There wasn’t much threat of Aurora being late; it was only a twenty minute commute (if she caught the train) and she still had another thirty minutes to get to the station. She walked into the bathroom and ran a shower; the water a slightly brown at first, and as she wa
ited for it to clear, Aurora caught sight of herself in the mirror.

  The first thing she noticed was the dark circles under her eyes. Again. She’d often wondered if insomnia was genetic, and if she, too, might end up sitting up in a kitchen chair all night. For all that she worked, Aurora didn’t seem to sleep enough, and today her face showed it. Her dusky skin was winter pale, and her speckled hazel eyes gleamed. Those must have come from her European father. Ramona Potier had dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes, and Aurora really only took after her in bone and facial structure.

  If she had her own way, Aurora would have been content to get her father’s hair, too, but since hers was curly and thick, she worked conditioner through it before stepping into the water.

  Without meaning to, Aurora started to imagine all over again what he had looked like. She tried to work backwards, taking her features and subtracting everything that was Ramona. What was left? The remains of some Louisiana man who her mother had fallen in love with? Aurora could never finish the picture. It kept falling apart every time she got close to his face.

  Chapter 2

  It was a beautiful morning—at least, as beautiful as it ever got in New York. In February, the air was bitter cold and sharp as razors going down Aurora’s throat to her lungs when she drew in a breath, flaming out in puffs of icy white when she exhaled. She was bundled in layers, leggings under her jeans, two sweaters under her coat, and thick socks under her boots. She still felt the cold grasping for her skin through all the clothes.

  Five days a week, she went to Mme. Moreau’s boutique downtown to sell designer clothes. That simple sentence isn’t quite the whole of the story; it’s a simplified explanation. What Aurora did at the boutique more resembled a finely-planned performance than simple customer service. There were five girls employed at the store, and for the six hours that the boutique was open, Monday through Friday, all five showed up to fawn in synchronised perfection over each client, each appointment in the book. Moreau’s was a highly exclusive, much coveted brand. Aurora couldn’t explain why; apart from being French and snobby, Madame Moreau was little different than any other woman, her clothes elegant, but not particularly more so than any other store.

  But it paid well, and Aurora was the senior employee, so it was worth her time to stay. After her most recent raise from Moreau six months past, she’d been able to drop her third job at Wal-Mart. If only for this reason, Aurora was thankful enough to stay loyal.

  The raise had come when Aurora became the senior employee, when her predecessor had married and bowed out of working for Moreau. With it came certain perks, of course, foremost being that Aurora possessed a key to the store. She used it now, as she climbed into the elevator and had to unlock the 24th floor, which belonged to Moreau. The Madame wasn’t here yet, which was strange for a Friday. Usually she got here early to make sure everything was in order to be wrapped up for the weekend. No flimsy excuses or late orders from this shop.

  Strange, but not unheard of. Aurora put it from her mind as she walked in to the boutique, lit softly in early morning’s colors from the naked windows.

  The cleaning ladies were still there when Aurora walked in, and she greeted them warmly; it had been the same service for her entire career at Moreau’s that came in just before opening to see to it that the place was spotless. They did excellent work, or else Madame Moreau would have replaced them years ago.

  The boutique opened at ten, and stayed open until four. This was not accidental. Moreau believed part of her image was excluding customers that worked, that had other places to be at two in the afternoon other than spending money. Aurora tried not to think about that; it always inflated a hot little balloon of fury in her chest, and it was better to just flatten that down. This was her main job, the biggest source of her income. No need to blow it over social injustice, especially not for someone as petty as Moreau.

  Instead, she let herself in to the back room, into the cavernous back hall full of racks and hanging clothes bags, all their inventory. Only a few displays were set out on the actual floor; this was why all five employees were there every day, to run back and forth with possible outfits for their guests. It was a little exhausting at times, Aurora had to admit, but there were worse ways to make a living than pandering to spoiled housewives and mistresses.

  Part of the back room was a sort of locker room for the girls who worked there. Good pay or not, none of them made half enough to afford to dress in Moreau’s styles themselves. One of her dresses could pay Aurora’s rent for half a year! She could never afford it on her own. But neither could they show up to work dressed in something they bought at Target, so Moreau had a few styles set aside for the girls to wear as their uniforms. Nothing too showy. Just expensive enough to impress the clientele.

  Being the first there, Aurora had her choice of the lot. New outfits always came in on Friday, to be prepared for arrangement on the show floor over the weekend. The sales girls got a crack at them first, and today several new dresses waited on the ‘borrow’ rack, still in their fresh plastic sheaths.

  Aurora had never told anyone this—not that she really had anyone to tell—but her work outfits were one of the biggest perks of this job. The other girls were silly and twittery, and Aurora hated to agree with them on anything; when they oohed and aahed about Moreau’s fashions, Aurora tried to pretend she was indifferent, focused on work. But here alone, she could admit to herself. She got an odd and fluttery thrill to dress up in pretty clothes, no matter how stupidly expensive they were.

  Today she picked out an olive green dress, which matched her hazel-green eyes wonderfully. It was dripping with floral embroidery and tiny precious stones. Probably Swarovski crystals, glimmering from the centers of tiny wildflowers. The dress came with a short cap-sleeve jacket, a shade and a half darker than the dress, that curved around Aurora’s back and shoulders perfectly. Maybe that was why these clothes were so expensive. They always seemed to fit as if designed just for the wearer.

  Aurora looked over her choice in the mirror and was not disappointed. She was skinny (overwork and poverty will do that to a body) but still strong and young and the dress made her look much more refined than she ever felt on her own. Moreau believed clothes were the key to success; there were times when Aurora had to agree with her, at least privately.

  To finish the outfit, there was a vanity and a jewelry box of baubles to pair with the work uniforms. No one had ever been dumb enough to try and steal from the jewelry cache in a long time. Moreau was like a falcon, or a hound dog. She knew how to read people, and she knew how to sniff out a lie. Aurora had never even considered stealing from her, although some of the pieces to borrow cost much more than the clothes.

  Today it was diamonds, simple, tiny drops for each ear that picked up the glitter from the thousand crystals sewn into the dress. Tasteful and spare. Perfect. A pair of soft green-satin pumps and the outfit was complete.

  Aurora put her own things away, neatly folded, into her locker and walked back out onto the floor. The housekeepers were gone, leaving the floor empty and silent. Aurora turned the show lights on and walked to the counter. She barely had time to open the appointment book to review their schedule when the elevator opened and Mme. Moreau and two of the other girls entered.

  “Good morning, Madame Moreau,” Aurora greeted automatically.

  Madame Moreau looked a little like a Halloween decoration dressed in designer fashion. Although she sold only the newest and finest styles (and her own brand) in the boutique, Moreau seemed to have picked out a decade and stuck with it, always in black. Over her snappy black dress suit and heels, she blustered into the store today spewing French, doffing her black-fur coat as she went.

  “Je suis… parce que… ne peut pas espere… cette ville… tout le monde... gens ne sais pas…” Aurora didn’t speak French, but she’d developed an ear for certain words, and it seemed that Moreau was in no better or worse mood than usual.

  The Madame was at least eighty and frightf
ully thin, like a great pale, skeletal bat done up in thousand-dollar make-up. Her perfectly white hair was flawless, as if even the winter wind outside couldn’t touch it.

  “Terrible, just terrible, everything’s terrible,” she rattled on as she shambled across the floor. “Aurora, get the book. We have to inventory before open.”

  Aurora snatched up the order log from under the counter and jogged to catch up with Moreau. While the other girls changed, it was time to inventory the arrivals in the back. It would take most people an hour or two. At Madame Moreau’s pace, it would be done before the store opened.

  Careful not to get ink on her borrowed dress, Aurora jotted down Moreau’s endless stream of commentary. Numbers, notes, complaints—there were always complaints, with Madame Moreau—all went in the boxes and margins. Aurora was having a much easier time keeping than usual. She eyed Moreau suspiciously.

  The Madame had paused, rubbing the black sleeve of a garment between her fingers. Her heavily made-up face seemed to be concentrating fiercely. On her four-inch heels, Mme. Moreau seemed to totter a little.

  “Madame!” Aurora almost dropped the book, ready to catch her if she fell. Moreau steadied herself and shook her head.

  “Where was I? Ah, oui, we received three of this style, but I specifically asked for five, one in each of our main sizes…”

  And on she went, as if nothing had happened. Aurora continued to scribble notes, looking up every now and then. Moreau still seemed to be moving slower than usual, and making occasional mistakes in her English.

  They had finally wrapped up inventory (with minutes to spare), and Aurora was jotting down the last few lines when Moreau stopped suddenly.

  Aurora had been waiting. She set the book down instantly and took Moreau’s arm. Maybe it had been the shock of finding her own mother in a panic attack all those years ago, but there was something wrong with the Madame. The old woman had a hand gripped around the edge of a rack, knuckles white, and Aurora had to gently pry them loose to lead her to a chair.