A Beautiful Fate

by Cat Mann

  Chapter 1

  Ava

  They were screaming for me again, some beseechingly and others by calling out in pain. My grip on the cold steel scissors in my hand turned my knuckles bone white as I walked down the dim corridor. People, strangers, demanded my attention from beyond their closed doors. They called for death and begged for the coup de gràce that would afford them peace, or at least surcease from pain . . .

  A shrill scream escaped my lips as I transitioned from restless sleep to wide awake and yanked my ear buds out with much more force than necessary. Black Rebel Motorcycle Club had been chanting about opening my eyelids and letting my demons run. If they only knew. My iPhone dropped with a thunk onto the guest bedroom floor at my Grandmother’s home.

  Damn it! I have to stop falling asleep wearing my ear buds.

  My music has a way of insinuating itself into my dreams and causing even more nightmares than I usually have. Sweat beaded on my forehead and my hands shook.

  It was just a stupid dream. Remember to breathe. Repeating my mantra, I grabbed my phone from the floor to check the time. Six in the morning, and I had officially had only four hours of sleep.

  As quietly as I could, I moved down the hall towards the guest bathroom and switched the faucet on; the knob squeaked in protest from disuse. I splashed my face with cold water and looked up into the mirror at my reflection, at the dark puffy circles that shadowed my green eyes and the pallor of my usually healthy looking skin.

  Once, years ago when I was small, my mom had told me that I have my father’s eyes . . . and that was the only mention she ever made of him. I cherish that small connection – eye color – that links me to a person I never knew. Pulling my hair into a ponytail that included the tangles my dream-inspired tossing and turning had caused, I brushed my teeth and slipped on my running shoes. Soundlessly slipping down the hallway and then down the stairwell, I let myself out the back door. I was anxious to run, eager to push away my unknown fears.

  A sunny California morning carrying the sound of roaring waves as they crashed onto shore greeted me, and I stretched before beginning my run down the sandy beach. The shoreline was relatively quiet and free from beachgoers as I shoved my ear buds in and turned my music up to max sound.

  My plan was to run a full six miles to ease my growing anxiety. The pounding of my feet on the sand and my quick panting breaths are therapy for me. I welcome the heat of the rising sun and the way my hair sticks to my skin as my sweat washes over me. I wove my way down the beach, dodging waves as they threatened to dampen my feet. Miles passed; my uneasiness ebbed and my senses finally numbed.

  At The Pier, I turned and started my journey back to Margaux’s home. The beach began to fill with men and women in swimsuits, spreading out their towels, talking on their cell phones and hollering at small children to stay close by; I breathed them in, the hefty aroma of their coconut-scented suntan lotion and the scent of warm flesh rising from their bodies creating a connection with humanity I don't often feel.

  I took my grandmother’s deck steps two at a time, slid open her glass back door and crossed through the living room to head up the steps leading to the guest bath for a much-needed shower. Shockingly cold water turned on full force brought a gasp from my lips and made me squeeze my eyes shut. The water was both wonderful and painful. I made myself stay under the showerhead, scrubbed my skin, washed and rewashed my hair until I finally felt clean enough to start my day.

  My grandmother is a sucker for the finer things in life. Her towels are super soft and thick. I wrapped one around my body and then grabbed a second for my hair, walked down the hall to the guest room and lugged my suitcases onto the bed. My mother had followed in my grandmother’s footsteps and I, having followed my mother’s example, am a chump for fashion. Staring down at what I had hastily packed the day before, I pulled a summer dress from my bag, shook out the creases and slipped it on. Way too much heat on the beach to wear anything but loose-flowing fabric and strappy sandals.

  Dressed, I headed for the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. While it brewed, I sat at the counter, already anxious again, and waiting – for what I didn’t know.

  “Ava, Darling.”

  My grandmother purred from behind me, causing goose bumps to creep up the back of my neck. She startled me from my thoughts and I jumped, spilling my last sip of black coffee across her counter top.

  “Morning, Margaux,” I mumbled as I ripped a paper towel sheet from the roll and used it to soak up my spill.

  “Where have you been? I looked for you all over the house and you were nowhere to be found.”

  Her concern was fake, I knew, but I acknowledged her attempt at conversation anyway.

  “I run, Margaux. Every day.”

  “Of course you do,” she purred again and gave me an ultra-fake, dazzling, white smile.