I stare up at the stars, breathing in the night air. I read somewhere that people used to think that night air was bad for you. The vapors, they'd called it. They thought it brought disease. I can't understand why. I pull in a lungfull of it.
I walk around a bit after my episode is over. My crouched sobbing-position had made my legs stiff. My muscles also have a tendency to seize up on me when I really let the grief take over.
I stop to trace some of the names on the stones. Some sharp and fresh, as if a knife carved them yesterday. Others smudged with time, worn away by water and wind and snow. The flowers and candles are long gone. Near the back, at the oldest part of the cemetery are several mausoleums. Built, no doubt, by people who wanted to show how important they were with stone angels and iron doors to protect their dead. But no one cares. Nobody cares about you after you die.
Okay, so my thoughts were super-morbid, but that's what happens when one of your parents gets a life-threatening disease when you're a teenager. Still, I refuse to make the jump to full-on emo. There will be no completely black outfits with chain belts and combat boots. There will be no thick black eyeliner and random facial piercings. Yurgh.
Wandering a little more to compose myself, I go near the back of the cemetery, farthest from the road. It's older here, more wild. The ground is so uneven nobody can mow, so the grass is thick and tangled. Rocks are strewn about, and I have to tread carefully so I don't fall. Moss clings to everything, and it's like the air is different here. The oldest stones are nothing but crumbles of stone. No one bothers to come this way anymore. Especially with the hulking mausoleums.
There are only five, built back when how important you were was determined by how ostentatious your grave was. What a stupid thing to spend money on.
I'd often wondered what it was like in there, but all of them are sealed. I raise my cell-phone light to read the plaque over one of them, but the words are too small. I move on to the next one and stop. The doors are wide open, the two angels standing guard having failed in their duty. I hear two voices. Taking a step back, I consider trying to go back without being noticed.
“We go through this every year.”
“I know.”
The voices are both male. Using my amazing powers of deduction, I can guess they aren't here to visit a relative. In the middle of the night. And they're not here to cry their eyes out about their mother's terminal diagnosis. So that leaves adolescent hijinks. My fave.
“She will never let you go.” I might as well figure out what they're doing so I can call the cops. My hand twitches on my phone. I'll have to get farther away so they won't hear me.
“I know.”
“Why try?”
“I have to.”
“Your success rate leaves a little to be desired.”
“I know.” They're speaking quietly, but I hear every word. They certainly don't sound drunk or adolescent. They sound... I don't know. Like they're reciting lines from a play or something. One of the voices is British, his accent sharp and clear. The other speaks in monotone, no apparent accent.
“Why don't you forget it for this year, and have a treat with me? I know you can feel her. Hear her heart. When was the last time?” Wait, is he talking about me? I try to breathe more shallow, and wish my heart would stop pounding. I'm far enough from the entrance that he can't have heard me. Maybe this is some sort of gang code. If so, I'm in more trouble than I thought. I should have just gone back to the damn car. Isn't there some kind of hand signal you can make so they know you're one of them?
My mind goes to some strange places sometimes.
“No.”
“Then if you won't, I will.”
One minute I'm trying to hear what they're saying and the next there is a cold hand around my throat.
“Hello, pretty,” the British voice says in my ear. It takes almost a full second for me to realize that someone has their hand around my neck. Clawing, I try to thrash and kick him the way they taught us in that one self-defense class they made us do in gym last year. The problem is that he's behind me. What did they say about that? Something about throwing them off balance. I try that, jamming my ass backwards, but instead of hitting warm flesh, it's like hitting a brick wall. I attempt to jab him in the eyes, but he's so much taller than me, I don't think I'm anywhere close.
“Nice try.” Going for the element of surprise, I make a fist and go for his face, but it isn't there. I get air. My muscles are starting to fail me, and lack of oxygen is seriously hampering my ability to think clearly. Black spots swim in front of my eyes. I can't even get enough air to scream. The last hope is my cell phone, but it fell out of my hand when he grabbed me. In other words, I'm screwed.
“Ivan.” A voice echoes out of the mausoleum. “Stop.” Yes, Ivan, please stop. I make out something moving in front of me, but I can't focus on it. My legs and arms thrash some more. I am not going down without trying. I am not dying in this goddamn place.
“Changed your mind?”
“Let her go.” I want to reach out to the second voice. It's calmer than the one choking the life out of me. I try to form the word please, but I don't have enough air. The world goes black for a moment. Or maybe it's an hour.
“Why would I do that? Don't you want her?”
“Yes.” I hear the words, but they have lost meaning.
“Then have her.” With that I'm released. Of course I fall to the ground coughing and sputtering like an old car engine. A wheezy sound accompanies my attempt at breathing. I'd love to make my escape, but it's all I can do to get air back into my body. I'll try for the escaping in a second.
“Not tonight.”
“Then I will.” A shadow covers me. Should have gone for that escape. A few drops of rain fall on me. It's really the least of my worries, but I kinda hate getting wet.
“Please,” I say. I sound like a life-time smoker. I cough again, looking up. There are two faces above me. I search for any kind of sympathy. I don't understand why they're hurting me and what they're talking about. All I know, and I feel it with every cell of my body, is that if I don't do something, they're going to kill me. It's one of those feelings, like when you leave the house and you think as you get in the car that you should have brought your raincoat, and then it downpours a few minutes later. Only multiplied so much it crawls across my skin like fire ants.
“You have ten seconds to make a decision.” I'm assuming that's the guy who strangled me. The moonlight bleaches his hair. Frantic, I reach out with my eyes, trying to pluck a string of humanity in one of them. Just let me go. The other one has dark shaggy hair that hangs in dirty strands in front of his eyes that almost glow in the weak light. He's not as strong-looking as the other. I might have been able to take him. His eyes reach into mine. He doesn't even blink. And I can't look away, even when I try. He snags me with his eyes, and doesn't let me go for several seconds. I hope it's enough.
“Time's up.” There's a pain at my neck, and I finally black out.
***
Every year on the same day I came. To end my existence, the way it should have been. My box was here in the mausoleum, empty. They never found my body because there wasn't one to find. I traced the letters of my name with one of my fingers. Over and over. The death I wished for. Would have had if it were not for her. She didn't ask my permission, but I would have given it. I didn't want to die. I would have done anything to stop myself from facing that. Even if it meant this. But I could not have imagined what eternity would mean. I am still learning. I also did not know what promises meant. How they can bind and break you.
I talked to them, allowed myself to think of them on this one day a year. I wanted to believe in ghosts. To see their pearly forms drifting around me, enveloping me. Whispering the things they'd forgotten to tell me. I miss you. Don't forget me.
Don't worry, I didn't forget you. I can't.
I wanted to be alone, but it was not to be. Ivan found me. He always does. Those first few years it was both of th
em, but I have failed so many times, she no longer thinks of it as a threat. If I hadn't done it by now, it cannot be done. As usual, he mocked me. He never tired of that even after so many years.
But there was something new. The girl. We both sensed her at the same time. Young, fresh. A pounding heart that crashed through the night like a drum. Made it hard to think for a moment. I have not fed in weeks in preparation for this night. Ivan wanted her, that much I knew.
He grabbed her.
She struggled. I didn't want to watch. The only end I wanted tonight was mine. My own promise. He played with her, and I couldn't stand it any longer. I used to be the same, but it has been many years since I had toyed like that. Which does not mean I do not like a hunt. I do. But not on this night.
He threw her down on the ground. Her face turned up, bathed in the moonlight.
She stared at me and didn't look away. I was not used to being looked at. Seeing her made me remember bits and pieces of my life. Flashes. Bits of torn up pictures.
A laugh.
A walk on the beach. Holding my father's hand as we crossed the street, making sure I don't get hit by a buggy.
An ice cream, melting over my fingers and my chin and making my skin sticky. Our dog, Butterscotch with her missing ear and crooked tail. My mother putting on her pearl earrings.
The rain started. I always loved the smell of the rain. Even more now. The scent of something new. Of the washing away of sins. Baptism. I was baptized. A long time ago. Some days it felt like thousands of years, but it has not been that long.
I held her eyes without meaning to.
That surprised me. Nothing much surprises me and I got a thrill from it. I wanted her. But not tonight. Ivan moved to take her and she fainted. The movement of her eyelids shutting startles me. I didn't want him to have her. But he would not let her go. So I had to take her.
Chapter Four
Don't. Think.
When I wake up, I'm strapped into the front seat of my car.
What the hell? It takes a moment for my head to catch up with the situation. First is the bodily inventory. Everything still attached, check. No bleeding wounds, check. Feeling like I got hit by a truck, double check.
I turn on the interior light to make absolutely sure, and catch a glimpse of my awesome neck. It's red, and there are some marks that kinda look like hickeys. I'd seen enough of them on my best friend Tex to know what they look like. She was going to die when she saw these. Think that I'd been getting hot and heavy with some guy. Yeah, like that was going to happen. What had actually happened was more likely.
For some reason, I'm amazingly calm. Thoughts run through my head, but they're like water, flowing in a river. Is this shock? My distant thoughts remind me that it would probably be best if I got the hell out of here. Someone has put my key in the ignition. The radio blares on, scaring the daylights out of me. I can't take much more of this. I'm cracked already and if anything more happens, I'm going to shatter. I bite my lip hard not to cry. No, I will not cry any more tonight. My goal is to get home. Just get home. Everything will be fine when I get home. I repeat it over and over while I get my finicky car back in gear and on the road.
It's a good thing I'm in a rural area and it's the middle of the night. My shaky hands have a difficult time steering and all I can really do is hold on and hope there aren't any deer out wandering. The heater does little to thaw my shivers, which even a raging fire wouldn't cure. Why is it so hard to breathe?
Shut up and just get home.
Don't think about them. Don't think about the fact that one of them must have carried you to the car.
Don't. Think.
***
Ivan went for her, but I stopped him. Told him I did want her. He smiled and threw her limp body at me. It was all I could do not to sink my teeth into her neck. The fact that her eyes were closed stopped me. And a voice that sounded like my mother's. She reminded me of her.
My mother had dark hair, like this girl, and milky skin. She was originally from Japan, but her parents emigrated to New York when she was three. This girl was pure American, but something about her face reminded me of my mother. Something...
Ivan left, in search of other prey, leaving me with her.
I have no qualms about killing. I hadn't for years, but this night did it to me. I thought of it as my one human night a year. When I didn't have to be a killer.
I carried her back to her car and put her in the driver's seat, snapping the seatbelt so she won't fall when she wakes up. Her eyes were still closed, but her breathing was steady. I took one last look and went back to the woods. No one was going to die tonight. Not me, not her.
***
The sky is fading from deep blue to gray when I creep through the front door, almost knocking over a vase of flowers on the table by the door. Yellow roses. Dad bought them for her a few days ago. In fact, he'd been buying her more flowers than usual. Now I know why. It only distracts me for a moment. Quickly, I go around the house and make sure all the other entrances are locked. No one locks their doors in Maine, unless you live in Lewiston or something.
My heart still beats as if there's a murderer chasing me. Which is pretty close to the truth.
Down the hall I go, after I've slipped off my shoes. For the millionth time, I wish we had carpeting. Wood floors have a tendency to make noise when you're trying not to. There's a break in Dad's snoring; he must have rolled over. I stop moving, terrified any sound I make will wake him. I stand there, holding my breath. I'm still shaking, my hands jumping around. Dad's snoring resumes and I tiptoe upstairs.
Once I'm in my room, I close the door and finally feel like I can breathe. Just seeing all my things the way I left them before the night collapsed into a nightmare, makes me feel a little better.
Nothing matches. Sometimes I wished I was one of those girls who had a matching bedroom set with a white painted bed, nightstand, dresser and desk. Instead I had a iron daybed, a yellow dresser that had remnants from stickers I'd long tried to peel away when I'd grown out of my sticker phase. The nightstand had been a hand-me-down from my grandmother, dark polished wood that had seen better days. My desk belonged to my mother. She'd gotten herself through college with it, crammed it in a crappy apartment with three roommates. So comforting, but there is only so much familiar furniture can do.
In one night I'd found out my mother was going to die, come across two strange guys in a mausoleum, one of whom had tried to kill me and the other who watched. My first instinct, drummed into me by my parents and kindergarten teachers, was to call the police. That was the logical thing to do, but my cell phone is gone. Just the cherry on top of a big crappy night sundae. Possibly the crappiest.
Don't. Think.
I should call 911. Give the location and then hang up before they could track me down. In the old days, I could just use a payphone, but now I was out of luck. I'd watched enough Law and Order marathons to know that cell phones are traceable. And then the police would find me and there would be questions and what would I say? Not to mention I'd have to tell my parents. What would that do to them? My mother in her fragile state. My father, trying to keep everything calm, for her sake. No, I can't call the police.
I run through my other options, none of them very good. I watch the light get brighter as my prospects get dimmer and more desperate. I can't tell anyone, I can't do anything, really. Which just sucks.
Finally, I get up and brush my teeth. It's the only thing I can think to do. I look up at my face, and all I can see are my green eyes, huge in my face, framed by dark circles and thin lashes. My jeans have dirt on them, and my shirt stinks of sweat. I strip down, and try not to let what happened at Bolero, and the cemetery, consume me. I'd already had a good cry about it. There was no use for another episode.
I shower for a long time, with water so hot it scalds my skin, making me look like a cooked lobster. I use the loofa Tex got me last Christmas, made from some unfortunate sea creature, to scrub myself raw. As the h
ot water courses down my face and I try to scrub the horrible night away, tears start to leak from my eyes. Damn them. Most of the time I'm able to put a stopper in my tear ducts, to swallow them, keep them bottled up. But there's something about the vulnerability of being naked, the water coursing down my face and the fact that the shower muffles any sound I might make.
I stop as soon as I'm able, clenching my muscles so they won't shake and seize. I wipe my eyes over and over again. As soon as I'm under control, I shut the water off.
A few hours later, I come downstairs at a normal Saturday time. Which means I'd been stuck in my room for hours, iPod earbuds jammed in my ears, volume turned up so it hurt my eardrums, re-folding my t-shirts, dusting, arranging my books, feeding my goldfish, Tristan and Isolde, and even starting an outline for my essay on the symbolism of light and darkness in Wuthering Heights. All of which hadn't done anything to stop me reliving every awful moment.
“What's new pussycat?” My mother says as I emerge into the sunlight of the kitchen. This morning the cheery yellow colors burn my eyes as she grabs me and starts crooning in a horrible Tom Jones impression.
“Ugh, it's too early.” I pretend that I've just woken up. In reality, I'm so beyond tired it's like I'm only functioning with half my brain. The other part is either sleeping or abandoned me after last night. My stomach rolls once, remembering.
“Did you shower? Your hair's wet.” Me and my stupid thick hair that takes hours to dry. I'd gotten that from my mother. Her own hair had fallen out slowly, and she'd clung to every strand until it was gone, screaming and banging her fists against the mirror. She'd thought I couldn't hear her, but I did. My mother wasn't one of those women who'd shaved their heads without fear.
She's got her everyday wig on, which almost matches her real color.
“Yeah, I forgot to last night.” Can we please talk about something else?
“You want some pancakes, ma fleur?” Normally I would have smiled at the nickname, her pride in her French Canadian heritage. She also has a thing for nicknames. And aprons. She's wearing the one that makes her look like she stepped out of a 1950's commercial about white bread. All starched white and frills. Not a spot on it, which defeats the purpose of an apron.
Nocturnal Page 2
