* * *
Unintelligible words filtered through the air, echoing in the void as if through a long metal tube. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, faint lights came into focus. The house windows were lit by candles.
Were the candles there before? I wondered before my attention shifted.
The muttering voice came near before I realized the words were coming from me, but sounded somehow different.
What am I saying?
I tried to look around, but movement was out of my control. The jumbled words became clear. However, it wasn’t my voice. It was feminine and too proper. There was something else in the tone, too… fear. The same emotion filtered into my thoughts and through my body.
“Please, Theodore, I didn’t do anything.”
Suddenly, I was thrust backward, away from the large house. I slammed into something cold and hard… the iron fence. Pain pierced my thoughts like a lightning bolt. Hands tightened around my throat. My eyes settled on a man less than a foot away. He pulled me back toward him. Something about his chiseled jaw and cheeks looked familiar. Large, rough fingers tightened around my neck, and the middle-aged man slammed me against the gate. Again, pain lanced through my mind.
“The hell you didn’t,” he rasped at arm’s length. His anger engulfed his eyes, lighting them with a fire that could illuminate the night sky. It was an anger I had come to know well over the last three years with the drunk. “I saw you at the Independence party. You were pandering to any man that set eyes on you. You even blew kisses at the Quigley boy, off the veranda.”
“No, I was not,” I whispered, too prim and proper, but my voice quaked with fear. His words brought memories of the night to mind, a party of elite celebrating a country’s newly acquired independence. The styles were archaic, but vivid. It was as though I’d been there that very night. Mr. Quigley was a young man in his early twenties, and he was quite taken with me—no, her. It was difficult to distinguish between the two of us, like when you take some other form in a dream. You almost lose yourself and live within the vision.
That has to be what this is––a dream.
The memories stitched their way through my thoughts, overwhelming my conclusion and giving her lie away.
She’d done everything Theodore claimed––flirted, stolen kisses, and more.
“Please don’t do this,” she beseeched him.
The objection infuriated the man further. His black coat strained against his muscle-bound form, and his arm quivered, tense and strong. I tried to fight back, clutching at his forearm, but it didn’t faze the brute. He was solid as a rock. His rage took hold, and he threw me into the gate, over, and over. My skull rattled at each impact with the unyielding metal spires, shattering my thoughts until the world collapsed into the blackest of nights.
* * *
I stumbled away from the iron-wrought gate. The Brogand manor stood like a silent witness under the sun’s morning rays. The light flew through sparse clouds to illuminate the large home, but something dark lurked in its shadowed corners. The trees still held their multi colored leaves, each of them preparing to leave on the winds of change. Homeless Bob hadn’t even caught up to me, yet.
What the heck was that… a dream? If it was, it was a doozey.
I wavered between school and returning to the trailer park. After a few indecisive moments, I picked the least dreadful of the two and proceeded to school. The rest of the way, I stared at the sidewalk, contemplating the vision as I meandered down odd streets that barely registered in my conscious thoughts.
Was it a dream, or am I going insane?
School - 3
To my surprise, I looked up and found myself in front of the school entrance. The grounds were vacant with only a few cars drifting out of the parking lot. Birds chirped, disrupting the silence. The large clock in the center of the courtyard announced that classes had already begun. When I reached the gym, a voice stopped me outside. The other students passed by in a herd as they ran laps.
“It’s nice of you to join us,” shouted Coach Moyer from the track. It encompassed the football field, not far from the building. Mr. Moyer was a bull of a man, weighing at least four-hundred pounds, most of which hung over his waist. His double chin bulged around the collar of his school polo.
“Sorry I’m late, got caught up.”
“Well, get with it. Change your clothes and join the rest of the class out on the track. You’re running ten laps today.”
I nodded and disappeared into the locker room. Ten laps didn’t bother me, although I’d never been the sporting type. By the time I reached the track half the period was over, and most people had finished the majority of their laps. The track stars were sitting on the well-trodden grass, horse-playing and telling jokes. The rest of the athletes loped down the black avenues. I set a comfortable pace. If I didn’t finish it wouldn’t be the end of the world. The vivid dream from that morning still haunted me. The crisp morning air cycled through my lungs; it was refreshing.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder, bringing me back to the lonely reality I was accustomed to.
“Hey Alex, what happened to you this morning?” asked Jessie, another senior. His brown hair was matted in sweat, but he matched my pace.
“Nothin’ really, just took my time getting here.” Jessie was one of the few people that I might call a friend.
“Dude, you don’t look so hot. You sure you’re feelin’ well?”
Before I could answer, Coach Moyer screamed, “Get a move on!” Jessie waited for my response, ignoring the coach’s orders.
“Nah, I’m good, no worries.”
“Arturo, did you hear me?” bellowed the coach from the start line. “Get your butt moving and join up with the rest of the football team. They’re about to lap you.” Sure enough, Grant Brogand, the star quarterback, was coming up behind us, setting the pace for the rest of the team.
“Maybe you better go,” I said. Coach Moyer’s face was growing beet red.
“Why,” asked Jessie, “It ain’t like he can catch us. I hear he makes the Driver’s Ed students stop for burgers every time they go out.”
We both chuckled at the rumor we knew to be true, but Jessie accelerated around the track before the coach lost whatever patience he had left. Jessie rounded the track and caught up to the others. He was the only one that ever stepped outside the popular group or even spoke civilly to me. The fact that they were all overshadowed by Grant’s celebrity status might have been partly to blame. Although Jessie was good, with Grant around, no one else was ever mentioned to college scouts.
A moment later, the only other person I found worth listening to caught up and matched my stride. “Hey, Paige,” I mumbled.
“Hey, Alex, how are you?” Her gray gym shirt attempted to make her into a drab clone of the rest of us. But if the school had enacted a uniform dress code, it wouldn’t detract from her beauty. Brown curls bounced over her shoulders like ocean waves. She smiled as she fell in step. For brief moments, she turned her honey-brown eyes on me. They were like amber pools, deep enough to drown in.
“Not bad,” I lied. I wanted to tell her about the dream. I was sure she’d see through my fib, like Jessie had. But I still didn’t feel comfortable telling anyone. What if something was wrong with me?
“Is the drunk still being a Neanderthal?” she asked in a subdued whisper. She liked the characterization. Having only seen him once, the reference was motivated by my stories of his brute behavior and the aftereffects of his tirades that I couldn’t always hide. Paige was the one person I could talk to about my home life. She hadn’t gone through anything like I had, but her caring soul was visible with just a look.
“Yeah, pretty much. I just ignore him as best I can. One more year and I’m gone.” Paige sent me a pitying look. “How’s your morning?” I asked, trying to steer clear of me as the topic of discussion.
I could tell she was concerned, but she humored me. “Fine. You missed Trig this morning. Mrs. Easely gave us a qu
iz.”
I shrugged it off. “You think you did well?”
“Yeah,” she answered. “What about you. What’ll you do?”
“Eh… she’ll have me do a make-up, like usual.”
“Are you going to study for it?” Her attitude was a constant reminder of what I used to be like, worried about grades and what others thought. Thankfully, she never pushed too hard to make me follow her advice. Otherwise, I don’t think I could’ve stood her, even with her entrancing gaze.
“No need. I’ll pass it.”
She nodded but seemed less than sure of the statement. “Have you thought about your English project? What topic did you choose?”
“English project?”
“Yeah, the one about a memorable event in American History. Something that has changed the way we live.” Her voice was almost patronizing, but pitying at the same time. “We were supposed to have the topic chosen for today’s class.”
“Oh yeah, I already got that figured out.” The lie wasn’t enough. She waited for a follow-up. I grasped for something, anything, and blurted the first idea that came to mind. “I’m doing mine on the Civil War. That should be easy enough.” I had always heard that things changed a lot after the war between brothers. I didn’t see how things could have improved, considering how miserable my life was at that moment, but maybe there was something I could write about.
Paige brightened at the news. “Great, we can partner up.”
I certainly wasn’t opposed to the idea of spending more time with Paige, but if she was thinking along the same lines, then she had already delved into the topic and had plans for how it should be done.
“Sure,” I mumbled, giving in to my libido. I smiled at her cheerful response.
“Maybe my dad can take us to the old battlefield outside of town. We can do a little research over a weekend.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said, as my fears became reality. I had been there before in elementary school. At the time it was interesting, but since then, visiting a depressing place where hundreds of people died had fallen to the bottom of my list.
Just then, Coach Moyer called us in to change before the bell.
The rest of the day was uneventful until I saw Paige again in seventh period. English class was not my favorite subject, but since I’d get a chance to work with Paige, I listened to what Mr. Broaderick had to say. After we presented our ideas to the class, he gave us handouts and went over the instructions. It was the standard spiel: twelve point font, typed, double spaced, etc… By the time he finished, the bell rang. I stuffed the sheet in my bag and strode out the door, leaving Paige behind. I had to talk to Dad. The dream from that morning was still on my mind and the thought that I might be going insane chilled me to the bone.
In less than a minute, I flew down the flight of stairs and pushed my way through throngs of underclassmen milling in the hallway. I didn’t use a locker. It saved time and allowed me to avoid most of the crowd eagerly making their way out of the parking lot. So far this year, three people had been hit by impatient kids; one of them was a teacher. In no time, I left the school behind. The sidewalks hadn’t become clogged with ninth-graders yet, but it would not be long. With each step my breathing came more easily. Everywhere I went I felt like a stranger. The one place that felt remotely like home was with my father. I swept through town, determined to reach the grassy field of tombstones and the ancient pine that had become my most reliable friend.
To my surprise, when I reached my father’s grave, I found a bound bouquet of orchids wrapped in baby’s breath at the base of his headstone. There was no card attached. After four years, was there someone else that felt as strongly about my father as I did? Thoughts of him having another family—and other children––came to mind, but I pushed them aside.
My grandfather was the only other person that still spoke of him. And we only saw him on holidays. Considering that most days he couldn’t remember my name, or even that my father had been killed, I doubted he would have left the flowers. Besides, his eyesight was so bad that he couldn’t have driven to the end of the block without hitting a mailbox, let alone two hours away to another town. I had always liked the talks I had with him, even after he was forced to leave us. I took my seat at my father’s feet and set the mystery aside for another day.
“Dad, there are things I don’t understand…,” I began.
My thoughts poured out, overflowing. Of course, he never spoke back, but I still felt that he was there with me, listening. I told him about the dream and the awful way the drunk treated us. I told him how much I missed him, and even shed a few tears in silence. Before I finished, the sun disappeared behind the tree line. It was time to find my way back to the drunk and Vivian.
Walking through town at dusk was one of my favorite things, second only to the time I spent with my dad. Most people were home eating dinner and I rarely saw someone I knew. It was quite dark by the time I climbed the rotting steps. Opening the door, I re-entered the never-ending loop that was my life. The smoke clogged my lungs and Vivian was still absent. Work had consumed her in an eternal cycle. The drunk sat in his worn-out chair, legs propped in the air, while Frank lay across the brown sofa watching yet another police drama on television.
“Hey,” murmured the old man as I walked past.
With my thoughts dwelling on the misery of the woman in my dream, I ignored his intoxicated greeting and stepped into the dark hallway. I envied the peace she must have felt at the end.
I shut my door and heard the creak of the drunk’s chair fold down. The drunk stumbled to his feet.
“Hey you dumb son of a…,” he slurred in a drunken stupor. But the door muffled everything else.
I turned and dumped my bag onto the floor. It fell with a loud thump just as my door slammed back open.
“Now you lisssen here you damn, ungrateful shild.” The drunkard attempted to use the doorframe to steady himself, but it seemed to be a losing battle. “Yous don’t dis’rspect me here. I owns thisss plassse and yous don’t do a damn thing. Yous like a leech, sssuckin me dry. I’m the one whose puts the food on the table, nots you.”
He accentuated the final words with a strong flick of the wrist, and launched an unopened beer can into the room. It struck me in the forehead and I fell backward into the wooden bunk beds. My head struck the side with a loud crack and the world liquefied. Sounds swam through the air. I fell to my knees next to the bed, unable to see through the muted mess. As I tried to get my senses back, the drunk’s stumbling footsteps echoed through the floorboards, getting closer. I felt his familiar rage slam into my back. I slumped onto the floor and attempted to pull myself out of his reach, but I couldn’t get far enough away.
A rain of blows thundered down from above. I threw my hands over my head. Soon enough, my senses cleared, but my arms and body felt like they’d been tenderized. The man relished inflicting pain. With each punch, his enjoyment grew. The new entertainment parted his lips in a maniacal smile and set his jaw. Looking away, I found his other arm resting on the bed-frame like the center pillar of a house. Using my weight, I kicked it out from under him. It was a trick my father taught me before one of his deployments.
The drunk teetered for a millisecond before falling to the floor. Seeing my chance, I leapt to my feet and sped from the room as fast as my pulverized legs would take me. I flew out the back door and headed for the only safe place I knew.
By the time I reached the graveyard, I was out of breath and every muscle screamed in pain. Exhaustion took hold and I finally let myself fall to the ground, tears streaming down my face. The moon was full that night and cast an eerie glow upon me and the graves. The soft rays of light felt odd, yet familiar, like they were my father’s hands, caressing my bruised and battered body. I didn’t say a word. He could see me. I rested under the limbs of the old pine with my back against its smooth bark. Somehow it seemed to give way, cushioning me in my time of need. The last thing I remember from that night is crying myself
to sleep, cradled under its broad arms.
Friday - 4
September 30, 1995
As the sun peered over the city buildings of Tranquil Heights, the tip of a boot nudged my leg. Forcing open heavy eyelids, I looked up to find a grandfatherly man’s balding head blotting out the sun.
He stared down at me with concern while scratching his scruffy beard. The breast of his green polo advertised Hollifield Cemetery. Resting his chin on the shovel handle, he smiled and said, “Hey there, boy, don’t you know this ain’t no bed and breakfast?”
I stared blankly while trying to piece together last night’s events. “What time is it?”
“Past time for you to be at school. You ain’t supposed to be sleepin’ here.”
“I was just visiting my father,” I mumbled, uncurling my legs and hobbling to my feet. My body protested, and I winced.
“I understand. I lost my pa, too, when I was about your age. But time heals all wounds, or so they say. Go on, get to school, you whippersnapper.”
After my creaking limbs found their balance, I forced one leg to follow the other. My stomach growled, but there would be food in the lunchroom. The walk through the cemetery was slow at first, but by the time I reached the fountain at the entrance most of the aches had worked themselves out. I slapped a handful of water onto my face and waited for it to ease the last of my abused muscles. My cheek was tender to the touch and swollen. I shrugged it off. There had been other times like last night, and my skin rarely showed too many tell-tell signs of my home life. I arrived at school just as the lunch bell rang. Jessie found me in the cafeteria, devouring the extra helpings the kindhearted lunch-lady had dished onto my tray.
A Life of Death: Episodes 1 - 4 Page 2
