by S. B. Niccum
Living
Soul
Remember Who You Were
By
S.B. Niccum
Living Soul
By S.B. Niccum
©2012 by S.B Niccum
All rights reserved.
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the authors, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
Kindle Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only or provided by the author of publisher, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, to factual events or to businesses is coincidental and unintentional.
The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author.
Cover Design: Laura J. Miller http://www.AnAuthorsArt.com
Published by: TreasureLine Publishing http://www.TreasureLinePublishing.com
http://www.sbniccum.com
http://www.TreasureLinePublishing.com
For my children and their children.
Something to remember me by.
I would like to thank my husband, for encouraging me and supporting me while I chase my dreams. I can write love stories, because of his love for me. Also, I would like to thank my children for their willingness to sleep in late, and not talk to me while I finish up my writing, early in the morning.
A big, big thanks to my mother, who has been my biggest supporter, reader, reviewer and sounding board. I don’t think I can stress my thanks to her enough … not without tearing-up.
A Special Thanks To Erin Cantwell, Jodie Jarvis, Naomi DeLaTorre and Amy Goggans I love you all so very much! Thank you, thank you, thank you, for your patience in helping me with proofreading, for taking the time out of your busy schedules, for being willing to work under a deadline, for being honest and kind, and good friends.
Linda Boulanger ~ for always being a keystroke away, for being my publisher, for guiding me through the murky waters of the business, for being my advocate, and a good friend.
Jamie Grant ~ your covers speak for themselves. Thank you so much for your patience and advice.
Norris Niccum U.S. Navy Veteran (Dad) thank you, for the 101, for bouncing off ideas, and scenarios with me. Also, my deepest respect to all those who serve and have served in the Armed Forces of the United States ~ thank you for your sacrifices and your courage.
Mandie O’Steen Stevens ~ for the blog tours and all the favors and hard work you do.
Carleene Heidenreich, and Libby Bruton for letting me use their names fictionally and to McKenzie, Kim, Madison, and Ashlyn Ottley for babysitting, so I could finish up this book.
To all the readers ~ that I consider friends now, for buying, reading, reviewing, rating and spreading the word on social media or word of mouth. None of this would be possible without your help.
“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
The soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy.”
~William Wordsworth~
“Ode Intimations of Immortality from
Recollections of Early Childhood.”
“And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a Living Soul.”
Genesis 2:7
Prologue
Crouching in the corner of the small shower, right where she had been placed, the child shivers and rocks herself back and forth. If only her eyes were open, she would see that she’s encircled in unearthly light, but instead she just feels cold.
The woman wraps her arms protectively around the child’s shoulders, but the child trembles, and pulls back.
Stopping her ears with her hands, the child tries to shut out the noises that frighten her, yet still, she hears it all—the shouting, the screaming, two shots, then a third—then nothing.
“It’ll all be okay, I promise. I will never leave your side. You hear me?” the woman whispers, and the child nods while suppressing a sob.
“Shh … shh … ” the woman soothes, then starts to sing that same lullaby that she has sung to her since birth.
“Duérmete mi niña, duérmete mi amor, duérmete pedazo de mi corazón.”
Part I ~ The Dream
Chapter 1
I sat up in bed trembling. My heart still raced and I panted from the adrenaline rush. Disappointed, I looked all around me hoping to find some trace of him, but everything had vanished into thin air. Though the room was dark I could still discern my foster brother’s shape, on his bed, sleeping soundly. My alarm clock showed 5 a.m. and a dull headache started to form behind my eyes. That dream felt so real. So much so, that I wanted to cry in desperation.
Hoping to recapture the last few moments of that dream, I closed my eyes and focused on his face. We had talked almost all night about ourselves, right here on my rooftop, where Dorian and I go to watch the sunset. Dreams don’t have to make sense, I guess, or be rooted to what reality dictates. That’s the beauty of them; they can be as surreal as we can think them up to be. Yet this dream … it was different. He told me things, things about his family that I could have never dreamed up. In turn, and I told him about my life at Charlotte’s.
He had inched his way toward me little by little, until we were mere fractions of an inch away from each other. I woke up right when his lips were brushing against mine, and the vexation I felt for not being able to finish that dream soured my stomach. I knew that falling back asleep was a lost cause, so I got up and took advantage of the bathroom before Agatha took it all for herself.
I love to take shower baths—that’s when I plug the tub and let it fill up with the showerhead water instead of from the faucet—I like the feel of the water droplets on my scalp. Right now, it was helping with my headache. After a relaxing moment or two, I reached for my aromatherapy bag and took out my favorite oil—jasmine. I counted as ten drops touched the water then added five drops of mint and five of rosemary—to wake me up. After swirling the water around a few times, I sunk down in the water, leaving only my nose out to breathe. Little by little, my tight muscles relaxed and my mind started easing itself into a peaceful state.
I often use these rare quiet moments as a time for introspection. I like to look within because I always feel like part of me is missing. I keep hoping that one of these days I’ll unlock the mystery within, if I look hard enough.
For example, who were my parents, and why can’t I remember them? The first five years of my life have somehow been completely erased from my memory. Joe, my foster dad says that a lot of kids like me had some pretty bad experiences before being placed in foster care, and the only way they can deal with them is to block them. That must be why I remember nothing, not even what my parent’s look like. No one will tell me if they are even still alive or if they were bums or addicts, or just plain neglectful. I simply don’t remember.
I don’t even know what my racial background is, though I am pretty sure I’m Hispanic
because apparently, I speak Spanish. I found this out last year during Spanish class one day. The teacher thought I was being a smart aleck when I spoke the language without even realizing it. I tried to explain to him that I didn’t know I could speak Spanish, but the whole class laughed, making things worse. I got detention for that. Later I found out that Agatha had been in his class the previous hour and the teacher feared that I was a troublemaker just like her, and that’s why I got the short end.
Agatha is my vile foster sister. She was already living with Charlotte and Joe when I came. At first I thought that perhaps she was mad that she had to share the limelight with me, but I quickly realized that she didn’t care about that. In fact, I’m not really sure what she cares about—not people—that’s for sure. She antagonizes everyone she comes in contact with, and pretty much hates everyone, except for me—she loathes me. From what I can tell, her meanness doesn’t come from insecurities, nor is it a front that she puts on to keep people away. I think that she truly is cold, calculating, conniving and cruel. I see it in her eyes; she delights in the pain of others, and in her control over them. It’s weird. If I didn’t know her, I would be inclined to say that no one is wholly bad or good—but I do know her—and because of it, I am of the opinion that some of us may simply come into this world with pre-formed dispositions.
As a child she was curious looking, in a Gollum sort of way, with thin blond hair that laid flat against her head, and big blue eyes—too big for her face—that glared uncomfortably long at people. Now, her hair is drab and mousy looking, and though her face has balanced out some, her scowling eyes still manage to unnerve people. Her hard demeanor doesn’t help make people at ease, either, but she doesn’t seem to care about what others think of her. She certainly has no friends, but she doesn’t seem to care.
“Dang!” The water stopped all at once and I was left sitting in a pool of lukewarm water. Joe never should have told her where the main water shut off was. He thought that Agatha was just worried about what to do in an emergency—she wasn’t. She just wanted to know the quickest way to get me out of the bathroom. Before I was fully dressed, Agatha was picking the lock and barging in.
“Get out,” she said dryly.
“I’m not done yet.”
She came in anyway, headed straight for my aromatherapy bag, and started taking out its contents. I was in the process of making my own scented lotion by mixing the essential oils with olive oil, as my aromatherapy kit suggested. I got this kit for Christmas and I use it every day; I love the way the oils smell so pure and uncomplicated.
“You are so weird, why do you mix this stuff?” Agatha asked as she winced at the frankincense. “They smell awful!” She opened her hand and let the bottle drop; I caught it before it hit the ground and splattered all over.
“That’s all perfume is … these scents all mixed together. I just like to mix them myself.”
Agatha was picking up the patchouli and smelling it, when I noticed a small trace of ink on her forearm, like part of a tattoo. I lifted her sleeve and she jerked back. Then, she smirked and pulled up her sleeve, exposing the Wiccan symbol.
“Oh … so it’s official now,” I told her taking the patchouli away from her, before she used up the whole bottle.
“Very funny … but you would make an excellent witch too. You can make the potions and I can make the spells.” She opened her already large eyes even larger.
“No thanks,” I told her as I gathered my stuff. “What is Charlotte going to say when she sees that?”
Agatha shrugged and looked generally uninterested. “I’ll curse you if you tell her. I can do that you know … ” she added for good measure.
Wrapping the towel tightly around my head, I grabbed my belongings and left without saying anything else. This, I’ve learned, is the best way to deal with Agatha. Over time I’ve learned a few rules of engagement; rule number one is to not engage her—period. Number two, if conversation can’t be avoided—be short, to the point, and end it. And rule number three, don’t let anything she says or does get to you, or at least don’t show the fact that it got to you. Agatha’s reward is the pain she sees in someone’s eyes; particularly mine. It almost seems as if she was put on this Earth for the sole purpose of vexing me.
Our power struggles started the day I got to Charlotte’s house and they have never stopped. It was instant enmity between us, like oil and water in a hot pan. I knew she was evil, but naïve as I was, I gave her the benefit of the doubt a few times and paid dearly each one of them. The last time I trusted her, I learned my lesson for good and I haven’t had a slip-up since. That incident was four years ago; she volunteered to give me a pedicure…little did I know that they made metal files! She jabbed the sharp pointy end under my toenail and to this day it looks weird. Charlotte thought it was an accident, but I never saw how she could think that, since the thing was stuck half way up my toenail!
While she’s an all out tyrant at home, at school she’s pretty much an angry loner who everyone avoids. I, on the other hand, have a few good friends. They are nice and pretend like I’m really part of the gang, even though I know that I am the outsider.
A foster kid is something of an anomaly. We are all part of “the system” and anyone who is part of “the system” is bound to have problems. I’m sure that my problems have to do with those missing first five years of life. There’s bound to be problems lurking there that I have no conscious clue about.
My closest friend at school is Brandy. She’s the youngest of the Bradford kids, Ben, Brooke and Brandy. All three are blond, beautiful and popular; except for Brandy who is too shy and too nice to play the high school games needed to get ahead in the popularity scale. Then there’s Wes, our pet. I know that’s rude to call him that, but he is; at least he follows us around like one. He is cute, a swimmer and a soccer player, and when he is not following us around, he is with his teammates. Wes is one of those guys who are full of energy, A.D.H.D energy. He’s smart, but aloof, and doesn’t keep the fact that he has a crush on me, hidden very well. Sadly I don’t care for him that way. I say sadly, because my sights are set way too high on a junior named Alex Preston.
Not only does half the female student body have a crush on him as well, but he has a girlfriend—Eugenia, Genie for short. She’s tall and willowy, beautiful, rich, and a total snob. She took special notice of me early on and has me on her most-wanted-for-humiliation list. Between Genie and Agatha, I get my fair share of grief. But the difference between Agatha and Genie lies in motive—Agatha has none and Genie thinks she does.
It all started my freshman year; I was late for class because I had been talking with Brandy—we had just realized that we had most of our classes together and our lockers were next to each other too. I was running down the hall and hastily turned into my Civics class, only to realize that the teacher was late too. I slowed down and breathed a sigh of relief when something made me turn my head. It was something strong, like a magnet that pulled my head to my left. That’s when I first saw him. He looked up the moment I turned to face him. It felt like I had tunnel vision and I just couldn’t look away, even though I knew I was staring, and that I was making a fool of myself.
Suddenly, the tunnel vision turned into something else. It was like fast-forwarding a movie—he was sitting across the room—then in an instant he was right in front of me, his lips arching into a smile, as he bent down to kiss me. It felt like a memory, an echo, and a promise. His thoughts were in my head, and as familiar to me as my own, we were thinking the same thing: I can’t wait! We were feeling the same thing too—frustration—pure and undiluted, to the point of torment. We were eager to feel more than just emotions; we wanted to touch … to experience.
Goosebumps ran up and down my body, when my foot caught on a desk, and I tripped, effectively ending the trance. Yet the feeling remained as I bit my lip to keep from screaming, not so much in pain, as exasperation over the loss of that moment.
He stood up suddenly, mak
ing his chair screech loudly and fortunately, I regained my balance before I landed on my face. He asked me if I was all right and I nodded numbly, then I took the first empty seat I could find and tried to regain my composure. I didn’t dare turn my head to see him again. I was still reeling in from whatever that was, when to my infinite aggravation, Agatha walked into the classroom. When she saw me she sneered and made sure she knocked me on the head with her backpack as she passed me.
“You are in my seat pizza face!” she snarled to a shy girl that was sitting in the back of the room. Then she grabbed the girl’s backpack and threw it toward the front of the classroom. The girl got up to retrieve her bag and Agatha sat down in her seat with a snigger. I got up too, and picked up the girl’s bag for her.
“Here, you can have my seat,” I mumbled apologetically. The girl nodded and her eyes welled up with tears. I shot Agatha a dirty look. She was such a beast! As I looked around for another seat, I noticed that Alex was on his feet, this time for real, holding the back of a chair that was near him. He tried to look casual, but I could tell that he was pleased with me. I tried to not stare as I walked to his side, but it was inevitable and I couldn’t get my eyes to obey.
For the rest of the year we kept the same seats, and Alex made sure he had a foot or a hand on that same seat, so that no one else would take it. Rumors of this got around to Genie, and that’s when I became her favorite joke. I was, after all, perfect for that; poor, unassuming, a foster kid with a disputable past, who lived with Agatha—of all people—in a rundown old house on the wrong side of town.
Genie never really worried me though; I could read her like an open book. I could read most people, but she was particularly easy. She shone with seething jealousy and insecurity—dark green and murky red. To think that she would see me as a threat to her relationship was ludicrous and somewhat flattering. Far from making me feel bad, her taunts led me to believe that perhaps she did have something to worry about. But if she did, Alex never mentioned it to me. We spent the rest of the year in that class and he never said more than two words to me.
