Protecting Truth

by Michelle Warren

  Then, for no reason, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Something feels off. I lift my eyelids just enough to glance through the sheets of rain. Bishop’s body tightens, rigid. We run to a nearby stone wall. He lays me down. Exhausted, I collapse on the pavement. He turns and crouches in a defense move we learned from class. Something is wrong.

  •

  Bishop’s head twitches back and forth, peering out into the darkness. I attempt to stand, but the drops of rain transition into noisy sleet. Each pellet feels like a boulder, so very heavy, pushing me back to the ground. Stupid schlag!

  “What’s going on?” I holler.

  “Quiet!” he hisses, holding up his palm.

  Can he hear something I don’t? I concentrate on the sounds: the pounding rain, beating like a drum over the pavement, cars hydroplaning on flooded streets, and the crackling lightning strikes. I advance beyond those noises, letting them float far away, and when I do, I actually hear a mass pushing through the rain.

  By the time I look up it’s too late. From behind the wall, a dark figure flies through the air above us. The person lands, crushing Bishop to the ground. Bishop flips the attacker off his body and the two launch into a full-force fight. They’re equally matched, going back and forth between kicking at each other’s heads and punching in dizzying repetition.

  I’ve been practicing for months for this very moment, and now I’m utterly helpless because of the schlag. Hot fury rises through my bones. I attempt to stand again. Using all my strength, I inch my way up the wall.

  I force my limbs to move and stumble forward, slamming into the attacker, hoping it will give Bishop the advantage. I must pass out momentarily because the next thing I register is my body being held by my feet as I’m dragged on my back across the sidewalk, arms flailing. My shirt and jacket lift, exposing my bare back. Rocks, dirt, and debris dig and slice into my flesh in the worst case of road rash I could ever imagine.

  “Stop!” I scream over and over to my attacker.

  My jacket slides over my face, blocking my sight and muffling my screams. I choke on the wet fabric. Now, no one can hear me cry. Finally, the jacket and shirt rip off, sliding over my arms, releasing me. My body halts.

  Topless and in pain, I curl into a ball and cry as I’m pelted by the icy sleet.

  “Sera!” Bishop rushes to my side. His fingers tremble over my bare skin. He tears off his jacket and gently rolls me into the fabric. He lifts my mangled body from the ground, and I float away, allowing the darkness to consume me.

  ::8::

  Schlag

  Muffled shouts interrupt my sleep. When I concentrate on the words, the person shouting says, “Bishop, breakfast!”

  My eyes pop open even though I’m overwhelmed with exhaustion and pain. My gaze roams the unfamiliar room and then lands on an arm wrapped tightly around my stomach from behind. Bishop snuggles into my back, and I wince, feeling every scrape.

  The nightmare from last night floods back: the rain, the fight, and oh man, the talk. I don’t remember the last part taking place—yet.

  Footsteps pound, ascending the stairs, and I jump out of bed, panicked. I’ve never met his mom before, and this definitely is not the way to do it. I lean over the bed and shake Bishop. “Wake up! Your mom’s coming!”

  He smiles with a lazy, unconcerned grin and rolls over. When his sleepy brain catches up, he jolts and reacts the way he should. “Right—that would be bad.” He jumps up and scrambles for his shirt.

  “Bishop. Are you awake?” she calls. Her steps and voice close in.

  He runs to open the window, unlocks the bottom pane, and gives it a strong heave. Paint chips flutter to the sill, and he sticks his head out the window. He ducks in and turns to me as I finish shoving boots on my feet.

  “This is going to be uncomfortable for you,” he says apologetically. “There’s a terrace and an iron fire escape ten feet away.”

  “Okay,” I say, unsure. I quickly survey the room for other hiding options, but there are none.

  “But you’ll have to walk across the roof to get there.” He winces.

  I run to the window and look down. We’re at least three stories up. Ugg! My stomach cramps, but I throw my leg over the sill, regardless. Leg dangling, a cool breeze blows past, sending chilly morning air beneath my skirt.

  “She’s almost here,” he says. He wraps his arms around my body and helps me slide out the window and onto the slanted roof. My feet catch the brick rim, serving as a gutter at the edge of the shingles. I turn onto my side and securely clamp my fingers onto the window frame.

  Bishop lets go when I’m stable, leans into his room, and quickly snaps the curtain sheers shut.

  His bedroom door creaks open.

  “Wonderful. You’re awake,” his mom says.

  “Mum! You need to knock! I’m getting dressed.” He positions his silhouette on the other side of the curtains, strategically blocking any view she might have of me.

  “Of course. Sorry,” she says.

  The door shuts.

  Curtains whip open and Bishop leans out to grab my arms. “Are you okay?”

  “Umm,” I reply with a shaky voice.

  “Come back in. She’s gone.”

  “No!” I yell a little too loudly. Not because I don’t desperately want to get off this roof, but because I’m not ready to have the talk. “I’m already out here and—um—that’s most of the battle.” A bead of sweat rolls from my hairline and down my cheek. “Which way?”

  His head tilts to my right, and I look over my shoulder. A rooftop veranda sits nearby. I’m really going to do this. No sweat, just lean into the roof and step across the gutter. Easy—right?

  I inhale a long, shaky breath and unwrap my fingers, one at a time, from the window frame and reach to grab a nearby brick column with a decorative cement vase positioned on top. I gently roll to my hip, allowing one foot to rest in front of the other on the gutter. Slowly, carefully, I shuffle across the roofline.

  Feeling unbalanced, I grab for a new shingle. At the touch of my hand, several pieces dislodge, sliding down the roof and tumbling over the edge. My entire body solidifies, except for my heart, which races, threatening to take off without me. The casualty of shingles crashes on the ground. I gasp, petrified.

  “It’s okay, Sera. You’re almost there.”

  Taking several deep breaths, I reluctantly continue. Even in the chilly morning air, my entire body reeks of nervous sweat.

  When I reach the end, I fall, relieved, into the veranda and rest on the patio, controlling my ragged breathing. Hoisting my body upright, I send Bishop a sad glance. My heart fills with dread, knowing that this may be one of the last moments we have as boyfriend and girlfriend. I’m certain “the talk” is the break-up talk. That thought makes this situation more upsetting. How did we get here? Our outing last night could not have been more perfect—until the end.

  Bishop points to the back of the townhouse where two black metal bars attach to the roof and arc over the wall, disappearing over the edge.

  I wave a feeble good-bye and traverse the patio. Grabbing the railing, I lean over the wall and look down. Ugh! I feel sick. A rickety metal ladder races down the side of the house. I don’t dare jump over the edge to wander home; I can’t gauge if there’s enough room. I force another breath before a panic attack sets in and swing my legs over the edge for a second time this morning.

  •

  I don’t leave London right away. Instead, I stalk around the city, working myself into a complete and utter frenzy by overanalyzing everything. I conclude that the “future me” I came across yesterday, the one crying, was the result of my impending breakup. I’m certain.

  The person who attacked us last night, I’m not so certain about. If I hadn’t been suffering from schlag, I may have had the energy to identify the person. I don’t even know if Bishop knows who it was. I suspect not, since he didn’t mention it. With his mom interrupting our peaceful slumber, we didn’t talk about
anything this morning.

  The attacker stole my shirt and jacket. Ripped them right from my body with Bishop’s letter in the pocket. That beautiful, romantic letter—gone. I’m thankful I committed the words to memory. When they race through my mind…restless, waiting, dreaming, the bridge of my nose burns. Tears begin again. I lift the oversized t-shirt, the one Bishop must have dressed me in last night while I was unconscious, and wipe my eyes and running nose. The skin on my face is raw and irritated, smeared with a tear-dried concoction of black mascara and face powder.

  Ducking behind a row of tall, vibrant trees, I find a hidden stretch of green grass, a runway to return to the Academy. With one of my boots in hand as my relic and my ticket home, I run. The grass squishes mud between my bare toes as Battersea Park rolls up behind me into the sky. Right before the land crashes and bludgeons my body into oblivion, I catapult through a prismatic wormhole into time.

  I land back in the attic of the Academy on my true time. A burst of light blinds me as I fly past the cast iron safe from yesterday. My arms and legs flail uncontrollably, and I smash into the person hindering my perfect landing.

  As I’m laid out on the floor, a ring of sparkling dust withers in a mesmerizing haze above me. My wander dust, the residue of time travel, has turned a lovely iridescent shade of violet and brown. Gabe, the Academy’s activities director, once explained that the colors are much like a mood ring. I wonder if violet and brown are the colors for sadness.

  Exhausted with schlag and heartbreak, my body melts to the floor. The person whom I crashed into lugs himself from a jumbled pile of contrapulators. He stands over me with a scowl on his face.

  Turner.

  Figures.

  “What the bloody hell are you doing, Sera? I nearly took your head off.”

  I groan, straining to lift myself to face him.

  He reaches to help me from the floor, and I scream in pain.

  “What have you done to your back? There’s blood seeping through your shirt.” He pauses and bends down to look me over. “I think I recognize this shirt,” he huffs. “You’ve been with Bishop—haven’t you?” He grimaces. “I swear he couldn’t protect an armored truck!”

  “Bishop,” I whisper to myself. My eyes well up with tears. Turner lifts me from the floor with his strong arms and cradles me into his firm chest, somehow without touching my injuries.

  “I need to take you to the nurse, so you better think of your alibi,” he suggests and walks us out of the room to the emergency stairs.

  “No,” I plead through my pain. “My room. Please.” I look up into his eyes, hoping he sees my suffering and understands that this misery extends beyond a mutilated patch of skin.

  “Fine,” he relents.

  He carries me through the halls, looking down to inspect my face every so often. His features are similar to Bishop’s but so different. Maybe it’s his long dark hair or even his complexion that accentuates the deviation, or maybe it’s his annoying attitude.

  When he reaches my door, he nudges it with his knee and it flies open.

  He carries me into my room and gently lays me on the bed. My butt touches the mattress first. Turner rolls me onto my side, careful not to touch the length of my back. My muscles relax into the mattress. He reaches and pulls off my remaining boot and tosses it on the floor.

  “I need to look at your back.”

  “No!” I grunt.

  “It’s me or the nurse. You choose.”

  I roll my eyes. There’s always an ultimatum with him. “Fine.” I’m in no position to argue and too tired to care.

  I roll onto my stomach. His shadow hovers. Carefully he rolls up my t-shirt. The fabric sticks to my back, ripping my skin as he pulls. I wince, and he stops.

  “The blood’s dried to the cotton in some areas. In others, it’s still bleeding.”

  “Just leave it, please.”

  “Absolutely not. I’m beside myself that he didn’t attend to this.”

  “Well, he—he was too busy thinking of a way to break up with me!” I bury my face into the pillow and cry uncontrollably. The schlag has made me irrational and hyperemotional.

  When the tears ease just slightly, Turner’s laugh bellows through my bedroom. I glance at him in horror. How is this funny to him? “Stop it!” I yell; my feelings are hurt further by his rolling laughter.

  “Sera, are you daft? My. God. Woman. He’ll never break up with you!” He’s laughing so hard now, tears stream down his face.

  “He hasn’t yet, but he will!”

  “If that’s why you are so sad, you shouldn’t even waste your energy. You just don’t get it, do you?”

  “I guess not,” I mumble to myself and pull my body into a sitting position.

  Turner’s raspy laughter recedes.

  “You need to take a shower.” He drags me to my feet.

  “Not now, Turner. Really, I’m exhausted.” My head falls to one side.

  “Sera, you’re a train wreck. You’re bleeding, you’re dirty, you’re crusty, and you smell like an old sweaty rugby sock.”

  I narrow my eyes, and he smiles. Before I can decline again, he latches his hands on my shoulders and steers me to the bathroom.

  “I’m not doing this with you here.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  He pushes away the shower curtain, lifts me into the tub, and leans me against the tiled wall. Then he adjusts the faucet and turns on the water. I jump in shock at the warmth. The deluge soaks my clothes. Water splatters my face.

  “And I always pictured showering with you to be so much more fun.” He laughs.

  I find the energy to punch his arm.

  “Ouch! Just kidding, love. I couldn’t resist.” He grins, happy with himself, and spins to leave, closing the door behind him. It creaks open again before I can move. “And I want to look at your back when you get out.” He tosses a pair of pajamas inside. They land on the bathroom sink. “Someone’s got to take care of you!” He slams the door, leaving for good this time.

  ::9::

  Unexpected Return

  I’ll never admit it, but for once Turner’s right. The shower makes me feel about twenty-five percent better. The other seventy-five percent is a lost cause. Only one person can rectify those losses.

  I twist to look at my back in the mirror. My skin resembles ground hamburger meat. The elongated scrapes and gashes really do need medical attention.

  I slip into my cotton shorts and slide on a button-down top, backward, leaving the back open like a hospital gown. It will be easier for Turner to look at my back and better if nothing touches it.

  Turner relaxes on the couch with his feet up when I walk into the living room. Adjacent sits a tray of hot tea and a first aid kit.

  “Feel better?”

  I shrug, with no definitive answer, still traumatized by the thought of losing Bishop. One of Bishop’s old letters sits on the coffee table, opened. Turner’s been reading it. This annoys me to no end but, unlike other times, I don’t have the urge to fight.

  Turner hands me a cup of tea. “The caffeine will kill the schlag long enough for me to tape your back.”

  “Tape?”

  “From what I saw, you would’ve been better off with a stitch or two in a few areas. But it’s too late now. We’ll have to use medical tape to pull the skin back together.”

  I finish my tea and sit next to him, facing away from his face. I pull my hair aside, letting it fall over one shoulder. His fingers lightly graze my skin as he folds each half of the shirt to the side to analyze the injury.

  “How’s it look?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  “Ghastly. What happened?” He picks up the bottle of antiseptic and cotton balls and continues working with a lithe touch. The liquid stings, but I try to be strong.

  “We were in London, near Nine Elms, I think. It began to rain, and the schlag started getting to me. Bishop wanted to run to your house.”

  “Our house? Really?” He seems surprised.
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  “Yes, he wanted me to stay—to talk.” I tremble at the words but keep moving. “All of a sudden, he went all Protector-ish. He sat me on the ground and this person jumped him. They fought, and I tried to help.”

  “Of course you did.” He rubs in more ointment.

  “During the fight I must have passed out because the next thing I know, the attacker is dragging me across the pavement on my back.” I cringe.

  “Who was it?”

  “Didn’t see.”

  “What did they want?”

  “I don’t know. He—she—whoever took off with my jacket and shirt.”

  “Ah, I see. So someone attacked you and Bishop to render you topless. Pervert!” He chuckles.

  I roll my eyes.

  “What does Bishop think?”

  “I have no clue. We haven’t talked about it yet.”

  “Hmm.” He doesn’t elaborate on his thoughts, but I can hear the mental gears grinding.

  His fingers stretch out several long strips of white tape. He bites each piece off with his teeth then places them firmly in selective spots on my skin.

  “Done,” he announces. He tosses the spool into the medical kit.

  “Thanks.” I turn to him.

  Turner places his hand on my leg. His touch warms my knee, causing tingles to radiate at the point of contact. Confused, I recoil. “Are you flirting with me? Bishop’s gonna—”

  “What? Now that he’s breaking up with you he shouldn’t care one bit if I make a play for his girl,” he says seriously.

  My lips turn down at the corners, and I look away, stifling a sob.

  “Sorry. That was very insensitive.” He turns my face to his and strokes a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “I promise, he will never break up with you.”