Preda's Voice (Guardians of Vaka Book 1)

by Carolyn Gross

  As her father had held her aloft with one arm after unceremoniously waking her up, Preda resolved not to flinch away. It was a game she had been playing with him for the last couple of months. Even though it only seemed to make him angrier, she couldn’t help herself. She stared right into his eyes. As he was about to swing back with his other hand, Preda caught movement behind her father’s shoulder. She broke eye contact involuntarily. Someone else was in her bedroom that morning.

  A man in a tattered business suit who looked as though he had been sleeping outside was standing behind her father. He had leaves in his sandy blond hair, and his eyes looked as though they didn’t register Preda at all. He was intently staring at the back of Philip Torrance’s head.

  The fingers of his left hand were contracting repeatedly as though they had minds of their own. Preda could tell he was sweating, and his back was rigid. His eyes never wavered away from her father. She processed all this in the instant his right hand came up with the crowbar.

  As the weapon made contact with the back of his head, Philip Torrance looked one last time at his daughter’s face. The look had been ingrained in Preda’s memory, and even standing in the empty room now, she could see every detail. Confusion replaced his anger at the last second. His hand released her, and his body collapsed. As she looked down on him, Preda trembled and saw all awareness leave his eyes. She watched as he took a shaky last breath. At that second she looked up. For the first time, her father’s killer seemed to register her presence.

  A pool of blood was already spreading beneath Philip Torrance’s head on the carpet. It was almost reaching her bare toes. His killer blinked and looked back and forth between Preda and her father’s body. He seemed more distraught and confused than she was, and he nervously adjusted his grip on the crowbar with white knuckles. Preda saw him start to appraise her, and she shook her head in silence. She took a step backward toward her bedside table and the phone she knew was resting there. Her eyes stayed locked on his face.

  “You his daughter?” he inquired in a raspy voice. When Preda didn’t answer right away, he nodded as if that was confirmation enough. A look of self-righteousness passed over his face, and he straightened his shoulders abruptly. “He fired me from a job I had held onto for twenty years. I even kept it during the recession. I kept my head low and never made waves. Had to feed my family. Got three kids. Then he comes in.” He gestured at the body on the floor. “You gotta understand. My wife left me yesterday for another man. She took my kids away. All because I couldn’t pay the bills. Your father, I could see it in his eyes. He enjoyed destroying my life. He enjoys destroying lives. I did the world a favor,” he said, and he practically spit in disgust. He looked up at her then. “You’re like him, I bet. You’ll destroy what’s left of me after this.”

  The look in his eyes had changed. They now held the wild appearance of a cornered animal. He was in survival mode. Preda knew she had to say something. “Please calm down,” she whispered as he took a slow step toward her.

  As soon as the words were uttered, he stopped moving. His head tilted, and he said, “I am calm.”

  The tone of his voice was eerily quiet in contrast to his previous rambling. He continued advancing. This time he had a steadiness and purpose that hadn’t been present before.

  Preda didn’t know what to do. She reached behind her and grabbed the cell phone. With it still behind her back she started to unlock the screen. As she was fumbling around with her fingers, she let out an involuntary groan of frustration. His face suddenly changed again at the sound of her voice, and he lunged forward.

  Her father’s killer grabbed Preda’s face with his left hand so that it was painfully covering her mouth. His momentum pushed her back onto the bed, and his fingers dug painfully into her cheeks. The phone dropped from her hand and clattered to the floor. It became lost in the bedsheets her father had yanked from the bed that morning.

  Preda tried to struggle against him in vain. She pushed with all her might against his bulk, but she was too small. He brought his crowbar down with his other hand and pinned her arms across her chest.

  “I don’t know what you did, but I hadn’t ever felt that calm in my entire life,” he whispered into her ear.

  The way he spoke sent chills down her spine, and Preda felt her hands and feet go numb from panic. She struggled wildly against his grip. He was going to kill her. She was going to die.

  Preda could feel the crowbar digging into her forearms, and her head was painfully pressed against the wall. She felt herself becoming weaker and her vision growing darker as her wild kicking was losing steam. She tried to scream with all her might against his hand, but nothing would come out. Preda realized she couldn’t breathe.

  As her struggling started to subside, she heard a loud crash come from her desk, and her attacker quickly turned his head back toward the sudden noise. His grip lightened ever so slightly, but it was enough for her to draw a breath.

  The events that followed were a blur, and back in the room now, Preda shuddered at the memory. She found herself hugging her arms against her chest while standing there alone. The bloodstains were everywhere. Preda detected the faint metallic scent mixed with the spray cleaner she had frantically emptied onto the carpet that morning. Being in this room made her feel nauseated. She couldn’t stop thinking about that man’s face as the scream finally erupted from her throat and bloomed in the air like a firework exploding from nothing.

  Preda had never screamed like that in her memory. As the sound came out of her, it was as though a dam had been breached, and her emotions flooded into it. Too late she realized the effect it was having on this stranger in her bedroom. He looked at her, but he no longer seemed to register her. She was close enough to see the tiny blood vessels in his eyes erupt and the whites turn bright red from hemorrhage. Blood was dripping from both his ears and slowly starting to pool on her chest.

  His body then went limp, and he stopped breathing. Preda started struggling with all her might to get out from under his weight. She tossed him over onto the bed, and his dead eyes stared blankly toward the ceiling. Tears were running unchecked down her face as she stood and started to back out of the room. Her feet collided with the body of her father, and Preda crouched down next to him and hugged her knees to her chest. She had to shut her eyes and catch her breath.

  As Preda was rocking back and forth on her heels, thoughts were swirling through her head. If the police came, people would surely wonder how that man had died. Her father’s death was an easy explanation with the presence of an intruder, but this man had died by her hands. No, she thought. My voice. No one would believe her at first, and then when they discovered the awful truth about her, her father’s predictions would come true.

  Preda could hear his taunting voice even still. “Preda-Tor, what would you do to all those people? Would you control them? Would you kill someone?”

  Preda thought back on this and realized she had had no idea she was actually capable of killing a person. She briefly wondered how her father could have known.

  While Preda had been crouched on her floor, she had felt a warm, familiar presence brush up against her legs. It was her cat, Fiver.

  3

  As she was brought back to reality and the reason she had returned to this house, Preda looked over at the overturned lamp and the books that had fallen off her desk. They were responsible for the crashing noise that had distracted her would-be-killer. Deep down she knew with certainty that not only had Fiver caused the crash, but the cat had done it on purpose. He had saved her life.

  Fiver was a black alley cat from the streets of Atlanta. She had met him three homes before. She and her father had been living in an apartment complex on the fifth floor in the city at the time. Her bedroom window had let out onto a fire escape, and Preda had kept a tomato plant outside under the windowsill.

  She had gotten the seed from the school’s garde
ning club earlier that year and carefully waited until the weather was just right for planting. It was the first living thing she had cared for, and she marveled at how it flourished under her attention.

  Every day after school, Preda would come home, water the plant, and talk to it about her day. It felt strange speaking to a plant so candidly about her feelings, but it was also safe. Just before summer came, the plant was thriving so well that Preda received a tomato from it almost daily.

  Her upstairs neighbor, Mr. Scott, would often call a greeting down from his window while she was watering the plant. His fire escape balcony was above and diagonal to hers, and she would balance on the tips of her toes and reach up then with her fingertips to roll a red tomato onto the ledge. Mr. Scott would eagerly take it inside with an exclamation of delight. He was a retired gentleman who lived alone.

  He would always call down to her in a muffled voice chewing around a mouthful of tomato and ask, “How do you get that plant to produce so many tomatoes? They’re so delicious!”

  Preda would just smile under his praise and continue to talk so softly that only the plant could hear her voice. The pot she had used to grow it in was an unwanted treasure from a woman living down the street. Preda would walk by her on the way to and from school and admire her beautiful front porch garden. One day an old ceramic pot with a crack down the side was sitting in the trash, waiting to be collected. She had quickly grabbed it when no one was looking. Preda took it back to her room before her father came home from work. Safely behind the closed door to her room, she carefully glued the defect until she was confident it would hold.

  That night Preda brought the pot down to the empty lot next to her building and dug deep with her hands until the soil no longer felt sandy and rocky. As she hit the right type of dirt, she gingerly scooped it into the pot with her bare hands. She hardly noticed her fingers were bleeding into the soil from all the rocks she had dug through.

  Preda carefully placed the seed in the center and hid the pot close to her window on the side of her building. Preda had known nothing about gardening, but she was a keen observer and had watched how the woman with the porch garden diligently watered the soil until the plants grew.

  As the vines of Preda’s plant started to sprout and venture up, she would redirect them and sometimes gently tie them in such a way that they grew outward and weren’t easily visible from her window. Her father never saw how beautiful it became. As the tomatoes were produced, Preda would crouch down next to her window and eat them with two hands as though they were apples. There was nothing that made her feel as joyous as sun-warmed tomato juice dripping down her chin.

  As she was watering her treasured friend one day, Preda had heard a rustling in the garbage cans below the stairs that ran down into the alley. She tried to peer through the metal slats and make out who or what was so ferociously trying to get at the trash. As she looked out over the edge, a black tail could be seen wagging from the side of the trash barrel. As she stared, the cat’s head came up, and he looked straight at her. He was a malnourished black cat with a missing right ear. His eyes were in direct contrast with the rest of him and a striking emerald green.

  As she looked down on him standing on the edge of the trash can, Preda’s hand came up to her face involuntarily. The cat’s eyes and fur were the exact same shade of green and black as her own eyes and hair. Preda suddenly felt silly comparing herself to the stray alley cat with one ear, and she crouched back in through the window. She was about to shut it when she heard his claws scraping on the metal fire escape.

  She leaned out the window again and gasped in astonishment. He had jumped from the trash can all the way up to the second-floor balcony—even with its stairs retracted. The feisty cat was grasping onto the edge, and his back end was swinging in the air with his tail turning like a propeller for balance.

  Preda held her breath and watched as he hoisted himself the rest of the way and started to traverse his way up to her own fire escape balcony. She couldn’t help but smile as she watched the determined look on his face as he carefully placed his paws so they wouldn’t slip through the metal slats.

  When he finally made his way to her window, Preda didn’t know what to do. She had never been this physically close to a cat before. Her father had never allowed her to even consider a pet. By that age she was forbidden to even talk to other kids at school—never mind own an animal.

  “You want me to be forced to leave my job again?” Phillip would ask her as though he actually wanted an answer. “You know you can’t do anything to bring attention to yourself or me. Ever.”

  By now the cat had placed both front paws on her windowsill while standing on his hind paws. He was lazily waving his tail and looking at her expectantly. Preda looked behind her to ensure the door was closed all the way. She didn’t hear her father walking around. He had long ago removed the option of locking her door, so Preda would place a coin on the door handle that would fall whenever it started to open.

  She tentatively placed her hand on the windowsill. The cat seemed unperturbed by her odd behavior and proceeded to lean his head into her hand as though he could teach her how to pet him. His fur was warm, and Preda would never forget the way his purring first felt on her fingertips as she proceeded to shyly rub his chin. The cat took this contact for complete acceptance, and he proceeded to jump past her into her room. Preda gasped and made toward the cat to pick him up and put him outside before her father discovered him. As she neared him, though, she realized she didn’t know how to pick up a cat. What if I break him?

  The cat seemed to sense her discomfort and continued to lazily explore her room. He was jumping all over her books piled on the floor, sniffing the clothes in her laundry basket with disdain, and inspecting all her belongings in general. Preda carefully followed him with arms outstretched. She had no idea what to do with him and felt better just keeping her hands out toward him in case she had to think fast. The cat finally seemed bored with this game and jumped up onto her bed. He then proceeded to groom himself on her pillow.

  Preda sat down next to him and tentatively reached out and stroked his fur again. He closed his eyes and seemed to revel in her attention. This was new for her. This, she thought, must be what making a friend feels like. At least one that’s not a plant. As the cat continued to purr and roll slightly toward her, Preda cleared her throat. She had no idea how a cat, or any animal for that matter, would react to her voice, but she wanted to try.

  Before she could say anything, though, she heard footsteps and jerked upright. Panic flooded her as the coin on her door handle clattered to the floor. She couldn’t do anything fast enough to hide the cat, so she stood at an angle between him and the door. As her father entered, he barely seemed to notice Preda standing as stiff as a board in front of her bed. He took a few unbalanced steps toward her. “How was school?” he said. “You keep your head down, Preda-Tor?”

  Preda nodded quietly.

  “Good. I’m going out. Don’t wait up for me.” He gave her a quick appraising look, and with a tinge of sympathy in his voice, he added, “I’m sorry your clothes aren’t pretty. I know your mother would have made sure you didn’t dress this way.”

  With that he abruptly turned. He left the door open behind him. Preda stood completely still. She did not even dare to breathe until she heard the front door close. When she was sure he was gone, she sagged in relief and turned around to take care of her new cat problem once and for all. The cat, however, was no longer there. Preda ran to the window just in time to see his tail disappear around the corner of the alley.

  She sighed and lamented the loss of a new friend and certainly never expected to see him again. It’s for the best, she thought. Preda would never be able to hide a cat from her father for long.

  The next day she was surprised to see that the cat was back on the fire escape waiting for her. He was right outside the window when she came home from schoo
l. Preda couldn’t believe he had climbed all five stories again just to see her. Fearing she might lose her chance, she reached out toward him. In a squeaky voice, she said, “Hello.”

  The cat looked thoroughly unimpressed. Preda thought this might be too good to be true, and she continued, “Do you have a home, alley cat?”

  No reaction. She thought she might try to press her luck and tell him to do something. “Eat that tomato.”

  The cat looked at her and then walked over to the tomato plant. He sniffed the juicy red one Preda had indicated, and then he looked back at her. After a long pause, he reached out and batted the ripened tomato with his paw. He watched as it fell from its vine, rolled off the fire escape, and smashed into the alley. He then sauntered back over to Preda to obtain more chin scratches. Preda could hardly contain her glee. This was a living, breathing thing she could actually talk to. He didn’t seem affected by her voice. He actually acted as though he could not care less!

  After that the black alley cat with one ear paid Preda a visit every day after school and all day on weekends. Mr. Scott would often call down from his upstairs window and tell her she had found herself quite a handsome cat. Preda figured she imagined it, but whenever the cat was complimented, he seemed to perk up and gain a swagger to his step.

  One day Preda returned home from school and found a note on the top of her window. It was from Mr. Scott.

  “I’m sorry, Preda. I had to do what was best for that stray cat, and I took him to the local veterinarian for shots and flea medication. I hope you don’t mind. I’ll have him back by tonight for you.

  —Mr. Scott”

  Preda’s heart was racing. He would certainly bring the cat back when her father was home.

  Her fears had been unfounded, though. Mr. Scott seemed to have an uncanny knowledge about Preda’s predicament, and he left the cat in a new pastel blue plastic carrier on her fire escape for her to find later that evening. Next to the carrier was a food dish and a bag of cat food. Gratitude for this man’s consideration overcame her. No one had ever done something out of sheer kindness for Preda, and she wished there was some way she could pay him back.