by M. Leighton
See what I have to deal with? Since my mother and sister had died in “the accident” all those years ago, Dad had been obsessed with keeping me close and safe. Obsessed! It had devastated him, so much so that he couldn’t even keep pictures of them around. Consequently, all his crazy was sharply focused on me.
“It was nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing. Look at your face. And your hair.” He continued his assessment of me. “And your arm and your knee. And—”
“Alright, Dad!” I cut him off before he worked himself up into a real twirl. “It was my fault. I was running, not paying attention, when I heard a horn. I noticed it too late and then…” I trailed off, partly because my memory of the rest was second hand and partly because details made him even crazier.
“Were you hurt?”
“Just scraped up a little. No biggee, Dad.” He wasn’t buying it.
“The boy that brought you home, is he the one that hit you?”
“Uh,um,” I stammered, not wanting to incriminate Stephen just in case he did suddenly find me interesting.
“Carson Marie,” Dad said, the warning clear in his use of my first and middle name.
“I don’t remember exactly what happened. He was the one helping me when I woke up and—”
“When you woke up?”
“Well, yeah. And—”
“So you were knocked unconscious?”
This was getting worse by the second. I didn’t really think it was that big a deal, but Dad was quickly reaching Def Con Five and I didn’t know how to reverse the process.
“I guess, but—”
“We need to get you to the hospital,” he said, turning on his heel and snatching his truck keys off the table by the door.
Grabbing my elbow, Dad herded me out the door and to his truck and we made our way to the hospital. I knew there was no talking him down, so I went with silence as my next best option. The least I could do was not make things worse.
Three and a half excruciatingly boring and embarrassing hours later, we were pulling back into the driveway. I’d been given a clean bill of health and a list of concussion precautions. Barring any complications from the knock to the head, the ER doctor assured me I’d be fine.
The one positive was that Dad was on his best behavior. At some point on the quiet drive to the hospital, he’d realized that his anger was misplaced and that what I needed was some TLC. And, believe it or not, when TLC was needed, Dad was actually a pretty good source. It’s just that he rarely ever thought it was needed. On the odd occasion when it was called for, though, I basked in it, just as I was doing now.
We’d already stopped for take-out on the way home. Dad had also run into the store for my favorite ice cream. While he was in there, he’d picked up a movie that I’d wanted to see. Movies were another “silly” thing that I seldom got to enjoy, but since the opportunity had presented itself, I wasn’t going to squander it.
After seeing me safely inside, Dad went back out to the truck for the food while I went to the bathroom to clean up. I had gotten a glimpse of my reflection in a sink mirror at the hospital and I’d taken quite a tumble, leaving dirt and gravel and dried blood in several highly visible places.
One thing I’d always been grateful for was Dad’s insistence that wherever we moved, we find a home that had two full baths. He always gave me the master suite and he took another room and used the spare bathroom. It was his one concession to my gender.
I hobbled past the living room and through my room into my bathroom and shut the door behind me. I stripped and grabbed a washcloth with the intention of a sponge bath-type cleaning. When I saw that I’d have to clean most of me anyway, I decided to run a hot bath and soak my sore spots while I cleaned. Dinner could wait.
I poured some shampoo under the running water (the poor man’s bubble bath) and sat on the edge of the tub to await the result. When the tub was half full, I stepped in and slid down beneath the thin froth that had covered the water’s surface.
The instant water touched my skin my entire right side began to burn. I held my breath and waited for the stinging to stop. Finally it did and I relaxed onto the cool ceramic at my back.
I slid down to wet my hair, the sloshing suds just barely covering my ears. I never went completely under; I’d always had a fear of water. Since I was a child, I felt as if I weren’t alone, like someone or something was in the water with me, waiting to drag me into oblivion. There had even been a few times when I’d gone under accidentally that I thought I saw a face in the water, hovering, watching. Waiting.
“Carson? You alright?”
Dad startled me, though I was far from displeased that his concern had interrupted my disturbing thoughts.
“Yeah,” I answered.
I heard his footsteps fade as he walked away and I relaxed once more against the tub. Clearing my head of all thought, I soaked for a while. When the water that lapped at my chest became decidedly cool, I lifted my hand and noted the distinct pruning of my fingertips, a clear indication it was time to get to work cleaning all my various scraped and soiled body parts then get out.
I wet my washcloth and lifted my right leg out of the water. The outer side was covered in road rash, from calf to hip. I gently scrubbed away the dried blood and black smudges. I picked off bits of skin and dug out small pieces of gravel. As I rinsed the grime away, a speck of something shiny on my calf near my knee caught the light.
“How’d I get glass under my skin?” I asked no one in particular.
I rubbed at the fragment with my washcloth, but it didn’t budge. The location made it hard to get an up-close look, but I was positive it was glass; it’s the only thing it could be. I decided that time would work it out or my skin would heal up around it.
I moved on to clean my hip and ribs as best I could, working my way up toward my arms and face. As I was picking skin and gravel from a particularly nasty scrape on my forearm, I encountered another shiny spot halfway between my wrist and elbow. I brought my arm up for a closer inspection.
What I’d thought was glass was actually a pencil eraser-sized spot of something that reminded me of mother of pearl, creamy and slightly iridescent. I rubbed at it with my washcloth, but it wouldn’t come off. I pinched the area between my thumb and forefinger and squeezed, but nothing came out. Finally, I scraped at it with my fingernail, hoping to pick up the edge so I could dig it out. Instead, my skin rolled back the tiniest bit, revealing more of the creamy material just beneath the surface.
I sat up in the tub, an uneasy sense of foreboding swelling in my chest. I tugged at my skin, pulling and stretching it around the scrape. It slid this way and that, baring more shiny stuff, like I had another skin beneath my skin. I dug my fingernail in and pushed, rolling up a long piece of flesh. It bled a little, but I felt no pain; it would take more than that to intrude on my rising panic.
I dabbed at the blood, my heart pounding in my ears, my breath coming more quickly. As I feared, with the blood cleared, a long streak of shimmering dermis was visible along the length of my arm.
There was no keeping my panic at bay now; waves of it flooded my mind.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God!” I chanted. I thought of the scratches on my face and nausea rolled through my stomach.
I hopped out of the tub and made my way to the sink. I leaned in to look at my right cheek in the mirror. I turned my face this way and that and caught the light as it shone on more of the glistening sub-layer.
Though there were many other concerns and considerations that should’ve been a priority in my mind, the one that surfaced first was what a pariah I’d be in school if I had developed some sort of freaky skin condition. My life was far from normal already; I didn’t need anything else to set me apart from my peers.
I thought of what a cruel cosmic joke that would be, wanting to be special and ending up a circus freak.
Yeah, that’s special alright, I thought bitterly. Sounds like the type of higher power my dad
would get a kick out of serving.
I thought of showing my father, asking him what he thought it might be, but considering his propensity toward overreaction when it came to all things Carson, I decided that would be a bad idea.
I moved to the commode and sat down on the lid. I closed my eyes and took several deep, shaky breaths.
“Calm down, Carson. Calm down,” I whispered into the stillness.
I sat there for several minutes waiting for rational thought to return. I knew better than to make an emotional decision. Dad had drummed that into me from a very young age.
You can’t trust your feelings, butterfly, he’d say. Or, Feelings are fickle, Carson. Don’t rely on ‘em.
I leaned on that advice now, finally deciding to wait and see what the morning brought. That was another nugget of wisdom Dad had always poured in. Everything looks different after a good night’s sleep. And usually he was right, much as I hated to admit it.
I pulled myself up by my proverbial bootstraps and went to the cabinet for some concealer. It was another of the few concessions Dad made to my being a girl. I was particularly thankful for that tonight.
I dabbed some of the flesh colored liquid on the scrapes on my face to hide the pale layer underneath then I went and picked out some winter pajamas that had full pants and long sleeves. When I was dressed, I surveyed my reflection and decided I’d pass casual inspection.
Dad and I spent a relaxing night eating Chinese food, ice cream and watching a movie. I tried to still my nerves, but I was jumpy and couldn’t wait until bed time. I used the excuse of a traumatic day to turn in early.
As I stood in front of the mirror, brushing my teeth, I let my mind run elsewhere. I rehashed the events of the day. When I came to the most disturbing part, it brought me back to reality and brought my eyes back to my cheek.
I leaned in closer and rubbed my fingertips over the smooth skin of my cheek. My mouth fell open in astonishment. All that was visible was a few dots of concealer—with nothing to conceal. The scrapes were completely healed.
CHAPTER THREE
A dull throbbing at my right temple woke me. I tried to open my eyes, but a blinding whiteness poured through the cracks. Pain cut through my head like a hot knife. Quickly, I squeezed them shut. I waited a few seconds then opened my eyes again, though just a slit. This time I was prepared for the pain. I waited for it to subside as my eyes adjusted to the brightness. When they finally did, I opened them wider.
Above me were bare tree branches, crisscrossing the sky like bony, dead fingers laced together. Beyond them were ominous gray clouds. They looked like snow. That would explain the brilliance. And the cold.
I was lying on my back and it was freezing. My fingers and toes had lost most of their feeling, but I could still wiggle them. Slowly, I turned my head to follow one of the trees to the ground. At its base, about ten feet away, was a dense patch of mountain laurels. Their evergreen leaves sagged under the weight of a thick dusting of snow. I looked to my right and saw a similar scene. I was in some sort of clearing in the middle of a laurel thicket.
A spot of color drew my eye. A bright red dot marred the fluffy white topping on one leaf. I raised my head a few inches off the ground to get a better look. There was another drop on a lower branch. Then another. And another. I followed the crimson drops across the snow as they neared where I lay. The size and number of them steadily increased the closer they got to me.
I reached out to touch one that was within arm’s reach. I dipped my fingers into the cold snow and scooped up the red drop. The snow didn’t melt in my hand. But it turned pink.
My hand was covered in blood.
A wave of fear washed over me, squeezing the air from my lungs, making it difficult to breathe. I sat up quickly, my head spinning in rebellion. The forest around me spun and swam. I closed my eyes until the vertigo subsided then I slowly opened them again.
I held my hand out in front of me and examined it. I didn’t see any cuts or scrapes, nothing to account for the blood on me or in the snow for that matter. I straightened out my arm. It was covered in blood, too.
Then I looked down.
The pale yellow parka I was wearing was drenched in blood and torn to pieces. My legs were stretched out in front of me and they were saturated as well, the denim shredded. No wonder I was so cold.
I scanned the ground in the clearing. There was blood all around me—splatters and streaks, even puddles. It was pooled between my legs. When I saw what I was sitting in, I hurried to my feet. What was left of my clothing was soaked with it. I could feel the wet weight of it all over my back side, too.
I took stock of all my parts and was relieved that I seemed to be intact. I checked for wounds elsewhere, but again I found none. I waited for pain, but none came. After that, only one thing was on my mind: whose blood was it?
I looked left and right and, besides the blood, the snow was completely undisturbed. There was not so much as a footprint impressed upon its perfect surface. I’d have to question later how I’d gotten to where I was without leaving any trace of which direction I’d come.
I spun in a tight circle, looking around for the source of all that blood. That’s when I saw him.
I managed to stifle the scream that bubbled up in my throat. I stood there, in the bloody snow, motionless, just staring at him.
My first thought was that he was dead. And that I might have killed him. My eyes scanned his long form in a quick once-over, looking for blood and injuries. I didn’t see any. Relief washed over me when I saw his wide chest rising and falling rhythmically. He was alive. Alive, but unconscious.
I doubted he was much older than me, maybe just over twenty, and he was clothed entirely in black leather. Only his arms and head were bare. I saw what looked like a black strip of leather lying beside his head. I thought it might have once held the longish hair that was currently spread about his head in a dark halo. Even in his present state, I could see that he was handsome and incredibly intimidating.
Then a troubling thought occurred to me. I looked at his big hands where they lay limp in the snow at his sides. Hands like that could easily rip a girl my size to pieces. There was no blood on them, but still…what if?
My eyes snapped back up to his face when I heard a low moan. A frown pinched his thick brows together, but I could still see the dark crescent of his lashes as they rested on his sharp cheekbones. I knew that if I had any chance of escaping whatever gruesome things had taken place here, I had to move fast. Very fast.
Slowly, I stepped back with one foot, the snow crunching lightly under my weight. The rise and fall of his chest stopped and I held my breath, praying that he wouldn’t awaken. I waited what seemed like an eternity for him to start breathing again. When he did and it looked unlikely that he would wake up, I stepped back with my other foot. Then I stopped. And waited. And watched.
Nothing.
Encouraged, I took another step back. Then another. When still there was no indication he was waking, I picked up the pace a little. I kept my steps as light and soundless as possible.
When I’d successfully put nearly ten feet between myself and the stranger, I turned to navigate the trees. I shifted sideways to slide between two laurels then stepped around a huge oak tree…and ran right into a wide chest covered in skin tight, black leather.
My breath caught in my throat. I looked behind me, back at the now empty impression in the snow. The stranger was gone and was standing right in front of me, staring down at me with furious silver eyes.
The chirp of my alarm clock woke me. Really woke me. I was in my bed, in my room, gasping for air like I’d run a marathon. My heart was hammering against my ribs.
It was just a dream, Carson. Just a dream, I reassured myself. It had felt so incredibly real; I was still shaken from running into that huge stranger.
I lay back against my pillows and concentrated on taking slow, steady gulps of air. I counted backwards from ten and, as usual, it calmed me. Another Port
er family trick.
Pushing my covers aside, I made my way to the bathroom to turn on the water for my shower. As I shed my pajamas, I noticed how cold my fingers and toes were and decided that I must’ve kicked the covers off at some point during the night.
As I walked past the mirror to step into the shower, a dark spot on my cheek caught my attention. I leaned over the sink to look closer. It was a single red drop. I wiped it away with one finger and brought it around for inspection. My heart kicked up to a quicker pace. It looked like blood.
I stepped back to examine myself for injuries, almost hoping to find one. I’d rather have scratched myself during the night than think that it had somehow come from my dream.
I stood in a shaft of Saturday morning sun that was streaming through the bathroom window. The light turned my normally mousy-brown hair to a glistening spun gold in a way I hadn’t noticed before. It looked almost as if the color had lightened overnight to a beautiful honey blonde.
