Cathrina Constantine
Don’t Forget to Breathe
Chapter 1
Moonlight played tricks with my eyes as we circumvented gravestones like an obstacle course, and pluming fog licked our legs as misty ghosts danced on marbleized stones. My breath shuddered as Henry bypassed me, leading the way.
“Hurry—” he whispered and nudged my shoulder.
I picked up the pace and cranked my head to the left. Dark moving shapes appeared in the distance and moaning floated past my ears, probably the wind or just my imagination? Goose flesh pebbled my skin as I stumbled over an urn. Henry lugged me up urging me on.
“What are we running from?” I gasped quietly so not to wake the dead.
“Them—over there.” Henry jerked his chin, the lenses of his glasses captured raining moonbeams. “I think it’s cops.”
His hand reached back, palm up. I latched hold. “Why would police be patrolling the cemetery?”
We whipped around a mammoth tombstone, a squared foundation for a glorious angel. He halted and threw me unceremoniously to solid concrete. My heartbeat migrated up my esophagus. Henry covered my mouth with his hand. “Sh-h…don’t breathe so loud.”
My pumping lungs slowed as I stabilized my swallows of air. Henry squashed his body into mine. A tad too close. His speedy heartbeat harmonizing with my own while cold leached into my back. I cringed at the discomfort of my head pressed between his chest and the stone.
Less than fifteen seconds later, Henry’s hand stroked up my torso as his head nuzzled my neck. My words sounded hollow, “What are you doing?”
His head rose from his nook and I glared at his ambiguous silhouette. Two palms pancaked my cheeks and his mouth mashed my lips. Confounded and then irritated, I pushed on his chest. He clutched tighter, deepening his kiss, sawing apart my lips with his tongue. His one hand gravitated along my shoulder to wedge between my back and the tombstone while his other hand scrounged around to cop a feel. Stuck between a rock and a hormonal boy.
Rather than submit to his undesirable groping, my fingers grabbed what little belly flesh of Henry’s I could muster and twisted, hard.
“Ow-w—” He backed off. “What the hell, Leo?”
“You wanna screw me? Is that the real reason for hiding behind this tombstone? Why did we have to run?”
“I didn’t have to make you run for that. I practically had you on the ground a minute ago.” He shoved a hand through his short hair and then tweaked his glasses up his nose, glancing to the right and to the left. “I did see something. It looked like a couple of guys walking through the graveyard along the ridge. It looked like…cops. And I wasn’t taking any chances.”
I couldn’t make out his eyes through his lenses. “Apparently we’re not alone.” I felt chilled. “How many people hang out in a graveyard?”
He shrugged. Not even trying to be subtle, he adjusted the zipper of his jeans. In a sing-song tone, he said, “I thought we could drink beers, smoke a little weed, and you could take care of whatever popped up.”
I fumed at his innuendo. Doing the naughty in a graveyard with Mom recently planted in aisle 113 pissed me off. I spat, “Our nighttime picnic is over.” I went to move, but his hands came down on my shoulders.
“You’re not leaving? We were having such a good time, right here, right now.” He lowered his head to taste my lips. “Let’s stay a while.” Stale beer breath washed over my face. “Hidden behind this statue we could rock this place, make it come alive.”
I straightened my arms to hold him off. “I don’t think so.”
“C’mon, Leo. You’re teasing me, right?” Henry swatted at my armed barrier. “Baby, we deserve this after our crappy week.” His fingertips scored a groove along my spine. The deed generated a slight backbend, pressing my chest into him. He thought it was an invitation. “This is an awesome high.” He ground his pelvis into me, exhilarated to say the least. “The juices are flowing.”
“Henry. No. You sick ass.” I discovered his dark libido that night; he could be a real dickhead. I wasn’t attracted to him in that way. Every so often—I wish I was. Life would be easier, I think. “Let’s just go.”
“Leo, I want you.” He chafed his whiskered cheek on mine while his hand roamed under my shirt. “I’ve waited patiently, don’t you think?”
My skin crawled. “Stop it—!” Disengaging his embrace, I ducked under his arm and loped to find the spot we had been drinking to gather my discarded hoodie. I wasn’t drunk or high enough to put up with his baloney. Since he was probably lying about seeing cops, I stomped on the manicured lawn, not caring about the noise.
Not seeing Henry, I slowed and turned toward the angel tombstone. “Stop clowning around. Let’s go.”
Not a word.
“Okay, I’m sorry I called you a sick ass.” I spied my hoodie draped over a headstone like a pall and headed that way. By accident, I kicked one of our empty beer cans, the tinny rattle echoed throughout the cemetery. After shrugging into the hoodie, I stooped to collect the cans into the crook of my arm. “Now you’re freaking me out. I’m leaving without you.”
Strangled gurgling roiled over the dewy lawn. “Henry?” Aluminum cans tumbled from my arms. “Are you okay?”
“Go away!” His speech muffled like he was choking.
I stood there—motionless. Was he for real? The hushed night was disrupted by his huffing breaths and sounds of fists or his body bashing against the concrete. Was he having a seizure, an epileptic fit and didn’t want me to see? Somewhat wary I paced back to find him.
“Henry? What’s wrong?”
“Get the fuck out of here—Now!” There was a tearing noise like ripping fabric. “Run—or I’m going to kill you!”
Hairs on the nape of my neck prickled. I tore off like hellhounds were nipping at my heels. Not slowing even when reaching the railroad tracks, I crashed and rolled on the ties, scraping my hands and knees. A pungent scent of dead leaves and loamy dirt wafted to my nostrils. I sprang up grumbling and peered toward Hallow Saints Cemetery.
Gulping for air, I hugged my arms around my waist, consoling myself. Coward came to mind. How could I leave him like that? A resigned breath splintered the seam of my lips and the shimmering moon lit my passage back to the cemetery.
My sneakers crunched on wooden ties while I stalled on the rails and stared down the swell of land past the trees into the cemetery. Only picking up sounds of whispering leaves, I searched for Henry, and half expected him to make an appearance laughing his ass off about his cruel joke.
Through my peripheral vision, something scampered to the right. Squinting didn’t help. Too dark. A flashlight might’ve been useful, if I had one. Note to self, carry flashlight.
I trekked farther along the tracks. Using the heightened berm to observe the area, I could scarcely make out the tombstones that pocked the ground amidst the fog; it looked eerie and lonesome. Then spotting remote figures, I counted three. They could be kids looking for a place to party in private. I crouched and balanced on my heels to monitor the dark shapes and wondered if one might be Henry.
They traveled behind a large monument, and I lost sight of them. To the left a prowling cat distracted me when suddenly, a blood-curdling scream scraped into my bones, clutching my heart.
Not faltering, I dug a hand in my pocket for my cell and dialed 911. A man’s voice answered. “What is the location of your emergency?”
Jittery, I whispered, “Hallow Saints Cemetery.”
“Say again?”
“Hallow Saints Cemetery.”
“Can I have your name and address please.”
Through panic-stricken eyes I noticed a glowing headstone; someone must’ve dropped a flashli
ght. It remained in place like a beacon. “Follow the light.” I disconnected the call and wheeling around, tripped. Scrabbling upright, I belted down the tracks.
It wasn’t Henry. It wasn’t Henry. Not again, please God, not again, this can’t be happening. Henry is fine. Delirious and crazed, I ran.
The sawing pain in my lungs constricted airflow and the stitch in my side felt like a knife as I rested beneath a streetlight. Dizzy, I leaned forward and grabbed my knees. Applying the sleeve of my hoodie to my forehead, I mopped sweat and brushed aside hair that had taped to my face. In control and rolling back my shoulders, I scouted the familiar road. Tarpon Hill. With a skittery heart I jogged home.
Outside of Henry’s Dutch Colonial house was his car, but that wasn’t unusual. We had hiked to the cemetery with his pockets stuffed with brew and marijuana. I skidded to a stop noticing the one shining window on the upper right hand corner. His bedroom. Not that I’d ever been in his room, but he’d pointed it out more than once. And telling me how he sleeps el-nude like I needed to know. Henry beat me home. Did I imagine the scream? A surge of watering eyes blurred the avenue, over the past year I’d turned into such a crybaby.
Figuring it was past Dad’s stupid curfew, I grabbed my phone to check the time. And I wanted to call Henry to chew him out for being such a loser. My cell wasn’t in my back pocket. Anxious, I patted the opposite pocket, then my front pockets and hoodie as well. Empty. No cell.
Swirling around, I stared down the winding street. Where did I lose my phone? I advanced a step with brainless thoughts of retracing my path to the scene of a possible crime. Did my phone flip out of my hand after I’d fallen? I didn’t remember putting it into a pocket. I couldn’t go back—not now.
Peeved, my toe kicked a rock sending it flying. Then, clutching my face, I squelched a maddening cry and slogged up the road two houses and across the street to eighty-six Westgate. Dad had left the sidelight on, and cracking the screen door it screeched like an alarm. I flinched.
Shucking my sneakers I padded into the dimly lit kitchen, a dull shine generated from a small nightlight. I aimed for stealth and tiptoed along the hallway to the bathroom and brushed beer breath and smoke from my mouth.
Quiet and feeling home-free, I toggled on the lights and jumped out of my skin. A shriek plugged my throat like putty. Seated on my bedroom chair, fingers templed—Dad.
“I can’t handle this, Leocadia.” He pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “I can’t be worrying about you night after night, wondering if you’re alright and coming home in one piece.”
“I’m sorry, Dad, really I am. We were fooling around and lost track of time. I’m sorry.”
“You kids always know the time.” He eased off the cushion using the armchair for leverage. “Your cell phones are practically glued to your hands.”
Not anymore. He’d rip me a good one if I say I lost my phone. “I said I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“It will. You know it will.” He lumbered and planted a kiss on the top of my head. “I can’t lose you too.” He sighed and left my room.
His painful reminder was more than I could bear, triggering tears to trample over my face. I just might have been a witness to a crime and, the anniversary of Mom’s murder crept closer every day.
Chapter 2
As black corners dissolved into a silvery gray, my head flopped to check the alarm clock, 4:45. I begged the heavens—“Please, let me sleep,”—and smothered my head underneath my downy pillow.
A nanosecond after slamming my eyelids, I felt immediately transported to a year ago…
I stalled at the wooden porch, looking at a watery substance. My pristine leather boots made an effort not to touch the crud, and for a change the front door was unlocked.
“Mom, what’s that stuff on the porch?”
No reply.
Unfastening the messenger bag from my shoulder I plunked it on the recliner. More red liquid stained the floor and area carpet. “Mom, what is this? Are you painting the kitchen again? Dad’s going to kill you. Red? Really?”
All quiet, walking into the kitchen. A cutting board sat on the counter amid a mound of carrot shavings. The noise of bubbling and hissing drew my attention. Steam furled from a pot on the stove and I sped over and switched off the gas.
The basement door was ajar, I yelled, “Mom?” My ear bent for her usual lyrical humming. Silence. Then I peered through the back window, she wasn’t in the perennial garden.
Was it—blood?
Maybe she cut herself and ran out the front door? An uneasy zing cramped my bones. The counter and the dinner preparations all appeared normal, like she’d taken a break.
I returned to the living room. How’d I miss the trail of blood or whatever it was bumping up the staircase? “Mom, are you up here?” With my heart hammering, I toed each stair with foreboding and every scary movie replayed in my mind.
First, I peeked into my bedroom. Exactly how I left it, a holy mess. Whenever I left my room like this, which was always, Mom would compulsively clean it. It never made sense to do it myself if she was willing to do it for me.
My walk down the hallway to my parent’s bedroom became sluggish. She’d been complaining of not feeling well. In fact Mom stayed home from work today. She was probably sick and needed to rest. The door was shut. I knuckled the frame softly. “Mom?”
My hand twisted the knob and inched it open and gagged on the smell.
An awkward, half-naked body draped over the mattress—porcelain skin sliced apart—silky blonde hair fanned the floor. Dripping red— blood —gobs of blood. Eyes filled with terror watched me. Dead eyes. My jaw moved—Mo-o-m—but no sound. I shuffled a foot forward and doubled over spewing lunch. That’s when I noticed a bloody dagger. Forged in a peculiar camber design like something I’d see in a museum, lying next to her fingers.
Suddenly arms swallowed me from behind, I heard, “I’m not going to kill you—Not yet.” And everything faded to black…
I woke with a start and gasped. My heart ached and, struggling upright, I crossed my arms over my chest to hang on my shoulders. Grinding my eyelids, tears sprinkled my face, sorry for my loss, sorry for myself. No longer in a dreamy state my pulse throbbed chaotically. The dagger, a new addition to my dreams! “Mom, what does this mean?” My voice broke and fell to pieces around me. “The police have given up. They can’t find who did this to you.”
“I need more,” I cried. “Why can’t I remember anything else?”
Mellow light shirked the blinds as I glimpsed the time. 5:02. Dragging in a distended breath my thundering heart regulated to a negligible thrum. My chin slumped to my chest, sitting there like a worthless head case. The dreams were getting worse and repetitious. The police still hadn’t found her killer and I still couldn’t remember jackshit.
Tap tap. My eyelids slit. The old house had lots of creaky noises. Tap tap tap. There it was again. The sound was coming from the window. I peeled back the quilt and slipped out of bed. As my feet flattened on the hardwood, the morning chill embedded into my toes. I hunched, and wrapped my arms around my cooled body and snuck toward the window.
Henry?
Levering the blinds, I gripped the windowsill. It wouldn’t budge. I put my weight against the glass to loosen the frame and jimmied it up. He looked disjointed through the screen as I glared at him with mixed emotions. “What the hell happened last night?” I asked.
“Let me in.”
“Why should I?”
“We don’t want to wake your dad, do we?”
He wasn’t wearing his glasses. His eyes looked glazed like muddy water, and there was a gash in his bottom lip, completely disheveled and in need of a friend. Grudgingly, I raised the screen and receded. Beneath my window was an ingenious tree stump, a stepping stone. Over the past year I utilized it often. As soon as Henry clasped the frame, I noticed raw sores on his knuckles. In an inelegant hop, he hauled himself in and lowered the window barring the cold.
/> My bare feet felt like ice cubes sliding on the floor to make sure my bedroom door was locked. When I turned back, Henry had settled into the chair. I put a finger to my lips warding off any loud talking and shuffled to sit on my bed.
“I’m sorry,” he uttered.
“You should be. You really freaked me out.”
“I don’t take rejection well. I lost it.” He looked down and raked the thigh of his jeans with his fingers. “I’ve been a reject my entire life. And then when you—”
“First,” I broke in, “I thought we were running from the police. Then you started pawing me. What was I supposed to think?”
His head snapped up. “I thought you liked me.” He gave a careless shoulder lift. “And, I kind of have a temper problem.”
“You’re damn right you do!” My fingers rolled into fists. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“Sorry.” He massaged his brow, closing his eyes.
I stared at the bruises on the back of his hands as his coppery hair caught the light of a new day.
“What was that sound?” I asked. “Like you were tearing your shirt or something?”
His eyebrows dipped downward, appearing dismal. “I was controlling my anger by taking it out on myself.”
“Is that why your knuckles are all beat up?” Not raising his hand to look at them, he knew what I was talking about. “And I thought I was the nut bar.” My head moved from side to side. “You said you were going to kill me.”
“I did? I don’t remember saying that.” He looked straight at me while tapping his fingers rhythmically on the arm of the chair. “You must’ve imagined it.”
“I didn’t imagine it. You snarled it.” I elevated my ice cubed feet off the floor, sitting cross-legged with my arms balancing on my knees. “What’d you do, punch yourself in the face too?”
He touched his knuckle to the gash on his slip; it came away tinged with blood. “I walked into my dad’s fist.”
“Your dad hit you?”
“I lipped off. No big deal.”
Don't Forget to Breathe Page 1
