“Are you feeling any better Lyss?” asks Mom. I shake my head after taking a big gulp of orange juice so my throat is clear enough to answer.
“I feel worse,” I say.
“Have you taken your medicine?” she asks. “Yes,” I lie. The last medicine I've had is Nyquil, and I'm supposed to be taking some antihistamine tablets as well, but they don't do any good. In fact, the antihistamine makes me feel more dried out. As I eat, I feel some buildup around my labret and notice that blotches of dried blood have clotted around it.
“Maybe you should fight through it?” Mom suggests.
“What do you mean by that?” I ask, mouth full of eggs.
“You don't have school today. Why don't you go out and exercise? You know? Power through it?” she explains. Exercise would be the last thing to cross my mind at a time like this, but I ponder it and the cardio at least would help get my mind off things. Heck it might even help me get to sleep.
“Yeah I'll go for a run,” I finally answer.
“Oh, but not before finishing your schoolwork, I don't want you to get your work piled up at the end of the week,” she adds. Correction, schoolwork would be the last thing to cross my mind at a time like this.
“Alright,” I sigh. After breakfast I head upstairs to wash my face. I use cold water and follow up by slathering on lotion to try to help the uncomfortable dry feeling. I notice that the area under my nose is cracked and irritated from all the tissues. I really wish we had some of those lotion-enhanced tissues or whatever they're called. I notice that my complexion isn't the only thing that looks out of sorts. My hair is a mess and even my nails need work. It may not be the time for vanity but I do take pride in my appearance, and I don't want to end up looking like a crazy old hag. I brush my hair out thoroughly and work on getting it into a ponytail since I'll be running later. I decide not to worry about makeup since I'll be showering off after I run anyway.
Today is Tuesday, which means Lionel Willow's birthday party is today, so I need to look... sane. I get dressed in some warm weather exercise gear; in fact I choose almost the same outfit I wore out on my last run with Shana. After dressing I open my backpack to look at the bulging folder of homework. I didn't bother organizing them when I received the papers. All the teachers really gave us were instructions to read a set amount of chapters, and then the homework for each chapter. I decide rather than going one day at a time, I'll go one subject at a time.
I'm feeling tired so I am not in any mood to try and memorize anything. I start with algebra. Many people complain that algebra is hard but the truth is, all you have to do is remember the formula and then answer the questions using the formula that’s right there in front of you. I can do it almost absentmindedly.
As I work through each problem I force myself not to think about Shana because it will only distract me. Every time the name “Shana” pops into my head I think of random words until I'm back on track. With my mind bouncing around with phrases like ‘pie’ and ‘I just ate’ fluttering through my mind I get my homework done a little more slowly than I'm used to, but it's the most progress I've made in any kind of work since the accident, and when I’m finished a little smile crosses my lips.
“Productivity,” I say to myself, and on that note, it's time to be even more productive and get some exercise. Let's fight this sickness, as my mom put it. I keep mentally reassuring myself that I can do this. I won't have to jog the whole course. Maybe because I'm sick, I'll do intervals of walking and jogging. I make sure to bring a full bottle of water to prevent dehydration. I'm sure I can persevere, and my only real worry is that my nose will bleed uncontrollably so I carry plenty of tissue in my backpack.
I head out the door and start into a slow jog, but immediately I feel the leaden weight brought on by my sickness and I find myself jogging at the average speed of a brisk walk. I stare at the ground watching the white cement sidewalk pass by. This way I don't pay too much attention to just how slow I am really moving. When I see the shadow of the stop sign I look up at the tree line. Am I going to be able to handle this? I think as I already feel tiny beads of sweat on my clammy hands. I do some brief stretches just in case. If there's any bad time to twist an ankle, it's when you're sick and haunted by a ghastly static apparition.
After a few stretches I look both ways and take off. I throw my knees forward to carry my weight through. I hit the tree line and descend into the forest. I try to ignore my dry throat as I stomp through fallen leaves that have covered the whole ground at this point. I look around at the trees while I'm running. Most of them have been stripped bare at this point. Now all of the once beautiful trees are naked and gloomy. It looks normal in late autumn but at this time of year they just seem off. Is it the season or the current events making this seem so strange?
By the time I reach that first true incline I'm walking. I don't have the strength to run up the hill this time. I'm already sweating pretty badly and am constantly wiping my eyes on my jacket sleeve to stop the sweat from burning my eyes.
I'm grateful that my nose isn't bleeding right now otherwise I might have just gotten blood all over my favorite hoodie. When I reach the top of the hill, I find it's harder to throw my knees forward again. I've heard that for cross country runners the trick is to not stop running. I use that little bit to motivate me to press forward once more.
I feel weaker now, like the resting pace and water didn't rejuvenate me at all, and keep getting the idea to just call it a day. No, I came out here to fight this. Let's finish the whole course. I won't let this illness run my life, I think to myself. I keep using those thoughts to motivate me, and hope to God that I don't stop running and then not have the energy to start up. Sweat keeps pouring into my eyes- well my right eye. I am constantly forcing my right eye shut, only looking with my left. I should really invest in a head band. I keep running on and finally reach that last slope that marks the clearing. I'm going to sprint this one. Each bound takes a severe toll on my strength and by the time I reach the hill I have to bend over to catch my breath. “Head above the heart. Always keep moving,” I say to myself. I put my hands on my hips to keep my back straight and walk in a circle around the clearing.
I realize I’m circling that strange tree. I stop and look up at it. It seems a little taller than before. If I'd remembered the scare this tree gave me last time, I probably wouldn't have been able to motivate myself to come out here again. I am about to look away from the tree when something catches my eye; the branches. I remember last time there were how many branches, five or six? I count them this time.
“Nine,” I say aloud. It has those two jointed branches hanging toward the ground like before, but seven of them are angled up. I only remember four branches angled up last time. Trees don't just sprout new branches like this. It's eerie to see this. I may be no good at memorizing schoolwork, but when a strange tree appears full grown on my jogging route and then sprouts new branches suddenly I tend to take a mental note. There are nine branches on this tree. I repeat that thought aloud too. Next time I come on my run I'm going to count the branches again.
I shake out my limbs, rotating my neck and ankles for the home stretch. I am about to descend when I remember what happened last time. I thought I'd seen the entity, but it was just the tree. Or was it the fiend after all? Now I feel uncertain and a shiver runs through me. Now I'm just scaring myself. Maybe I should sprint back like last time? No, that would have been impossible for me to do if I hadn't thought I was about to die in the woods. I'm just going to run, and I'm not going to look back at the tree this time. I bite the back end of my labret, and then I'm off. I run a little faster than I did on the way here, but I think it's a pace I can sustain. I'm going to conquer this. I keep running, far past the clearing, but that level of fear I had last time keeps creeping up on me.
I start seeing things out of the corner of my eye. It's like my mind is purposely trying to scare me. It's showing me the fiend, except not as vivid as it usually does. Then I see him agai
n. He's far in front of me this time, but as I clear more trees he disappears again. Then he reappears. It's as if I'm following him, except I'm only catching glimpses.
Surprisingly, my fear recedes, as if I'm not really scared. Good, I think. There's something off about the way I keep catching him. First, I see this dark spot past a small tree ten meters from me. Then, it's the same thing fifteen meters. Now I can hardly see him. Maybe he really is here. Is he moving? If he is, then why isn't he coming for me? The fear begins to rise again. What if he does come for me? He's ahead of me so I would be easy to intercept. I detour around, trying to move in an angle on the way home. I can't see him anymore.
I trip and face-plant myself into ground. The leaves cushion my fall, but in my condition, getting up isn't so fun. I push myself off the ground and see a few drops of blood. Great, the collision triggered my nosebleed. I reach into my pack and pull out some tissue. I look around the area and don't recognize it. I'm not really lost though, and I walk east until I see the end of the tree line. I emerge onto the road. I look at the paved road boarded by the forest that leads south to my home neighborhood. I walk toward my neighborhood, which is only a kilometer or so away when a thought dawns on me. Why would he be going directly ahead of me, unless it was trying to beat me to my destination? “Adam.”
My feet are running faster than I tell them to. The first time I saw the static shadow he was looming over Adam. Does that mean he's finally come to collect him? I feel weakened already from the exercise mixed with the sickness, and the lag I'm suffering only increases my worry. I have to get home! My feet thud against the ground and it feels like I'm kicking through molasses to move them forward. When I finally get to my front door, it's ajar. “Adam!” I call. I run upstairs, the loud thuds of my footsteps blocking out the sound of the creaking floorboards. I go to his room, empty.
“Adam!” I call again. I check Bubbe's room, empty also. I run downstairs and see that no one is present.
“Mom?” I call. Worry sets in further. Would it take both Adam and my mother? I hear a noise. It's faint at first but then I realize just how close it is. I turn around, but the sound is still behind me. I listen again. It's coming from my backpack. It's my cell phone vibrating. I remove my backpack and open it. I look at my phone and see that I've received a text from Mom. I read it.
“Went to the party early with Adam help set up. Dad and Bubbe went to get Lionel’s present and have it wrapped. They will be there to pick you up soon, bring the camera. It's on the kitchen counter.” A wave of relief sets in. All this stress, worry, and relief can't be good for my health, I think.
I look at the time. It's a little after one-thirty and the party starts at three, so I have plenty of time. I head upstairs and drop my backpack onto the rest of the mess on the floor. I kick my shoes off in random directions and yank out my ponytail. I grab a few toiletries and head to take a shower. I turn the water on and while the temperature is moderating I take a look in the mirror. I grimace at what I see. I know the sun isn't too bright but I'd hoped I'd at least have a little more color in my skin after the run to hide just how sick I am. I remove my clothing, and after I see steam rising from behind our translucent shower curtain I stick my hand in to test the water, making sure it's not too hot.
I get inside, but instead of immediately washing off I lie down as if I were taking a bath, letting the hot water rinse the sweat and other ickiness off my skin. I almost don't feel up for a party after that run, but I think it's mutually understood that something small like a child's birthday party will help liven up everyone's mood, even if just a little.
After what feels like ten or fifteen minutes I force myself to get up and wash before the hot water runs out. By the time I turn the water off, my skin already feels dried up. I apply some lotion and change into the day clothes I brought with me. I have a green, Happy Bunny tank top as an undershirt, and I put on my green and black flannel shirt over it. I figure the blouse will match the nail polish, even though it's pretty badly worn out by now. I put on deep blue jeans and green socks. After my clothes are on, it's time to work with my wet hair. I use the toilet as a chair and then grab our blow dryer. It's pretty out of date: old; bulky, and black, but it works. I dry out my hair then brush it out. It's still a little damp when I'm finished, but acceptable.
I exit the bathroom, leaving my clothes on the floor where I took them off- I'll pick them up later. I throw on some thin rubber bracelets on my left arm. I use black and blue, because I don't have green ones, but I do have a black and green Yeah Yeah Yeah's bracelet that I put on my right arm. I apply a little eyeliner and lip gloss and take one good look at myself in my vanity mirror. I need to bleach my hair again, as my roots are showing pretty badly, but other than that I look... normal.
I let out a little sigh. It's not really audible, but my body goes through the motions. Ever since the accident I haven't really been myself, and to see how much damage the recent tragedies have done to my appearance only makes me feel worse. I look up at the framed picture of Shana and me from two years ago. We were standing outside our school, facetiously making duck faces, and wearing matching blue and silver halter top dresses for the school dance.
“If only you were here now,” I say. I touch the frame, only now noticing that a thin layer of dust has built up on it.
“Where are you?”
11: The Party
I fumble around with the camera while we’re in the car. It's not a very new camera, in fact I think my parents have had it for a decade at least, but it works. It's rather bulky, so my parents only bring it on special occasions. Like Hanukkah, the Fourth of July, and well- birthday parties. It's big and black, and the lens-holder thingy takes up more than half of it. It's got a grip for holding it, but I am just wearing it around my neck. Dad just picked me up from the house and now we’re driving to the party. Bubbe is staying at home. I guess she’s not very interested in going to a children’s birthday party. I look out the window. The drive to the Willow's house isn't particularly far, in fact it's only a few miles from ours, but it's one of those places set up a mile away from any other building. Everything else is just tree line.
When we pull up to their house, which is very big compared to our house, I see quite a few people have already shown up. In fact it looks like the party has been going on for a while now. It's taking place in their enormous front yard, and they even pitched large tan canvas tents up to provide some shade. Dad pulls up and Karen Willow waves to catch our attention. Dad stops the car and rolls the window down.
Karen walks up with a big smile. “Hi! We were wondering when you two would make it,” she greets.
Dad gives her a polite little laugh and smile as a response. “Glad to be here. Hey where do you want us to park?” he asks.
“Oh, we’re having all the cars pull around the other side here. Just find a spot, but make it look neat,” she answers. Dad gives her a little nod as she backs off. As we reach the other side of the yard some dozen cars or so come into view, though they aren't parked very neatly. It seems that the general idea is to park them side by side facing the tree line. That works for us though, so Dad pulls up to the end of the car-line and parks. I hop out and open the back door.
Dad picked up Lionel's present on his way back. It's a jumbo Captain America shield, hidden in a cheap gift bag. Part of the shield actually sticks out, but the visible part is covered in gift wrap. Behind the present is a twenty-four pack of Mountain Dew- Dad can carry that. I walk to the party, gift in hand, hoping that this party will bring more merriment than kids birthday parties usually do for me. I feel that it won't though, because every birthday party I've gone to here, whether mine or someone else's, has been with Shana. It will be awkward not having her here, but if I can just keep my mind off of her, maybe it won’t be so bad.
I reach the others and Karen, who was already walking toward us, takes the present and guides me into the house. I guess she doesn't want Lionel to know he has gifts today. She leads me across h
er white wooden porch into her house. The inside of her house isn't as green and white as the outside though. It's surprisingly very empty. I mean, it has everything normal houses would, like bookshelves, couches, a TV and whatnot, but it's missing decorations. There are no paintings or trinkets, grandfather clocks or throw rugs, or anything. The most you will find in this living room are some family portraits set about on end tables- excuse me, the end table. I guess the Willows aren't very frivolous people, but then again, maybe it’s just that we are in comparison. In our living room you'll find over a dozen candles and framed pictures of the “art” Adam and I created when we were little. Not to mention Stars of David and Judaica.
She leads me through the living room to a door at the base of her stairs. It's a small coat closet. There are many gifts in the closet, both wrapped and unwrapped, and ours fit in nicely with the others.
“Thank you guys so much for coming. I was worried you guys wouldn't want to, especially with what happened to Shana,” she says. I can tell she's trying to appear grateful, but reminding me of Shana won't do that. God, every time I hear her name there's a lump of guilt, worry, and a few other nasty emotions, and the more I feel it the less it wants to go away.
“Oh, wouldn't miss it for the world,” I answer.
The Slender Man Page 9
