by LJ Amodeo
I tried to call to Michael before he lifted himself inattentively off the seat, but the incredible pain stabbed at my skull.
“Mich. . .Mi. . . ” My voice trailed off. Reaching out to warn him, my arm fell limp, touching only the air in front of me. I slumped off the seat and felt the agonizing sting of frozen snow hit my face. I no longer felt my legs or my arms; just the arctic crush on my cheek.
Blinded by darkness, I heard Michael clear and calm, as other’s dim cries for help were saturated by the heavenly sound of his voice.
“Elizabeth, hold on. It’s not time. A little longer, I promise,” then all became silent.
~
I walked into my elementary school building wearing a navy power suit. My hair was pinned up into a neat bun––an interview, I presumed. Michael greeted me wearing a crisp white suit. He waited by the first floor stairwell and gestured to follow him up the stairs. I smiled politely at him and he returned the gracious simper, one that was unfamiliar to me; his eyes and smile somehow seemed different. We climbed each landing. Large numbers painted in white, were clearly marked the walls:2. . .3. . .4. As we approached the fourth floor, Michael opened the heavy metal door leading to a long, pale corridor with classrooms on either sides of it. Clouds of white smoke hovered close to the polished floors. Everything, including our strides, were moving in slow, rhythmic motions. I gazed over at Michael as he continued to smile, signaling me to follow him. I felt an impulsive apprehension as I focused my eyes on the activity down the hall. I noticed several people dressed in black clothing standing outside the entry of the corner classroom. It was reminiscent of a funeral, with mourners dabbing at their tears. I peered at the sodden faces, noticing it was my frail mother who was the focus of their empathy. They patted their tears and nodded their heads sadly at her. Again, I glanced at Michael whose impression was perfectly comfortable with the eerie images, yet his face seemed different. It was not the beautiful face I was in love with. Continuing to guide me around a bend, away from the mourners, I stretched my neck up trying to get a fleeting look inside the classroom, past the teary gatherers. I was horrified at what I saw. Clasping my hand over my mouth, shock ruptured through my body.
Just past the mourners, the room was adorned in white tulle as gardenias decorated the space. Everyone was dressed in elegant creamy attire. There I was, in the center, wearing an antiqued, sallow lace gown with baby’s breathe in my hair-dancing around and around with my arms positioned in a dancer’s embrace---dancing alone. My face appeared serene as I danced with my invisible partner. I scaled the room at all the nameless faces. I blinked wildly as I caught a glimmer of a gentleman wearing a lily on his lapel, hands folded before him, holding the precious chain with the medallion of Blessed Virgin, lovingly gazing at me, his little princess gloriously twirling around on the dance floor. Michael waited for me at the far end of the corridor-still motioning for me to follow him toward another set of steps that led to the ‘Girl’s Gymnasium. I was perturbed as my heart beat fiercely in my chest. Yet, I trusted Michael would never harm me, so I obliged, occasionally turning my head to glance at the scene of mourners and celebrators. The images of Grace and Philip replayed in my mind: the scenes of my funeral, my wedding. With Michael leading me through the halls, I noted his insipid white suit was homogenous to that of a groom. What was the significance of these rumored images that purposely presented themselves to me?
Michael’s expression morphed, turning hard and impatient with me as my curious eyes scanned the corridors of the school. With one foot down on the first step of the gymnasium, he reached out his hand toward me, insisting I take it. Dark smoke filled the lower fraction of the staircase leading into the gym. Michael smiled and signaled eagerly for me to come closer. Reluctantly, I lifted my hand toward his as his eyes narrowed, and their deep color began to transform into a pool of milky liquid. His grip tightened around my wrist as he jerked me forward. Taking a step back, horrified at what stared me in the face, I desperately pulled away from him with failure. Terror ransacked my trembling body, but it was too late. He pulled me forward as I struggled to release my hand from his grip. The pain as he crushed my wrist and shattered my bones with his powerful strength, made me gasp in horror. The demented image of Michael transformed to an incubus before my eyes. I fought this fiend as its body quaked and distorted. Its head jerked and shuddered profoundly. I clawed at the beast, hopelessly prying it off my busted wrist. Deep, chilling roars surged out of the demons mouth, and when it faced me again, it was not my Michael, my angel, but the face of the Beast. The Beast that visits me in the night, and hisses lewd and vindictive allegations in my ears. Its eyes, an intense shade of lime, peered passed its flagellating strands of black vines hovering over its distorted skull. Its mouth jutted forward, exposing sharp, vile fangs and a forked tongue. A rage of fire exploded from beneath the imp as it repeatedly tried to drag me down in its inferno. I punched, struck and kicked at the mongrel until I hit its chest, releasing my broken hand from its forceful clutch. The beast cascaded into the blazing flame, erupting a fury of spewing orange, gold and crimson liquid from its mouth. I ran. Ran as fast as I could for my life.
~
I awoke with a minor bump on my forehead, scrapes on my cheek and a bandage around my wrist. Michael sat on an antique chair covered in creamy nubby silk. He held a worn leather-bound manuscript in his hand, preoccupied as he scanned through it. His face was solemn, and distressed as his eyes perused through the tattered book. I squinted, getting a better look at the cover of the book Michael was so intently reading. Strangely so, it reminded me of the book my father had shown me in one of my dreams. There was something more to my dreams, visions and voices. Coincidence could not play a role, this time, in the familiar circumstances that follow me like the raven that flies aimlessly above my head. I cleared my throat aiming for his attention. Michael looked up and immediately set the book back into a drawer of the familiar ancient desk.
“Hey,” I muttered touching the bulge on my temple with my bandaged hand.
“Hey, Elizabeth. How do you feel?” he asked, moving to sit at the edge of the bed.
“Um, okay. What was that that you were reading?” I asked focusing my eyes on desk.
“Just an old book my grandmother bought at an estate sale. How’s your head?” he inquired.
“Fine. What happened?” I asked, looking at the wrapping on my hand.
“You fell off the ski lift. It was a pretty bad fall. I had Dr. Delaney come take a look while you were out,” he said, carefully watching me and caressing my hair.
“I can’t believe I ruined our weekend. I’m such a klutz. I’m sorry.” I looked down at my bruised hand wondering if my injured wrist was the backlash of my wicked dream.
He laughed nervously, “And you call yourself a good skier,” he replied, softening the mood.
I settled my head down onto the pillow. “I am a good skier. You probably tripped me– deliberately.” I teased narrowing my eyes at him.
“I’m sorry for not catching your fall. My head was somewhere else, and I wasn’t paying attention.” I considered for the moment that the gentleman on the slopes had been on his mind. It appeared as though they recognized each other. Maybe an old school buddy. At the touch of his supple lips carefully kissing the swell on my forehead and then my cheek, he quieted my inquisitive mind.
“Do you think you’re okay to stand? Are you dizzy?” He relaxed his concerned expression.
I pulled the comforter off my body to sit up. My legs hung off the side of the plush mattress.
“Of course! It’s just a little bump on the head, right?”
Michael positioned himself beside me, his body rigid, ready to catch me if necessary. I reached out to balance myself on his extended arm. I hesitated as I carefully pulled my hand away from him, steadying myself. I fretted taking that first step away from the bed. The pounding in my head settled, but the concern of these violent episodes beat violently through my skull.
�
�What’s wrong?” he said fretfully.
Flashbacks of my ski lift accident were suddenly clear before all had turned dark. “Did I suffer another attack or did I fall accidentally?” I questioned him apprehensively. Doctor Bates suggested that I noted when and where these episodes would ignite. Wanting me to write down the certain foods, chemicals, or environments that triggered the excruciating pain and blackouts. The only problem I had with his request was that it wasn’t anything I ate, for I hardly ate at all these days. I dismissed chemicals because I didn’t work with any. The headaches began in late summer of this past year. I considered the environment as a possibility, however, living in Caneadea all my life, I never had a problem like this, until late August, the morning I headed to Angelica. The day my life changed when Michael entered the library. I tried not to think about the reasons I suffered. But I knew I would suffer without him. He flooded my mind so much that it hurt, perhaps being the reason for my suffering. It was true, for every time we were together, Christmas night, Buffalo, and now, the headaches rebelled. If this were true, I’d rather suffer than be without him. The energy between us was colossal. Something I’d never be able to explain, let alone write about. So, in my journal, I’d tell it the only way I knew how:
He is a force. Perhaps one of defense or possibly of conflict. He’s my hopeless love, my endless dream. He is my thorn.
“It’s been happening more often,” I whispered, as I wiped the tears that began to slide from my stinging cheeks. “I’m not well.”
Upon hearing my words, Michael immediately wrapped his strapping arms around me and nuzzled his face in my hair.
“You’re fine. I assure you. You fainted. I blame myself for not taking care of you better. You hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and the doctor said your blood sugar was low. That’s all it was.” His voice seemed placid now.
“Michael, you can’t save me from what’s happening inside my head. I don’t think anyone can but me,” I said regrettably.
Michael’s chest rumbled at my accusation and moved back slightly, fully facing me. “You can’t believe that Elizabeth. Just don’t give up now. If you lose your faith, you’ll lose everything.” His virtuous voice reigned.
“Ha!” I snickered. “Faith, Michael? Really—faith in what? God? Why? Tell me why I should trust him? Look at what he’s doing to me! He’s embraced me all right, with pain and lunacy—in case you haven’t noticed!” I grew intolerant of his honorable speeches this time.
His face was distraught. His eyes pleaded with me to stop my vehemence or I’d only destroy myself. Little did he know, I was already destroyed. Destruction came to me the day my father left me. The sleepless hours the voices haunted me. I had said too much. I didn’t want Michael to question why I chose “lunacy” as a way to describe my pain. For my insanity pained me day in and day out. Mania controlled my thoughts, my moods, visions, and everything I had once believed in. The instability was ruining my life, smothering what little hope I had of ever being normal or happy. Michael could make it right. He could make it go away. But being with him, close to him pained me. Set off the demons in my head. I knew that my creator had predestined me to suffer. I didn’t know a way out of my demented life of doom.
I stood before the picturesque window holding my head between my palms. I dropped my arms lifelessly to my sides, striking my legs. “I don’t know what to do to stop it. I’m scared.” I sobbed uncontrollably. Michael embraced me, allowing me the silence I needed to clear my mind and my heart.
“Shh. It’s okay. It’ll be okay.” He chanted in my ear.
After a long embrace and a good cry, Michael and I sat by the fireplace listening to the soft snaps and crackles of the bluish blaze. He held me closely as I rested my head on his shoulder. Our cheeks touched as thoughts of my dreams and the brutality that ended my dog’s beautiful life buzzed in my head.
“Michael?” I contemplated filling in all the details about my recent nightmare, so I carefully chose my words. “Ah huh?” he hummed dreamily.
“I had another dream.” I waited for his response. By the flexed motion of his jaw against my ear, I sensed he was listening.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he replied icily, but without insistency.
“It was about you, Mom, Philip, and. . .” I struggled to say her name, I didn’t believe it still, that the venomous snake in my dreams was a representation of my friend. The friend, whom like the snake, slithered sensually across the earth, waiting to lash her poisonous bite at any given minute. Michael sat unmoving, waiting for me to recount my dream. I could only feel the muted sound of his breathing rising and falling, against my back.
“I’m not sure I can remember it all, but you were wearing a white suit, and I think I was going on an interview at my old elementary school. There was smoke floating around the floor in the halls. My mom was crying, mourning someone, I think, outside a classroom door. And passed her, inside that same classroom, was a wedding.” I paused, deliberately leaving out the childish hope of him being the groom and I the bride, someday.
“Go on,” he murmured.
“My father was there, too, at the wedding, but. . .only you kept guiding me through the halls. Then you started pulling me so violently that you broke my wrist.” I said, lifting my bandaged hand to him. Michael didn’t react. “Anyway, it was you, but it wasn’t you. Does that make sense?” I asked, waiting patiently for him to say something. Anything! His hand stroked my arm and that was enough for me to accept as a reply. “Something happened then you changed into this distorted thing. . . .” I was apprehensive, at first, to prove his suspicions about Sam as true, but before I muttered another word he intervened.
“Samantha,” he responded frigidly.
“I’m not sure. Could be.” I shivered in his arms.
He tightened his embrace around me. “I’ll never let her hurt you.”
I turned to face him. “Michael, honestly, they are just dreams. Maybe I should mention them to Dr. Miller. What if my dreams are side effects of the medication I’m taking? Or messages from another dimension,” I whispered teasingly, trying to get off the subject.
He lifted his body and mine so that we faced each other. “I don’t follow.” He narrowed his eyes trying, to understand what I was implying.
“It’s a joke. Imagine. . .someone trying to contact me from another world! That would be some crazy shit, right?” I asked, laughing to myself, hiding the reality that it was possible and very real.
“Do you believe in afterlife?” I asked him.
“Do you?” he asked me almost anticipating my answer.
“At first I didn’t. Now, I think I do.” I murmured. “I’ve wondered if these dreams are signs, omens of things to come. I don’t know what is real and what is a dream anymore. It’s a blur. Most times I feel trapped in this sort of suspended reality. Not in this life. I get this sickening feeling that I am supposed to be somewhere else, or someone else. My dreams are very real and beginning to scare me. What do you think it means? Is this normal? Is there something wrong with me?” I confessed to him.
His finger hushed my quivering lips. “There is nothing wrong with you. You’re probably overanalyzing. It could be your subconscious. Dreams act as a passageway, Elizabeth. It’s through dreams that we’re able to pass into other realm, other lives, places that most humans are not aware of. It is in this place that the truth is revealed, and this place only, cannot foil or mask what you truly are under all that flesh. For this reason alone, humans refuse to open up their mind to see the truth about themselves or others. They’re too scared to face it. There is so much evil out there that humans fear to expose their own inner faults, afraid of what they’d find out. Too scared to reveal who they really are. Once they awaken from their dreams, it vanishes.” He snapped his fingers. “Every image, every story, every fear, every detail. But you, you are pure. Every dream is vivid and detailed in your mind. Evil lurks everywhere, all the time, trying to hurt or distort human beliefs, like t
his demon in your dreams, it will stop at nothing to possess you; taking the decency that’s in your soul. You’ve opened your eyes, Elizabeth, you’ve been enlightened to that other realm. All you have to do now is fight it. I am here, ready to fight with you. I won’t let anything change who you are, Elizabeth. Even if it means the end of everything in creation.” He spoke as if he were in a trance. Spoke of things that are unimaginable, unearthly to my ears. His passion for dream interpretations was a little frightening and odd for a guy like him.
I bit my lip, bothered by his words, not sure of what he was talking about. His expression remained confounded and almost hypnotic. I wondered, if indeed, my dreams were a passage into my soul. A soul conflicted by good and evil. We both remained silent, soaking up all the details he had spoken of. I pondered over his logic on dreams for a moment, wondering if Michael, like most eighteen year old boys, felt invincible.
“They’re dreams, Michael. Not the end of the world.” I smiled nervously.
“I’ve said too much. Let’s not worry about your dreams. We’ll deal with them soon enough. It is a good idea, though, to speak to your doctor about ‘em. It probably is a side effect of the medications.” He looked disturbed and upset with himself, as if he wanted to take back everything he just said to me. “Anyway, let’s forget all this and go out. My friend’s band is playing at a pub in the village square. I promised him we’d go check it out—if you’re up to it.”
“Sounds great. I could use a night out.” I said anxiously.
After several relaxing hours, I made my way down the open staircase. Michael was sitting pensively on the sofa. His eyes scaled over my entire body when he saw me enter the room. “What do you think?” I spun around in a full circle to show off my expensive Emilio Pucci design. The soft Italian fabrics were exhilarating against my skin. I felt playful and alluring in the cream print t-shirt. Its V-neckline dipped reasonably toward my cleavage, revealing a little more than I was used to. Sam left me a little note insisting I wear the velvet choker she calledD&G’s Dead Flower,a black-stone beauty—with the jersey knit and 7 jeans. I found it strange to give such a name to this delicate piece of jewelry, but admiring it, I understood why the gem masterpiece was named Dead Flower. Lucky for me, Sam was just about my size. While her body was designed in saucy curves, my proportions accentuate my toned shoulders and full breasts. Her pricey wardrobe made me feel as feminine and beautiful as she. I could tell by Michael’s expression that he totally agreed with me.
