chapter one: wander
The sounds of shattering glass, crunching and twisting metal, and the snap
of impact exploded into his ears. He watched again and again helpless behind
the wheel as an SUV slammed into his Saturn, sending it careening across
the interstate and into the retaining wall. Metal, glass, and blood were
everywhere. He saw again through his eyes as he looked over to see the
blood pouring out of her neck like floodwaters. amanda morris “Noooooooooooooooooooo!” He heard the eerie scream echo into his ears as the blood flowed out of her, over him, over the wreckage. Death smiled at him from over her shoulder as his claws reached out to take her away. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Was there any way out of this never-ending nightmare? “No! Noooooooooooo! Let me out! Not again!’ He sat up in bed, heart pounding, sweat dripping off his tanned face. His throat felt raw from his screams. Would the nightmares never stop haunting him? An orange beam from the streetlight outside lit up his image in the mirror across the room. He stared at his eyes, not recognizing them in the silver square. Their wide stare caught him off guard, changing them to the point of non-recognition. He breathed harder as his mind replayed her dying image. Would it never end? He saw the terror in her eyes, the pain that held her body rigid. The sting of sweat and torn skin tingled on his arms as he felt each surreal thrust of metal and glass into her slender body. It didn’t matter that he woke up before she died in the dream. Asleep or awake the sequence would always finish itself, playing in his mind until “The End” flashed onscreen. He lay back on the pillows, the rumpled covers twisted around him dragging halfway on the floor. The street lamp flickered slightly. He closed his eyes; no good. Her face stayed, wide-eyed in shock and pain, her eyes flickering like the streetlight in a primal survival instinct. The image wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard he blinked. Wearily he shoved the cover bundle on the floor and sat on the edge of the sagging, king-sized mattress. Once again his reflection caught his eye, the mirror image of himself becoming an anchor to pull him plunging back into the reality of this time and place. Pushing himself to his feet, he glanced at the red flowing numbers on his alarm clock. Red. He shuddered, seeing her blood again, feeling blood on his hands, running down his back, down his face. No, wait, it was only sweat. The floorboards creaked as he shuffled out, away from the haunting room. His feet moved stiffly down the worn wooden stars, into the kitchen. No sleep for him tonight, not anymore. He switched on the coffeepot and shuffled into the den, collapsing on the fur-covered sofa. Picking up the remote, he flicked on the television, willing his hair-strung nerves to relax. “Not much on at 3 a.m.,” he observed to the fat marmalade and white striped cat who was twitching his tail from the throne of his favorite chair. “Relax,” he told his shaking body. Relax. The grandfather clock in the hallway boomed out the hour, waking him and the cat. He squinted at the clock face through the open doorway trying to read the numbers with sleep-encrusted eyes. “7 o’clock, or is it 8?” he muttered to himself. Sleep had finally come and ironically refused to let him go. He couldn’t seem to shake its sticky embrace. The cat yowled from the chair, demanding a bowl of milk and his tuna breakfast. “All right, all right, I’m up.” He threw a pillow in the cat’s general direction, and hit the TV instead. “Stupid cat.” He sat up, yawning loudly and rubbed his eyes. So much for sight this early in the morning. The dream hit his mind like a cement roller. Her face, the screams. Another dream, another haunting. He stood up quickly and stumbled to the coat closet, fumbling with a pair of worn running shoes. He needed out, away from this place closing in on him. He lurched through the kitchen, pausing long enough to slosh milk into the howling cat’s bowl before bursting out of the door. The light of the outside world startled him with its abrupt brightness, a harsh foil to the darkness he couldn’t shrug away. He checked to make sure the door was locked out of habit and stretched, slipping easily into routine. The cat clawed at the door from inside, demanding the hoped-for tuna. He smirked a sad, sarcastic smile and took off down the long, winding driveway, out onto the quiet, sleepy road. The wind rushed past him, pushing on him and waking his dream-drugged spirit to the new day. On and on he ran, down the road, his lungs burning by the 4th mile. He kept running, pushing his legs to the limit. 5 miles. 7. 2 more to go. There. Enough. He burst into the clearing, cutting through the leafy ticker tape, ending his marathon. He stood, drenched in sweat again, chest heaving, knees trembling. Six months ago, he would have had to stop after one mile. He had pushed himself hard in therapy to gain back what the accident had tried to steal from him permanently. He had beaten the odds, only to be haunted by them. Blood ran down his face, down his side, down his legs, spilling out to anoint the wreckage around him with red. Sirens wailed, men shouted orders, and electric cutters roared as they ate through the twisted cage of a car he was trapped in. “I have a pulse. This one’s alive.” “Get him out. He doesn’t have much time. The helicopter is on its way.” “Sir, can you hear me?” “He’s not responding.” “Sir, stay with me. “He’s loosing blood fast.” Voices swirled around him in one confusing whirlwind. The pain was unreal, a monster eating him alive limb by limb, nerve by nerve, bone by bone. So surreal, like a movie. He felt detached from the whole frenzied nightmare. The voices sounded softer, farther away as everything began to fade completely. Someone screamed, or was it him? He flinched as darkness gobbled him whole. Moving into the glade, he sat on a cold stone bench feeling his muscles solidify from jelly and his breath sink back to its normal even movements. He leaned scarred arms on scarred knees and looked down at the rest of the scars tracing their way down his muscular legs. His mind’s eye saw the visible scars, the scars beneath his tee shirt and shorts, and the scars he carried inside. These brands never faded and he felt their fire all over again. He was a walking miracle, yet he didn’t feel blessed with this gift. He was a survivor, had somehow survived the accident and the long, torturous ordeal of recovery. Why him and not her too? A simple round stone caught his eye, holding his gaze to its cool surface. “Do you remember?” It seemed to whisper in sibilant syllables. “He’s coming around.” “Hurry. He’ll make it if we move fast enough.” “What about the girl?” “Look at her and tell me what you think Mike. She’s not going to make it.” Something seemed to wake him, the pain? The noise? He crack his eyes open, dizzily trying to make sense out of the flow of noise around him. A streak of blood-soaked hair caught his eye. A hand turned his face towards her. She stared at him, tears mingling with the blood that gushed from her slender neck. Her gray eyes flashed love, pain, fear, a flickering life. Draining, they watched the sky. Sensing him close, she smiled at him, a wispy thing, so faint he almost didn’t catch it before it was kidnapped by the breeze. A candle flickered, once, twice, out extinguished by the dark man’s breath. Her silver-gray eyes unfocused, dimmed. Had the scream echoed then? His shielding popped as reality invaded with a vengeance. Shattered fragments of her hourglass lingered in the smothering air. He gave up, let go, fleeing back into the dark. “She’s gone. Time of death- 4:30 p.m.” “Danny, we’re loosing him!” “Hang on Son! Stay with us!” He turned away from the stone and the name it held. His eyes ached from unshed tears. Silently he stood from the bench. Fingertips brushing her stone, he dipped his hands in the spring, the cold tingling up his arms, down his body to his toes, like electricity through a shocked man. He brushed back his black shaggy hair, an automatic gesture. Lifting his fingers, he saluted silently without really knowing why. The glade grew silent again and he ran, leaving a part of himself behind. He felt tired; like he had grabbed the wrong goblet and drunk deep of the life of a weary man. Running, he reached their house and shoved open the creaking door. So dark before, it seemed empty now, his footsteps sounding sharp on the groaning stairs. He dressed quickly, hands shoving what he needed into a black backpack, somehow making it all fit. Slipping on a black sweatshirt, his mind drifted, silver eyes unfocused on the shattered dream around him. Picking up the phone he dialed a number he did not want to remember but couldn’t forget. “Hello? Williams’ residence.” “Caitlin?” “Jake! How are you? We haven’t heard from you in…” “I know.” He cut her off abruptly before she could get to the deep questions that made him writhe in his chair. “Jake?” “I’m leaving. Expect a package any day with power of attorney and all the information you should need to take care of things.” He jammed his feet into a pair of combat boots and pulled on the laces. “Jake, are you sure you want to do things this way?” “Yeah. Can you also take the cat? “ “I’ll come and pick him up.” “The keys are in the package. The extra key is underneath the back doormat.” “I miss her too. She was a sister to me.” “By Cat. I’ll call you when I’m home. Don’t expect it anytime soon.” “Jake, wait. Think…” She stopped her sentence when the other line clicked and the dial tone began to buzz in her ear. He threw the phone hard on the bed, not feeling bad for hanging up on his sister. She would tell the rest of the family and they would all start praying, no doubt. Where was God when he needed him most? Out to lunch perhaps? He raked his hands through his hair, frustrated with the world, himself, and God. He was fed up with the whole mess. At least he was motivated again. The lethargy was starting to annoy him. It felt good to have a purpose. He stalked through the house turning off lights, unplugging things, and shutting up the angry hissing cat with tuna. It was finished. He slipped on the backpack and stalked out the door with the steps of a measured man found lacking. He felt jaded in this bright, greedy land. He felt he could slip by and none would pause in their routine of daily chaos and remember seeing him at all. |