William h keith warstr.., p.4
Generation Annihilation, page 4
She studies me like an experiment.
“Fine,” I say when she doesn’t respond. “I’ll leave, but don’t try this small-town bullshit on me. There is nothing you can do that will scare me, so don’t even try.”
“What makes you so tough?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Whatever. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” With a quick flip of her wrist, the door comes flying toward me, and I am left staring at the knocker, now only an inch from my face. Slowly I turn, scanning the grounds just like she did. I don’t want to run into her father. If he starts asking questions about why I’m in the area, well, that wouldn’t be good. I’ve already revealed too much information to this strange girl. It’s just those eyes, and the way she stares. Not to mention she’s actually really pretty behind that hostile countenance.
“Dammit.”
Not only does she know my name, but she knows where I’m from, and that there was trouble back home. If someone comes looking for me, she could tell them my grandfather lives here. That will likely lead people to his cabin without too much research.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
My palms start to sweat.
I knock on the door, but she doesn’t answer. I knock louder.
She throws open the door. “What?”
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Why?”
“Maybe we could do something.” I’ll get in her good graces and create an ally. She won’t rat me out then.
“Are you asking me on a date?” A smirk spreads across her face, but I wonder why the teasing does not reach her eyes.
“Maybe. Depends on if you’re accepting.”
“I don’t date.”
“Maybe it’s time you start.” I give her my best flirty smile, the one that always seems to work with the girls back home.
She seems unimpressed. “Cyrus will be coming home any minute.”
I look behind me but see no one.
“You don’t want him to find you here,” she says.
“Why not?”
“Just go.” She spits the words out like poison.
I blanch at the sudden change in her mood.
“He never goes this long without checking on me. Trust me. Go.”
“Date tomorrow then?”
“I told you. I don’t date.” She gives my chest a firm shove.
“Say you’ll see me tomorrow and I’ll go.”
“Fine.” She shoves harder then starts closing the door. “Come after dark. Park on the road where you’re parked now. I’ll meet you by the entrance if it’s safe.”
“If it’s safe?”
The door slams in my face.
Baltimore seems a million miles away as I walk under the arch of the asylum, heading toward my truck; the fire is a distant memory, like it never even happened.
Don’t get me wrong—I know what’s real and what’s not. I know I’m from Maryland, and that I set my house on fire. I’m taking my meds and know I’m not manic or psychotic. I’m not sure I ever was, but they told me I was in juvie, and that a delusion brought on by a manic episode was what led me to shoot Rodger. I’m pretty sure rage was what led to that, but no one would listen to me at the time. It didn’t help that my mom was bipolar, and the doctor knew that, though I’m not sure why she was given that diagnosis. If she’d ever been manic, she never said, although her being depressed doesn’t seem too far of a stretch.
This place is just so empty and weird, though, it does do strange things to the psyche, like causing my life to seem like a dream, regardless of the wonders of lithium.
But it was a good choice to come to Blackthorn Peak. I feel better knowing there is someone my own age here. It helps ease the burden of isolation to know where to find her if I need to talk to someone. I’m glad we have a date tomorrow.
If it’s safe…
I don’t know what she meant by that. It’s possible she’s just trying to play tough. Small-town girl meets big-city boy and tries to act like she’s more worldly than she is. Who knows? Who cares?
Not me.
A light rain starts to fall. The sky is now completely covered in gray-black clouds, threatening a storm, but I don’t want to go back to the cabin yet. Hunger still makes my stomach grumble, and to be honest, I’m not ready to spend an entire day completely alone.
I start walking, feeling a lightness in my step. I might’ve told Cass too much, but I don’t get the sense she is a big talker. Hopefully, my information is safe.
I cross the street, go down a block and turn left. The rain has picked up, but it doesn’t bother me. Every business I pass is closed, and that does bother me. I walk on, trying to hold on to the good feelings I had moments ago. Why is everything closed? It’s Thursday, for God’s sake.
I turn a corner and almost run into a man. He’s standing rigidly like a fire hydrant in the middle of the sidewalk. His hands are in the pockets of his black suit pants, and his elbows are tucked close to his body. He’s tall, skinny, and pale, and his short dark hair is barely visible under the black fedora resting on his head.
“Hello,” he says.
“Um, hi.” I immediately take several steps back as my brain fires a warning signal through my whole body.
“That your truck around the corner?”
“Uh, yeah.”
I take another step back. There is a smile on his face now, but his unblinking eyes make me uncomfortable. They are light blue with yellow undertones. His skin is pasty white as if his hat has never allowed a single ray of sunshine to hit his face.
“You’re not from around here,” he states.
“Uh…no, sir.”
“Are you from Baltimore?”
His voice is rough like sandpaper.
I clear my throat. “I’m starving, so I’m gonna go get something to eat.” I turn around to go back in the direction I came from. “My family is waiting on me.”
“Who’s your family?”
I don’t stop walking. “Sorry. Gotta run.”
“What’s your family name?”
“It was nice talking with you,” I call over my shoulder.
I force my legs to carry me at a steady pace even though I can feel him watching me. My back burns as if his eyes are shooting darts of heat at me. I make it to the end of the block, but before I turn the corner, I slow.
Don’t look back, Shaun.
But I do.
He’s standing there, hands still in his pockets, staring at me like I knew he would be.
I turn the corner and break into a sprint. I throw myself into my truck and push the locks down after I slam the door shut. A bead of sweat runs into my eye, causing it to sting, but I barely notice as I wipe my forehead.
How did he know I was from Baltimore?
My plates only say Maryland.
I see one of those shiny black boots that cops wear. I watch it pull back like a slingshot and see its toe point at its target: my mom. She’s curled into a ball on the floor. She’s not crying though. Maybe she knows it will only fuel his fury. She stays like that even as that boot comes at her with the power of a muscular leg behind its momentum. Where will it land? It doesn’t matter that she’s folded into herself for protection. His strength is too great. The boot is aimed at her head, and it’s coming fast.
I stand in the doorway and watch. I am six years old.
I jump to the floor. My skin is covered in sweat. My breath is shallow.
Where am I? This question feels familiar, but I can’t say why.
Disoriented and confused, I slam my back against the wall and try to take stock of my surroundings.
I expect to see my town house—the only home I’ve ever known—and my familiar room with the blue walls and my old bed with the frayed comforter.
Instead, I see drab walls and a dirty window with a yellowed lace curtain. There’s a musty smell that makes me gag.
My arms are splayed, palms flat against the wall. If I was in juvie, I’d be crouching and ready to fight.
Finally, my mind starts to catch up, and I know I am not in juvie nor am I at home. For the second time since my arrival, a nightmare has jolted me awake with the swiftness of a car crash.
I’m in the cabin. After I left Main Street, I came home, ate a granola bar, and explored the area around the cabin after the rain stopped. I was exhausted and went to bed early, planning to finish the book I’d brought. I must’ve fallen asleep reading, because I see my book lying on the floor. The sun is just starting to brighten outside the dirty window, and I know I’ve slept all night.
I run a hand through my hair as I peel myself off the wall and lean over, willing my lungs to expand. When will these nightmares stop?
“I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.” The mantra was taught to me by a guidance counselor in middle school after a fight with a kid twice my size. It does its job, and my breath starts to even out. “I’m okay.”
I straighten and groan. “I really need these nightmares to stop.”
I go to the front porch with the remnants of the nightmare hovering around me like an aura. I have always been prone to nightmares but haven’t had any for months. Guess it’s time for their grand return. Maybe it’s this place—there are no distractions here, so all my old fears and traumas are free to bubble up like hot lava from a volcano.
The air is cool this morning, and I shiver. The fog is thick, hovering like a blanket in the sky. I sit down on the top step and stare into the fog.
“Guess I don’t have to worry about anyone finding me now. No one could see the cabin through this shit.”
My voice is loud in the quiet.
I grab my phone and check for messages. There are only two, and both are from my mom. My shoulders lower a notch. Maybe I was alone in Baltimore, too, and just didn’t know it.
I was isolated in Baltimore. I had acquaintances—guys I used to skateboard with or drink and get high with. After I purchased my gaming system secondhand from a kid at school, I connected with people online. But trying to pinpoint someone I know who would realize I was gone and be concerned enough to reach out is proving more elusive than I want to admit.
I throw the phone into the yard, disgusted with my so-called friends and even more with myself. Who’d want to be my friend anyway? I don’t have anything to offer. Once kids learn I’ve done a stint in juvie, they pretty much back off. It’s fine though. I’ve never been able to have people over anyway, so friendships were relegated to my friend’s house or the park.
I glance at the phone, looking out of place against the drab brown yard. I could just leave it there; I know I won’t miss it. But I think of Mom and hop down to retrieve it. I need to know she’s okay.
I sit on the porch for a long time, cradling my phone in my hand.
The silence in this place is deafening. I can’t imagine growing up here.
I think of Cass.
I think of her body, long and lean, and her small waist and trim hips. Her lips—what would it be like to pull at that ring on her bottom lip? To slide my hand under her T-shirt. Grab that cute little ass. I was aware that she was pretty already, but I hadn’t realized how hot she was until now.
I think of seeing her again.
If it’s safe…
I grab the box of hair dye and hold it up to the dim light in the bathroom. The directions are confusing, not to mention terrifying.
“I could die from this?”
I reread the warnings, then stare at myself in the mirror. I take stock of my situation. All it takes is the image of that lanky man in black and his comment about my license plate, and I’m all in.
“So long, tomato.”
After reading the directions one more time, I forgo the recommended safety test and start mixing away. Thirty minutes later, I hop into the shower to rinse my burning scalp.
When I get out of the shower, I look in the mirror.
I still look like me—no way to hide the freckles—but if I ran into that man again, he might not recognize me. My hair is still too long though, so I grab some scissors that I found in the bathroom and get to cutting. Brown strands fall all around me, getting stuck in my eyes and ears, so I pop back into the shower yet again, thankful that along with the inexplicable electricity, this cabin has running water, even if it does smell slightly foul. Rinsed, towel-dried, and dressed, I give myself one final look.
“Not bad. Not good, but not bad.” I feel almost giddy for reasons I don’t understand, and I wonder if I remembered to take my lithium this morning.
I stare into the small compact mirror. Its cracked and tarnished surface presents me with an unexpected reflection of my reality—I am cracked and tarnished. Could Shaun see it as plainly as I do?
My skin is too pale, dry, and lifeless. My eyes used to be a lively stormy-day-at-sea gray, but now they are dull. Just like me. Just like my life.
My hair looks okay.
I move the mirror around in circles to examine my hair. I cut it myself with kitchen shears. It’s short, falling just long enough to push one side behind my ear and enable the other side to drape across my eye. Cyrus hates it, so I love it. To further add fuel to the fire, I found an old box of hair dye in a trash can outside the asylum and used it to dye the tips a deep purple. The bruise on my cheek that I acquired after dying it was almost the same color.
The multiple bruises I was awarded after piercing my lip with a stick pin and a hoop I stole one day at Target were also the same hue. Imagine that.
The shadows underneath my eyes are the only real color on my face. My near constant seclusion indoors doesn’t help—my home is more prison than anything else.
Gaunt. That’s how I look, and suddenly, I realize that is how I feel.
Why do I feel like this?
Before I can answer my own question, I hear a key enter the front door’s keyhole. The metal key sliding into the rusted lock makes a raking sound that I use as an alarm. I slide the compact into the back pocket of my jeans and pull my shirt down to cover it.
I open a book and pretend to read. Today’s novel of choice is about the beginning of the Civil War. It’s not exactly light reading, but Cyrus controls what I have access to.
The sound of his footsteps are the only indication he’s in the house. He doesn’t call out a greeting or let me know he’s home. If he knew the key created so much noise, he would replace it. He’s always sneaking up on me, trying to catch me doing something he thinks I shouldn’t be doing. A moment later, his steps stop. The door creeps open until it’s wide enough to reveal my father’s tall form on the other side.
“Yes, Father?”
Instead of answering me, his yellowish-blue eyes scour my room as if looking for clues to a secret life—a life I haven’t had since we moved into this cottage. He is tall, erect, and severe in the black suit he insists upon wearing. His head is covered by the black hat he always has on top of his head. He looks like he is part of some obscure and stringent religious sect. He’s not though, at least not that I know of. Information is not something I have easy access to, even about my own father.
I shiver, and his eyes narrow as he studies me.
He knows. I shiver again.
He must know there is a new boy in town, and he must suspect that I know this too.
I slide my hands under my thighs to stop their shaking. “Is there anything you need?”
He still doesn’t answer. Instead, his whole body turns away until all I see is his rigid back held up by his unyielding spine.
“Meet me in the study.” He floats away.
My feet are heavy as I step out of Cyrus’s study, as if he dipped them in concrete before giving his command. Go the asylum. Find Gibbon. Inquire about the new intake. See if everything is ready.
Shaun is supposed to be coming tonight for our date. Me on a date—ha. It was stupid to even entertain the thought. I snort, disgusted with myself.
I’ve always been alone. My mom died when I was too young to remember. If Cyrus was a different man before her death, I’ll never know. All I know is the dad I have now.
I hate him. He hates me. But until I’m an adult or can find a way out of this hell I’m living in, I have to survive.
These intrusive thoughts don’t help as I leave the cottage. Cyrus is inside, watching me walk across the grounds toward the asylum. He’s always watching me. I can feel his eyes like lasers on my skin. It’s a struggle to move in a straight line, but I do it. I have to.
My voice was steadier than it felt when I had asked him about the new intake.
The hardness behind his snakelike eyes was answer enough.
I think of Owen’s body, and a shiver runs up my spine, from my lower back to my neck and then up over my scalp, like the long caress of the Reaper’s cold hand. But why? Why would I think of Owen at this moment, and in association with Shaun?
There is a nagging in the deep recess of my brain, like a tickle, but not to ignite laughter. Rather to ignite unease. If I could just bring it forward, I might understand why I think of Owen. And why I feel so unsettled.
I stomp ahead, crunching the dead grass beneath my grungy Converse. The clouds and sunlight are heavy and oppressive.
My hackles raise as I near the black doors that loom ahead like portals to hell.
Entering the asylum is something I hate almost as much as I hate Cyrus. Truthfully, I’ve only been through the doors twice since we moved in, and Cyrus was always close by. This is my first time going in alone.
He said to go in through the front doors—they should be unlocked—then down to the basement. His directions were clear, so there is no room for error.
The rosebushes that line the asylum are bright red against the beige stone and smell sickeningly sweet. I cover my nose with the collar of my shirt as I force my feet to carry me toward the entrance. One concrete step at a time, I ascend until I stand in front of two massive black doors. The hideous dragon knockers seem to mock me.
Do you dare enter, little girl?
Gathering my resolve, I shove open one of the doors and step inside. It swings closed behind me with a thud, leaving me in near darkness. The only window is stained glass and is on the wall at the far end of the entryway. It is too small for the size of the wall, for the long, rectangular entrance. The colors of the glass are so dark that I have to wait for my eyes to adjust to the light to make out the details of the image. I see a doctor with angelic wings sprouting from his back. He is leaning over a black demon whose body is partially consumed by crimson flames.
