My eyes spring open, the phantasmagoria a brilliant display as they try to adjust. Once my eyes become aware of my surroundings, I find I’m standing alone in the alley, discombobulated and cold.
I barely made it in time to catch my last bus. I do a quick comb over the terrain, finding that he was nowhere in sight. I would have thought I had dreamed of the whole thing—if it weren't for the damp spot on my jeans. I didn’t even catch his name, but flashes of what happened exploded in my mind. What did he mean by ‘longer’?
How long has he been watching me? The taste of his lips still lingers on mine. Clearly, I’ve read too many books. I was too willing and accepting of what just happened. Still, how could anyone resist those cobalt blue eyes? The way they transmogrified into more of an electric blue… can eyes be electric?
∞∞∞
This time I didn't fall asleep. I spent the entire ride watching everyone board, hoping to see him, to feel the burning his haunted stare gives me. My stop comes quicker than I expected, and I feel it is for the best, since I need to get back to thinking of Evelyn, and the reason I even ventured out like this.
The bus screeches to a halt, and I step off, it's just a short walk now to the address my father left me. As I follow my GPS, I realize it’s morning and my battery is low.Fuck Ididn'tpack a charger. "I hope this place has one, and a place to sleep, or even if I’ll have the chance to...” My voice falls flat as I stop at the clad wrought iron gates. One of them is ajar just enough for me to slide through.Once inside the compound, the image before me is dreamy and not of this earth. A mansion stands erect, the epitome of an old Victorian castle.
A few shops form a semicircle around the main structure, as it stands tall in the center, the smaller buildings ring below it with the semblance of a personal mall. A single store stands bright amongst the husks of the other buildings. Faint lights battle to shine through the few opaque windows in the manor. The streetlamps offer a feeble gleam where they stand by the gate, adding to the ambiance of this Ghost Town. I approach the window of the well-lit shop and squint through the mosaic stained-glass to see inside.
Shelves stand from ceiling to floor and are lined with books. An elderly lady with alabaster hair is scurrying around, working to get the place ready to open. I rest my hand on the handle, applying minimal force. My hand drops, and the door squeaks open. The lady looks up, her heterochronic eyes finding mine, and she smiles. Not just any smile, the kind of smile that warms your soul, the kind no one in their right mind wouldn’t ‘respond in kind’to.
“Can I help you love?” she says, in a slightly off Jersey accent, like she may have lived in Europe when she was younger then moved here. “Are you lost?” Her brows furrow as she steps toward me.
“I’m, um, looking for Alfred Selby.” Her aged eyes widen as I say my father's name. “My name is Emory, I’m his daughter.” I continue.
Her hands fly to her mouth as the cup she was holding crashes to the floor, and what looks like tea coats the stone in amber. Tears well in her eyes. “He told me you’d show. I didn’t believe him, I am...” She pauses, thinking about what to say next. “I am Niven. It is such a pleasure to meet you.” I give her a halfsmile.
“You must be extremely exhausted, please come with me? I have a cot upstairs you can use.” Walking towards me, the volume of her voice imperceptible as she proceeds. “Then, after you’ve rested, I will answer all your questions. Does that sound good?”
Sluggishly, I nod. “Yes, ma’am, thank you.”
She escorts me up the stairs to a little room in the back. It’s cozy with a small bed, an end table, and bookshelves. I grin at the sight of there even being shelves lined with books in the room. Stepping in, I turn to look at Niven. “Is this your room?”
“No,” She shakes her head gently, “This was my son's room.” Melancholy befalls her face, pain radiating from her like she’s been struck by a whip.
“What happened? I’m sorry, I didn't mean-” I stop short, seeing how my babbled apology isn't fixing anything. She brushes a solitary tear from her porcelain cheek.
“All is well, dear. I'll be fine.”
“Thank you, Ms. Niven.” I call back with a weary smile.
“Oh, please. Niven is fine.” Niven lingers at the threshold for a moment before she closes the door behind her. Looking around, I find no photos, nor are there any personal items. Fatigue hits me like a freight train, leaving me no choice but to fall into bed, slipping into sleep as I wonder what might transpire when I wake.
Chapter 6
Christian
"Addiction is a battle fought in silence, but recovery is a journey best traveledtogether."
I’ve been in this nuthouse for a year now. The loss of one's mother can truly break a person. It was hard, to say the least. She was my best friend and all I had, especially when Dad had been drinking—he got... physical. He was never the best father, and I would never nominate him for “Dad of the Year”, but I blame that on my grandfather.
My mother passed away while I was overseas. I knew there was something off about that day when I was brought into the command tent, and greeted by the chaplain, Commanding Officer, and Sargent Major. Let me tell you, that isn’t something you want when you’re knee-deep in the soil of a foreign country. Receiving that news not only brought me home, but it also brought me down, then it brought me here—the deadly concoction of her death and the transition back to ‘the civilian life’ sent me spiraling.
It started small. Some weed here and there with my other fellow Marines—those thrown into the shark tank of ungrateful, wastes of life. Tending to the same travesties of humanity that inhale the air my sisters and brothers died for, all while complaining their coffee isn't done right. They take full advantage of the freedom brought to them by the blood of my kin, those worthless wretches with no understanding of what it means totrulylose.
The reefer calmed the voices but did nothing to ward off the shadow people. No solace for the constant sounds of the firefights or bombings I experienced during the time I was forward deployed. So, the more things I tried, the more the nightmares would morph, becoming accustomed to the drug of the week, challenging me to try something different, something stronger.
This place was like living in a Broadway masterpiece of dysfunction and filth. The smell, so potent it could knock a bloodhound senseless—heavy chemical cleaners mixing with human shit and piss. The sounds aren't much better. Down the hall, resounding in HD, are the screams and incoherent ramblings of those deemed a threat to themselves and others.
One relief I had was an orderly named Barney. Making it into his good graces was a Godsend. I attained this gem after I stopped a complete nutcase from splattering his brains across the common room with an IV stand. In return, he sneaks me smoky treats—cigarettes to most. On occasion, he levels up, bringing pre-rolled joints from a smoke shop for us to share.
Orderlies like him make the nights when the demons creep from the mind and into the shadows, bearable and safe. Having someone like that on the outside, could have stopped the high—the one that had me fading back into that nightmarish dream that caused me to go berserk.The very night that got me off with a plea for temporary insanity and five years of rehabilitation.
I remembered feeling the pulse in my veins matching the frequency in the flashing glow of the alternating red and blue. Then I was restrained to a bed, blinded by bright fluorescent white lights, buzzing like a hive of angry bees as they passed above me. After everything was all said and done, I found myself here: a routine med schedule, a routine food schedule, and lights out by nine.
