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He called me chaos, but he was entropy contained. And he did it well. Kane was a boy interested in things far beyond the boring ideas of girlfriends and social circles. At school, I would spot him sitting on the bleachers or in the dark corners of hallways, scribbling away at his homework. Drawings of strange flowers, bones and equations that looked more like runes and caused my eyes to glaze over.
At home, I’d find him laid on a settee, staring at the ceiling. Together, we’d sit in silence and both decompressing from our days. It was a paradox of calm and madness.
However, the phenomenon persisted. Whenever I was around Kane, my skin prickled, and soon my entire body felt aflame.
I’d learned to tame the feeling as it got too much to bear living in the same house. Was it the forced proximity that made me attracted to him? Or was it the feeling of the chase? Maybe I was chasing the adrenaline of a mystery. Kane’s looks attracted attention from more than just me. Every girl I encountered practically drooled over him. They frequently asked him out, pouted when he said no, and his name was scribbled across the walls of the girls’ bathrooms. They were all unoriginal. Kane, luckily for me, was not interested.
Unlike Kane, I wasn’t interested in anything but the daydreams of life. My life was easy, considering I came from money; my father made it so that when I went to college far away from this place, I could do as I desired. And what I wanted was to read books and talk about them. I was spoiled; I knew that much. But I was lonely. What did a girl do when she had everything at the touch of her fingertips?
On an unusually warm December day, with temperatures above twenty degrees, every student scattered around campus, soaking in the rare sunshine and mild weather. I wandered across the football field, knowing where to find my boy. My mouth felt dry as I approached him in the woods.
The tall evergreens shot into the sky and created perfect patterns on the soft earth against the early morning sunlight. Kane’s all black outfit stood out against the greenery, and my lungs as usual, seized at the sight of him. He was sitting along a bubbling stream with his back to me, glancing down at something from a crouched position. The soft crunch of wet moss indicated my presence, and he glanced up.
“Kane,” I breathed.
“Sara,” he stared up at me from behind framed glasses.
“Do you wanna see Dracula again with me tonight? It’s showing at the movies.” I realized that if I told him what we were doing, he’d always follow along.
He smirked, the simple movement of his lips causing butterflies to erupt across my abdomen.
I shuffled my gait, skin prickling under his stare.
“What time?” he asked, a studious look tugging at his features.
“Seven?”
“Okay,” he said. One word and I was about to burst into flames.
“Do you want to drive?” I asked him.
“How about you show off those new skills you’ve learned, and I’ll buy us burgers and shakes after?”
His agreement to meet made me want to puke with excitement.
ELEVEN
“Age is only frightening to those who have never learned what can be stolen from the already dead.”
— THE WRITINGS OF AN OCCULT DEALER
I find myself at the entrance to the bedroom’s library. Daisy had disappeared, I hadn’t seen Doctor Lazarus since last night nor had I seen Tania. There was no word about the police coming to speak with me, or any means of connection with the outside world. I should be concerned.
Do they have a vehicle on the grounds? I could always borrow it and find my way to a precinct or hospital. In the book, there’s a motorcycle. Did I know how to ride? Worse, the book could be false information conjured for entertainment.
Soft prickles, like spindly spider legs, crawl along my nape. If humans wouldn’t speak to me, maybe books would, and I had one waiting for me to return to.
The books tell all.
The scent of firewood lingers in the air, and my feet move of their own accord into the room. The windows lining the walls boasts a picturesque scene, its jagged cliffs dipping into an angry sea, and thick forest merging into awe-evoking grandeur. Unfortunately, I would never set foot in that body of water again if I could help it.
Did anyone else live out there? What kind of small town is this? Why is the Sheriff lurking in the shadows? The creeping sensation of a migraine tugs at my forehead. Turning to the original task I had set out for, I crouch to the fireplace reviving the flames with wood and kinder.
The room is soon doused in a warm glow that hugs my chilly aches. I reach for the wool blanket, tug it around me, and curl into the chaise lounge. I drag the mystery book toward me and stare at the cover for a few moments. Exhaling on a breath, I remind myself I’m grateful for the bare minimum of being alive.
The Journal
December 2000
