Dark Touch

by Elle Lewis

  Once I managed some measure of composure, I walked into the living room, forcing a calm expression on my face. Millie and Donovan were sitting on the sofa. They were talking in hushed voices but fell silent as soon as they saw me.

  A cup of hot coffee was waiting for me on the glass coffee table, steam rising from the blue ceramic mug in ghostly swirls. I sat down on a white chair that faced the couch at an angle.

  “Feeling better?” Donovan asked.

  I nodded and sipped the coffee, barely tasting it. My mind registered that it was hot but that was about it. I had finally stopped shaking but my entire body was rigid, like a string being pulled to its full length, vibrating with tension.

  “Sloan,” Donovan looked me squarely in the eye, “I understand that you are a private person. Millie and I both do. And we would never pressure you to tell us anything. But, when you show up with a bruise like that on your face, I have to pry. What happened at the gardens today?”

  Donovan and Millie stared at me, expectant. I felt thankful for the oversized sweatshirt and yoga pants that were covering up the rest of the bruises.

  Donovan leaned forward. “Listen, I understand if you don’t want to call the cops. That’s fine. I get it. But someone obviously hurt you.” Donovan shook his head a little, his eyebrows knitted in concern. “You can trust us.”

  “I know I can.” I looked down at my hands, overwhelmed. My fingers were pale, like long pieces of chalk wrapped around a blue mug. I felt disconnected, as if I was looking at someone else’s hands. It took herculean effort to hold myself together and not let the truth come spilling out of my mouth. A succession of images flashed through my mind, unwanted and unchecked. Massive wings like feathered black silk, consuming black eyes that held both nothingness and endless depth. Gold and sharp steel, glinting in the sun.

  “Sloan...Sloan!”

  My eyes snapped up. Millie was calling my name, her big brown eyes fixed on my face. I realized my hands were violently shaking, the coffee precariously sloshing around inside the mug. I set it down on the table.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Millie asked.

  I forced myself to focus and speak in a steady voice. “Yes, I heard you. And I trust you both.” Sort of. “But you guys are overreacting. I slipped. That’s it.”

  Donovan narrowed his blue eyes at me. “Right.” He gestured to the right side of his face. “And the scratches and bruise? How did that happen?”

  “I must have hit my cheek when I fell,” I shrugged, plastering a sincere expression on my face. “I’m not sure, it happened really fast.”

  Donovan sat back and crossed his arms. He looked at me as if he was studying something under a microscope, dissecting it, making mental notes. He did not seem convinced. I gazed back steadily. I wasn’t going to budge. Millie sat quietly beside him, visibly worried.

  Donovan adjusted his thick black framed glasses and then said, “Okay Sloan. But if there is anything you need, you’ll let us know?”

  I managed the smallest of smiles. “Yes.”

  Millie began to speak but Donovan put his arm around her and changed the subject. “So, what do you ladies want for dinner? We can order in some spicy Indian food and then regret it later.”

  Thankfully Millie followed Donovan’s lead and stayed quiet, letting it go.

  I exhaled slowly and felt a small surge of relief that the conversation was over. At least for now. I still needed to convince her to take me home, which was sure to be difficult. Millie was by far the sweetest person I have ever met but also the most stubborn.

  “Uh, actually, I should probably be going,” I said.

  “Going?” Mille sat forward. “Are you sure you are feeling up to it? I think you should stay. I will take you home in the morning.”

  I shook my head. “I really need to work on my painting for class. It’s due on Wednesday and I still have a lot to do.”

  “What about your clothes? You can wait here while they dry.”

  “Just bring them to class Monday. You can give them to me then.”

  “I have no idea how to dry your boots.”

  “Set them out on your balcony,” I said. “If it stays sunny they should dry in a few hours.”

  A grin spread across Donovan’s face as Millie and I went back and forth for several moments. I never had a reason to say no to Millie, until now. I couldn’t give in.

  “Take me home and I will write your midterm paper on Surrealism.” Millie loved art but hated writing essays, no matter the subject. MLA formatting made her crazy.

  She crossed her arms. “Do you really think that I would put an essay over the welfare of a friend?”

  “Millie, I’m fine.”

  Millie shook her head. “I really think you should stay.”

  I stood up. “Fine. I’ll take a cab.” The cab fare to Issaquah would be astronomical, but I didn’t know what else to do. I needed to leave their apartment, like, yesterday.

  Millie sighed, exasperated. “You would take a cab all the way to Issaquah? Even though you can produce an incredible painting in forty-five minutes or less, which I have seen you do a million times. You absolutely have to go home right now to work on the project for class?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Even though I am super worried about you?”

  Donovan’s eyes were going back and forth between us as he followed the conversation.

  I gave Millie a pleading look, mirroring the same expression she used on me earlier today in the restaurant. The moment felt like it happened days ago. “Mill, please?”

  Millie regarded me for a moment. Several different emotions played across her face, concern and stubbornness at the forefront. Finally, she said, “You owe me a midterm paper.”

  I smirked. Millie grinned, rolled her eyes, and went to retrieve her purse from the bedroom. Donovan stood and stuffed his hands in his pockets. The colorful tattoos stood out boldly on his skin, an extensive array of fifties pinup art.

  “Are you still planning on coming to the party Friday?” he asked.

  Donovan’s birthday was October 31st. He was turning twenty-three and they were throwing a costume-slash-birthday party. Millie was two years younger than him, just one year older than me. I already had a gift for him, but right now it was odd to think about things like a birthday when my life was spinning out of control. Friday seemed like a long way away. Not wanting to cause anymore commotion, I promised to be there.

  Millie strode into the living room, her purse slung over her shoulder, keys in hand. She stood on tiptoe to give Donovan a quick kiss. “I will be back soon, babe. Keep studying.”

  Donovan looked at me and held up his hand, waiting for a high five. I gave him a small smile and slapped his hand. When Millie had first introduced us, I had been even more reserved than I was now. Donovan had used high fives as an ice breaker. They were outdated and cheesy and for some reason, I couldn’t help smiling every time he did it. It managed to turn into a quirky tradition.

  “See you Friday,” he said.

  “Bye Donovan.”

  I felt a mixture of relief and fear as Millie and I walked down the hallway to the elevator. I had succeeded in taking the danger away from them, but now I would have to face the approaching night alone.

  *

  Millie turned off the ignition and gave me a long look. We were parked in my driveway, the little grey house looking small in the late afternoon light. In a few hours, it would be dark. Millie and I hadn’t spoken a word during the drive.

  Millie broke the thick silence, “Sloan…you trust me, right?”

  I nodded. I never trusted anyone one hundred
percent, but Millie and Donovan were close. They ranked somewhere in the eighties.

  “Then will you tell me what really happened today in the garden?”

  If there was one person in the world I would confide things to, it would probably be her, but I couldn’t say it out loud. What I saw couldn’t be real.

  “I already told you what happened,” I replied.

  She pressed her lips together, “You gave us a version of the truth, Sloan. It’s obvious that something more went on.”

  I didn’t respond. Instead, I gritted my teeth and stared at the pink cherry tree that stood next to my house. There was a possibility that I was having a psychotic break, which wouldn’t be surprising considering the reason I had left Los Angeles. Every day of my life had been a struggle for so long. Moving to Seattle had removed me physically from those circumstances, but nothing had really changed. Every day was like swimming against a tide of sorrow that threatened to pull me under. And now I was in the middle of some nightmare come to life, bruised and hurt. The burning pain beneath my skin never stopped. It remained constant, just like my new accelerated heart rate. Even now, simply sitting in a car, it raced as if I was running a marathon. To top it all off, my one and only friend was upset with me. A part of me knew that Millie was only pushing the issue because she cared, but right now I couldn’t handle anymore.

  “Have a good night, Sloan. You have my number if you want to talk,” Millie said dismissively.

  My anger fell away into guilt. Millie had told me only months ago that her mother had died. And now, I was unwilling to confide in her and reciprocate that trust.

  I wanted to smooth it over. But I didn’t know what to say because I still did not know what the fuck was going on. My mind felt like it was about to explode. Without another word, I got out of the car and miserably padded up to my door in the socks she had lent me. I heard her car zoom off as I locked the door behind me. Again, I went through the house turning on every light that I owned. It was almost 5:30. My tiny house was quiet and still. The little yellow clock on the kitchen wall ticked softly.

  I felt lost and afraid, unsure of what to do or think. Going to the hospital was out of the question, at least for today. I was in no state to form a coherent sentence. I decided on a hot shower.

  The steaming water felt amazing on my sore muscles. I breathed in slowly and tried to calm down, occasionally peeking around the shower curtain to make sure I was still alone. After about ten minutes of standing under the warm water, I started to feel a little more like myself. I was home, the one place that I felt safe. With all my heart, I hoped that would remain true and nothing would happen to me tonight. I lathered a washcloth with soap and replayed the events of the gardens in my mind, trying to sift through it rationally.

  I explored my explanation to Donovan and Millie. Maybe that was what really happened. If I in fact lost my balance and slipped, it was possible that I hit my head and my subconscious constructed the rest while I was blacked out. But, wouldn’t I have drowned? There was no doubt that I had fallen into the pond, my soaking wet clothes were proof. I shuddered. If the man with black eyes didn’t exist, then how had I gotten out of the water?

  And there was another reason that didn’t work. I saw him before I fell. He was next to the pink cherry tree near the entrance, while I knelt by the fish. If I followed this logic, it meant that I began to hallucinate as soon as I entered the area with the pond. But if it had been all a hallucination, how did I get injured?

  Millie and Donovan confirmed that the bruise and scratches on my face were real. And despite my emotional issues, I refused to believe that I had done that to myself. I may have a lot of shit to deal with, but I would never harm myself.

  I threw the washcloth against the shower wall. I couldn’t reason through this. Logic wouldn’t help because it didn’t make any fucking sense whatsoever. I turned off the water and grabbed a towel. I dried off quickly, not even bothering to blow dry my hair. I piled the thick mass into a bun and put on a pair of sweats, a red hoodie and some thick socks.

  The house was too quiet. I turned on the TV for some noise, not even paying attention to the channel, and began pacing around my small living room. What was I supposed to do now? Admit that what I had seen was in fact real? Men with wings and swords, with the ability to create electricity from their hands? Straight jacket anyone? I chewed on my bottom lip and kept pacing. I glanced up for one second and caught a glimpse of the TV screen. I stopped.

  There was a reporter standing outside of the Japanese Gardens. I dove for the remote, knocking over a few art books that were on top of the coffee table, and turned up the volume.

  “Authorities are still unsure as to what happened here today,” the female reporter said. “A beautiful and integral part of the international district has been severely damaged, leaving citizens distraught and authorities puzzled.”

  The camera view changed, showing the koi pond. My mouth dropped open.

  Several of the cherry trees were cut in half. Glowing embers and smoke sizzled along the broken wood, contributing to the smoky haze that hung over the scene. Branches, leaves, and ripped up plants were sprawled along the ground. Gigantic black scorch marks were gouged into the grass and across trees and plants, as if lightening had repeatedly struck within the small space. Much of the grass was gone, the brown dirt beneath exposed. The area was crawling with firemen and police officers. Yellow tape closed off the entrance.

  The reporter continued, “It is unclear as to what could have caused this. Our meteorologist experts confirmed that damages such as this are typically related to an isolated lightning storm. However, there were no reports of abnormal lightning activity in the Seattle area. The authorities and fire department are currently investigating these odd events and are looking into the possibility that it may be the result of vandalism. Stay tuned to Channel Nine, as we follow this investigation and bring you the most up to date facts. This is Jenna Davis, reporting live from the international district.”

  I turned the TV off, my hands shaking. I stared at the black screen for several moments, my mouth still open. The news report showed damning evidence that what I had seen was real, exactly the way I had experienced it. There didn’t seem to be another plausible explanation. Those scorch marks were obviously from the electricity that had curled around their weapons.

  Shit. Fuck. I shook my head back and forth, struggling with disbelief. My mind just couldn’t bend around it. Tears filled my eyes, blurring my vision. What did this mean?

  I tossed the remote, not caring where it fell, and ran into my bedroom. I sat down in the middle of the bed and pulled my yellow comforter around my entire body, even my head, so all I could see was fabric. My entire body trembled as silent tears streamed down my cheeks. I had felt alone and afraid most of my life, but not like this. This was like being cast out to sea in a tiny raft, left to battle a raging dark ocean alone. It’s a fight that you cannot win, Sloan.

  I cried and shivered uncontrollably, wrapping the comforter around me even more tightly. This wasn’t over. If the man with black eyes was real, he would be back. There was something he wanted. If he was real, then the golden warrior was real as well. And he had fought the man with black eyes so fiercely that the koi pond now looked like a scarred battle field. Why had he intervened?

  I turned over onto my side and curled into a ball. I tried to focus my thoughts on the golden warrior. Had he been protecting me? Or was there something that he also wanted?

  Eventually I stopped crying and slipped into a numb daze, my mind full of white static. I stared at the stitching that pieced together the fabric of the blanket, wondering what would happen to me. My heart burned with loneliness. I didn’t want to sleep, afraid of what I would see when my eyes closed. But sleep inevitably overcame me, dragging me d
own into its black depths.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BLOOD WORK

  I stood in the white antechamber, the black chandelier directly above me.

  “Great,” I whispered. I looked up at the winding staircase. I did not want to go into the hallway with the broken bathroom again.

  The red flower was next to me, on top of the small golden table. I moved closer to it. The deep red petals were thick and velvety, promising to be soft to the touch. It was a very big flower, larger than any I had ever seen. The petals extended from a deep green stem that stretched at least two feet from the black pot it was in. I reached out and touched one of the petals. It was warm.

  Something in the room began to change. I could feel it. I stepped away from the flower and examined the room. The surface of one of the standing mirrors began to ripple, the hard glass taking on the quality of moving water. The strange surface bubbled outward, and then a figure stepped through it, legs emerging first, then the torso, shoulders and head. The man with black eyes was now standing before me, just as I had seen him in the gardens, wearing nothing but black jeans.

  I backed up at the sight of him. His entire body radiated with anger, his eyes burning with fury. He didn’t bother to slowly stalk towards me like before. This time he rushed forward, closing the distance between us in seconds.

  He pushed me against the hard marble wall, his forearm across my neck.

  “Get off of me!” I fought back. The inevitability of the situation intensified my panic. There was nowhere to go, and he could overpower me so easily. I felt like an animal, pinned down, about to be dragged to the slaughterhouse.

  He pressed harder until I couldn’t breathe. The look on his face told me he had no qualms about severely hurting me. I stopped struggling, pushing back my instinct to keep fighting. As soon as I became still, he eased the pressure on my neck, so I could breathe again.