by L F Seitz
From my old-man recliner, I clutched my mug and looked out at the world. I missed my old bedroom’s view and its endless sky that stretched over the trees and buildings. When looking out that window I felt like I could do anything and go anywhere. Now, I stared at a classic red brick building across the alleyway.
When I graduated high school and decided against applying to a four-year college my foster father immediately said I had to get a job and move out “like an adult” before I completed transitioning out of foster care. At the age of 18, foster kids are deemed adult and are transitioned out of the system to independent living. I didn’t take advantage of it like I should have, because I was too distraught with everything going on with Phil and Dorothy. They give you opportunities, and I didn’t care. Phil and I argued and fought every day about how it wasn’t fair, dealing with school, job-hunting, and transitioning out, but it only tore us apart. He made it clear he didn’t want me around, so I left. For a month, until I got a job at MedTech boxing orders of medical supplies, I lived in a former classmate’s basement, though we weren’t exactly friends. After graduation, my former classmate Amy grew distant as she made more friends at Carthage College, where she was going to be studying nursing. Eventually, she didn’t speak to me until she told me I had a week to move out. Now I lived on my own and worked Monday through Friday, from 1 p.m. until 10:30 p.m. Life was dull now, duller than it was before. It was emptier and even more routine than ever.
I just needed to last the day, twelve hours, and I could see Amanda. She was a girl who owed me favors for helping her out one morning awhile back with some trouble. She works as a bartender a few streets from my building. Despite my being underage, we’ve worked out an agreement. Twelve hours. I could make it one more miserably routine day.
I set my now-empty #1 mug near the coffeemaker and headed to the bathroom, the cleanest place in my entire apartment. When I moved in, mold carpeted the sink and bathtub. I couldn’t leave the door open because the earthy smell permeated throughout the apartment. I had to hold my breath to pee. My entire first paycheck went toward bleach and cleaning supplies. It took me an entire day to scour the bathroom, but it was worth it. Now it sparkled.
I turned the shower water on as hot as it would go – the hotter, the better. Since heat never bothers me, my skin never turned red or got irritated. I relished the heat. I stood motionless under the water as it melted the tension in my muscles and relaxed the tightness in my heart. My burden to bear is that heat never hurt me, but I was just as vulnerable as anyone else. A few tears escaped with the water as I washed up. No one would know.
✽✽✽
Work was work: driving forklifts, packing orders, making small talk, and daydreaming. Every night when it was time to go home a few coworkers asked if I wanted to grab a drink at Ron’s Place, the pub a block away. I always declined, but they never seemed upset. I declined not because it was illegal to drink underage, but because socializing took a lot of energy out of me. Since I wasn’t a hit in high school, I tried something different now: I’d slowly built a kind, sweet, and always-happy persona that was exhausting to uphold. Never sarcastic, or tired, or grouchy. The thought of going out and having to continue pretending wasn’t something that sounded fun. Instead, I went to the bar down the street from my apartment. There, I could drink underage, and no one asked any questions. Besides, they had the cheapest vodka shots I knew of.
It was almost impossible to find the bar’s black door from the alley. No light illuminated the bar’s name, Grave Diggers, above the door. Inside it was dark, Slipknot played through the speakers and the smell of sweat and French fries lingered in the air. The paint on the bar counter was rubbed down to the wood in most spots, showing the layers of colors it had been painted before. The leather barstool seats were shredded beyond recognition, exposing yellow, sweat-soaked foam beneath. Most of the people who visited the bar looked old enough to be my grandparents, if my grandparents were a part of a mean biker gang, and owned nothing but leather. If I had grandparents that is.
Friday nights were busy. I always went on Friday because that’s when Amanda worked. She knew my age and didn’t card me when I drank. I saved her once from a few muggers when she was getting out of work at two in the morning. It was when I first moved into my apartment, and didn’t know how dangerous the roads were in this area at night. I couldn’t sleep and decided to take a walk around the streets of my building. There were two of them, one held her against the wall while the other rummaged through her backpack, scattering her belongings across the alleyway. I ran up on them like a crazy person, screaming at the top of my lungs and flailing my arms. I surprised them enough that they fled. Luckily for her, it wasn’t my first time standing up against bullies, or I most likely would have kept on walking. Her face was already swollen from being beaten and she was a fragile mess. I drove her home in her Toyota Corolla and helped her into her apartment. Ever since then, she let me drink despite being underage. She said, “Someone with the balls to fight off muggers deserves a drink.” She was sweet, but we never got closer than drinking together and talking about our respective work.
I made it about halfway into the bar when I noticed something was off. It was more packed than usual, with the same 50s-and-up crowd, but they were all hovering around the bar. What was worse, my usual spot was taken by an old guy with his tongue down some lady’s throat. I was annoyed, and grossed out, but shrugged it off. Amanda usually held that seat for me. I pushed my way through to scan the whole bar, ignoring sneers from the older grumps, who mumbled something about Millennials as I did. Once I reached the bar, I could only see one bartender running around grabbing money, and taking orders, which explained the agitated, loud crowd.
“Where’s Amanda?” I yelled to the bartender, who was making his way toward me, taking orders. I had only seen him a once before. He had a green Mohawk and gigantic ear gages. I tried not to stare at it.
“Why? You have a date?” He asked, annoyed at being pulled away from paying customers. I didn’t even bother with a smart retort. It was obvious she wasn’t here, and he didn’t have the time to tell me why.
“We did,” I replied. My Friday was shot to hell.
Disappointed, I turned back toward the alley door. I wasn’t even old enough to go buy alcohol to drink at home. This blows. As I made my way through the crowd, a tingle slowly moved up my back, a sensation I got when I thought someone was watching me. I scanned the bar, but no one paid attention to me. I moved toward the door again, but the sensation grew more pronounced. I brushed it off, assuming it was just people looking at me because of the age difference compared to the normal crowd in here.
Suddenly, my whole body warmed. I’d always been comfortable with heat – though I hardly, if ever, sweated – but this was something I had never experienced. I felt like I was on fire, like I’d walked directly into a burning sun. I glanced around, my breath growing more labored as the room closed in on me. My claustrophobia awakened deep in my gut. I needed to escape. I pushed hard against the people in my way, stumbling until I finally made it outside, the cold winter air assaulting my skin. It actually felt nice to be in the cold for once. I blew puffs of steam from my mouth, and stripped off my black leather jacket as the heat I’d felt subsided. This was beyond strange, I’d never gotten hot like that before. I never perspired, never burned, and I haven't since I could remember. I stood there for a few more moments as I relished the cool breeze on my skin. Under the glowing streetlights, I began the short walk home, not bothering to put my jacket on since I still felt out of sorts and was only a few blocks from my apartment.
As I walked past the alleyway that my window looked over, I was snatched from behind, and the air from my lungs was gone.
Two.
FIGHT OR FLIGHT?
Frantically, I yanked away from the figure holding me and swung my satchel around, hitting the stranger in the chest. Fingers dug into my shoulder tissue and dragged me into the dark alley. I wailed as I lashed out,
striking someone’s face. Adrenaline hammering through my veins, I ran from my attacker, running toward a streetlight.
Grabbing my hair by the roots, my assailant yanked me down, and I snapped my head back. Something hard hit me in the face. I stumbled and was caught by my jacket. Before I could react, a flash of white light blinded me, and my back was slammed up against a brick wall, with something sharp held against my throat.
“You seriously thought walking around uncovered wouldn’t make you a target?” the man said with a husky chuckle. My heart pounded against my ribs. Visions of being beaten by bullies as a kid flew to the front of my mind, and my urge to show him I wasn’t afraid bubbled up. Who am I kidding? My school bullies had never held a knife to my throat. Against my fear, I peered at him. The man’s pure white hair fell past his shoulders. In the darkness, it was bright, almost blindingly so.
“S-should I be hiding?” I managed to ask, despite the terror nearly choking the air from my lungs. I adjusted to the darkness, my mind racing so fast I couldn’t think about anything but the man before me. Old habits from being attacked in school came into play as I tried to identify specific aspects of his face to tell authorities later. I tried to memorize him: his oval face, rigid jaw, clenched teeth. His cheekbones were sharp, and his nose pointed. His lips stretched thin, and his irises were piercing blue.
He remained expressionless as we stared into one another, but a blink later, he was outraged. “Playing dumb won’t save you. I can see your markings. You didn’t even bother to cover them. How ignorant are you?”
Markings?
“What markings? I-I don’t have any markings.” I cried out. He thought I was someone I wasn’t. I felt him push the knife harder into my neck, making it sting as he cut the surface.
“Enough with the games. I know what you’re hiding. We know about The Rising. Play nice, and I won’t torture you. When will it take place? When will it occur?” He asked his questions quickly, inspecting my face and seeming almost as confused as I am.
“I- I don’t know anything. I’m not playing any game. I-I’m just trying to get home.” A hiss escaped my lips as I squeezed my eyes shut, the pain of his knife becoming too much to bear. I whimpered as I bit the inside of my lip, trying to hold back the urge to scream. This man seemed like the type to slit a throat faster if it became too annoying.
“Stop lying,” he growled loudly before slamming me into the wall again. This time, he sliced my neck deeper, making me cry out in pain.
The blood trickled down my throat as I struggled to think. My skin throbbed so hard it began to grow numb. I prayed to whoever was listening that someone would save me. The biting cold against my tear-soaked cheeks brought me back to reality. I was going to die, and no one would know what had happened. No one would care.
“I’ll admit you are very good. The tears look very real, but if you have no answers, then you have no purpose. You’re of no use to me.” He spoke with a flat tone. My limbs trembled with the words.
“Et reducam te in caligine Daemon nunc urbs est patris tui. Ostende mihi faciem tuam, et non est misericordia, quae est a carne daemonum interficiam corpus, perit in aeternum misericordia ignis. Et incarnatus est de Angelo, anima tanted ostende1.”
He spat words at me like venom. It was a foreign language I didn’t understand. I began to burn again, this time from the inside, like I was set aflame. The pain was immense as I screamed. Through my closed eyes, the darkness glowed red, penetrating my eyelids as I began to lose myself.
I can’t stop. I can’t just give up.
I thrashed, shoving my hands against his shoulders, struggling to pull away, but he was too strong for me to fight. A whine escaped my mouth as I tried to push his arm from my chest, but it wouldn’t budge.
I finally stopped fighting against his weight as my shaking muscles let go of whatever strength they had left. I sobbed, begging for him to let me live as his hand suddenly grasped my jaw and yanked my face up.
“Look at me, demon,” he sneered, digging his blade in and across my throat.
I gasped at the sudden agony. My eyes cleared as the shock of the pain paralyzed my entire body, and I realized I was staring into his eyes. They were completely white now – a piercing white that could have dropped me to my knees if it weren’t being held up. I began to tremor hard as hormones crashed through my system, trying to combat the pain I struggled to comprehend. Those white eyes twisted into something else, something fearful. He released me. I felt bare and cold as I stood alone now. His hand and knife had disappeared from my throat when he jumped backward, vanishing into the shadow of the alleyway.
“This is impossible.” He spoke in a whisper. A tingling numbness fell over me as my mouth went dry. I reached to my aching neck and felt where the skin was cut. I struggled with the urge of vomit as my mouth pooled with saliva.
“A pitiful life is right,” I snorted, but my words didn’t sound right. They sounded slurred and stretched out. “Maybe it’s for the best,” I said. I was lightheaded and exhausted.
I don’t recall when I hit the gravel beneath me, my back cold against the brick and loose rocks digging into my legs. I struggled to retain my thoughts as the sound of my own pulse echoed in my ears.
I was dying. Was this it? I thought it would be more dramatic. I expected to relive key moments in my life or see a special light. I looked down at my arms glowing red in pretty, intricate lines. Oh, that’s definitely not right. I worked to blink my vision back to normal as I let my head fall back against the alley wall. My attacker still leaned against the wall opposite me. I could see him now, because he was glowing, too; a pretty sapphire blue.
In my final moments, there was nothing but cold comforting darkness.
✽✽✽
I sat up abruptly.
I was in my apartment, in my bed. The blood rushed to my head, and I cringed at the pain. Slowly, I dropped back to the mattress, blood throbbing against my temples. My head was killing me, but I didn’t drink yesterday. I wasn’t hungover. Amanda wasn’t at the bar last night, so I left. I went home, and that man. I reached my hand up to touch my bandaged throat, and panic ensued. I almost died last night.
I had almost died thirty feet from my apartment door.
I inhaled and exhaled slowly, concentrating on both calming myself and keeping the blood from rushing to my head as I sat up and staggered to the bathroom. I leaned heavily on the sink, holding myself steady as I looked at my features for the first time in what felt like months. I was pallid, with dark circles under my eyes. I looked so unhealthy it made my stomach turn. I touched my throat, stroking the gauze under my fingertips as I stared absently at it. Who applied this bandage? This all seems so unreal. Impatiently, I began to pull off the wrappings. What was revealed underneath astounded me.
There was nothing.
No cut, no scar, nothing but bare skin stained with dried blood. I lightly ran my fingertips over my skin, ensuring there truly was no injury. Satisfied, I dropped the wrappings into the sink and wobbled to the kitchen for coffee. Maybe when the man ran off I turned into a walking zombie and applied the bandages myself while I slept? I wasn’t the average sleeper: I never dreamed. I hardly ever woke up before my alarm. But there was a first time for everything, right?
Was the man even real? I wondered while I switched on the coffeemaker. Or was he someone I saw on the street and my subconscious remembered him for a dream later? Long white hair and ice-blue irises sounded like the work of fiction. I soundlessly drank my coffee in my ragged recliner and stared out at the brick wall, attempting to sort through my thoughts. It was already late in the afternoon, after 2:30, which was also odd for me: I never slept in this late.
I retained his features so vividly it couldn’t be a dream. He was too real. The pain was too real. I had no scar and nothing to prove the encounter had happened, but I never had dreams. I stared at the black liquid in my cup as I lost myself in what I could remember. I checked my arms for some sort of red discoloration, but nothin
g was there, either. How could something so crazy and out of routine happen like that and there be no proof at all? I was craving answers like a starving animal craves sustenance. I stood and looked out my window, craning my neck to see the mouth of the alley where the attack happened. Maybe I’ll find answers there.
The cold floor hurt my feet as I quickly dressed and made my way outside into the brisk afternoon air to retrace my steps. It was cloudy but bright today, and cars zoomed by every few minutes, making the world seem drastically different from last night. It was usually dead around this area at night. I was on the edge of the downtown district of Kenosha, between newer construction and old abandoned businesses. The city was expanding, so there were more people moving out toward the surrounding towns and past this area, nearest to Lake Michigan. People passed through here, the most rundown section of Kenosha, between 30th Avenue and Sheridan Road, but there wasn’t much reason for them to stick around. I’ve noticed mostly lower-class citizens around here, and older people. The best part about it was no one bothered me, which was why I liked it.
I stepped off the sidewalk into the mouth of the alley. Last night’s events were straight out of a horror film: the dark alley, the cold, the blood, and the ignored screams for help. It all happened right here, just outside Building E of my apartment complex, not even thirty feet from the door. I was so close to safety, yet so far away. In the light of day, nothing looked out of the ordinary: the brick siding, the gravel, and the weeds: all undisturbed. This is ridiculous. How can I have all these memories of this horrible experience and there be nothing to show for it? The brisk air pinched my cheeks. I wanted to be back in my warm bed, drinking my hot coffee, and minding my own business.
But I died last night. Or at least, I thought I did.