The Rising

by L F Seitz

  I needed answers. I needed to know who the man was and why he wanted me dead. I slid against the wall to the ground and tried to pull all the details of last night to my mind’s surface. The man’s face had more detail than if it were just a dream: so shockingly angelic mixed with so much anger. It was something I would never forget. That man was insane, had to be, but I couldn’t help but wonder what he was talking about. He didn’t seem to be crazed or babbling about gibberish, but he was interrogating me. He thought I was someone I’m not, someone bad who has markings and knows something about this thing called The Rising. Just a misunderstanding. The way he handled it was completely inappropriate, but he saved me when he became aware that something wasn’t right. Right?

  Saying that and believing it were two different things. Why me, though? Out of everyone in this entire city. It could have been random. I might have believed that, if it weren’t for those glowing marks on our skin, or how his pupils dissolved completely. I know what I saw – it’s something I can’t shake. Those white eyes – I remembered those. They penetrated my soul so deeply I felt like his gaze alone would kill me.

  As the wind cut at my face, I winced and turned my head to get away from it. Something on the gravel caught my eye: it was deep red. I leaned over to get a better look. The evidence was so limited I almost missed it all together. Droplets of blood were scattered across a few pebbles beside the wall. My blood. Hearing someone approach on the sidewalk, I stood quickly. I looked over my shoulder as a woman with a dog walked past the mouth of the alley, not even noticing me as she and her Terrier passed by. The memory of that once being me, and not being aware enough to notice someone standing there, waiting, made me shudder. Then again, there wasn’t much foot traffic in this area, being on the border of the old business district. Most of the buildings were torn down or left to rot. It would be easy to hurt someone in this area at night. Maybe that’s why no one bothered to come help me: in this area, you’re better off ignoring the cries in the night and minding your business. I found what I needed, it was time to go inside. The day was growing colder, and I could have sworn I saw a snowflake.

  Once inside, I took off my coat, took what was left of the coffee – now burned in the pot – and sat. I needed a moment to process. My blood was definitely on those rocks outside.

  My fingers tapped against my ceramic mug as the urge to draw these events arose. Doing so wouldn’t give me answers, but it might help organize my thoughts. I grabbed my sketchbook from the worn pocket at the side of the recliner and pulled my legs up as far as I could manage. I had big thighs and a tummy, so curling into a small ball was nearly impossible. I began drawing the edges of the man’s face. It looked OK until I got to the jaw; the curves just weren’t coming out right. I wasn’t as good as I once was. I drew every day in high school – not in art class, just doodles for my own pleasure – and it took my mind off of weary things. Right before I graduated is when I got really good, but then life got in the way and I can’t remember the last time I picked up a pencil until now. I set my sketchbook on the TV tray as I got up to make another pot of coffee. I didn’t get to drink it much at Phil and Dorothy’s house. My stepparents said coffee was bad for your teeth and that it was only for adults who needed an extra kick. After filling the coffee machine with water, I clicked the Brew button and went into my bedroom for the iPod shuffle I got two Christmases ago from my foster grandma, Gramma Beth.

  Gramma Beth, Dorothy’s mother, was the only person who wanted me around in that family. She didn’t treat me like I was expendable. Maybe it was because I always sat next to her wheelchair and listened to her stories. Most of them she told over and over again, always asking if I had heard it before, and I always said no. I just figured she wanted someone to listen to her. She had all these stories about her life and no grandchildren to listen to them. I mean, I had two foster cousins, but they were always on the couch playing on their iPhones, never paying attention to the family unless they were being served food or given gifts. Some of Gramma Beth’s stories were interesting, about growing up on a farm and working in a automobile factory, but mostly, I just liked having someone to talk to, someone to care about me like she did. When she died in April of last year, I cried. Before last night, that was the last time I’d cried. Any tears between now and then were nothing more than a few drops of stress aching to be let out.

  Once I found my iPod in the top drawer of my small dresser I flipped through my music until I found a song to match my mood. I landed on “Breath” by Breaking Benjamin. Once in my recliner, I started drawing again, letting the lines organically flow from my hand instead of forcing them out. The lines and shadowing came a little easier as I went. His hair was my favorite part. I decided to end at his shoulders, because I could never get body proportions right. Once done, I looked it over and immediately began spotting all the flaws; my perfectionism told me it looked nothing like him. I knew it was the artist in me, but I couldn’t help agreeing. I thought back to all the instructional drawing books I’d borrowed from the school library during my senior year, and I think they’d all agree: it was all wrong. The dimensions were off, and there were two directions of shadowing. It was a mess.

  I let my head fall back. I saw him in my mind, pretended he stood right in front of me. Everything about him was surreal: the shine of his unnaturally white hair, the fierceness of his blue eyes, the prominence in his facial features, the contours of his arms, and the way the muscles in his neck moved under the skin. The man was too unique to ignore. Every time I thought of something else, my mind floated back to him. I wanted to understand him. I wanted to know why he attacked me and asked me those things. I should be afraid, but the curiosity trumps my fear. What are the markings he spoke of, and what is The Rising?

  I started doodling around the picture, giving him intricate tattoos, coming from around the back of his neck and shoulders and then fading with where I stopped. I conjured images resembling these tattoos on his skin, but the rational part of me stated it was blood loss that made me see things. The other part of me said to trust what I saw. They looked like they made sense on his skin, though. The tattoos looked natural on him.

  The sun was already setting, and if I strained my neck to see past the brick building outside the window, reds and oranges colored the horizon. I stared at the sky until the vivid colors faded into magnificent darker blues and purples. I yawned. It’s weird how exhausted I still was despite sleeping the majority of the day. I searched the scene of the crime and sketched out the man’s face, yet I was still lost. A gap in time was missing from my memories, separating my near-death outside from waking up, secure, in my bed. I have no one who knew where I lived who could have brought me up here, and a police officer would have taken me to a hospital. Not that I could go to the authorities now; I have no proof that this even happened.

  As I washed up and brushed my teeth, I stared at my throat, wanting to recollect something that would be useful to search for my almost-killer. My thoughts were barren. Maybe my attacker brought me back to my apartment, but why would he have if he wanted me dead? And how did he know where my apartment was?

  My mind ran through the conversation of last night, and that raised even more questions. What was that language he was speaking to me? Why did he call me a demon? Maybe I’m a demon and I don’t even know it. I criticized myself for the stupidity of the thought as I walked to my bedroom and got ready for bed. I’d heard that language before ... but that was impossible. Was it Latin? I had never taken a Latin class, and there was only one person in my life who understood Latin. Could it be? Would it be wrong to ask her for help? If I recalled correctly, she definitely doesn’t like me, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t want me showing up at her front door. I don’t have a smart phone, but even if I did, something about this whole situation makes me want to do it face to face. I want to make sure I understand the translation clearly.

  Getting into bed, I thought about how angry my attacker was when he uttered those foreign
words, like they alone would kill me. The foster mother I had before Phil and Dorothy spoke Latin, Jennifer Daluth. I knew where she lived. I was thirteen when she asked my social worker to remove me from her home. I have a vague memory of some kind of accident before I left.

  I thought about everyone in my life who’d brought me to this moment: foster parents; acquaintances at school; Gramma Beth; Rico Montana, my first crush when I was six, the boy in the Napoleon House with me. His dark tawny skin and dreamy brown eyes left me jealous every time he didn’t want to sleep next to me during naptime. I was never brave enough to tell him I liked him, and then one day he left, and I never saw him again. I thought about Lucy Garcia, the first girl who ever asked to be my friend in second grade. Soon after, she moved away, and we never talked again. My favorite art teacher, Mrs. Louis, who saved all of the drawings I made for her in eighth grade. She acted like everything I drew was worth millions. She’d ask to keep my drawings, and the following day, I’d see them pinned up behind her desk.

  I thought about everything I’d endured and done. Making it through the foster care system in one piece, aside from my sometimes-crippling anxiety and mild depression. Dealing with neglect and loneliness. Being bullied nearly all my life, and standing up for others only to get their bully’s attention and the crap kicked out of me. The pranks I pulled. If I had died last night, would my life even be deemed a life at all? I did nothing purposeful, and everything I’d gone through was basically mental torture. If I’d died last night, I think the only person who would truly feel sorry for me would be me. I’ve achieved nothing significant. It only increased my urge to know why that man attacked me. Why did he think I’d done anything remotely important? Until last night, I was invisible to the world. I wonder how he saw me.

  ✽✽✽

  I made it to the Metra train just as the doors were closing and jumped through, running into a tall, irritated-looking Italian man. It was 10 a.m., and I wouldn’t get to the town of Evanston, near Chicago, until around eleven. That’s where Jennifer lived. I apologized more than once to the man, though he just ignored me. The train smelled like sweat and expired cottage cheese. I used to love taking the train when I was younger. I had therapy in Chicago when I was thirteen, after the incident with Jennifer. I think there was some sort of fire that broke out. After that, I was taken back to the Napoleon House, a foster care center for kids awaiting placement. I was escorted by my social worker, Susan, to therapy every two weeks for three months after that. The best part was the train ride. I couldn’t explain why I liked the train so much back then, because the whole experience was awkward and unpleasant: being squished into a speeding metal tube with random strangers wasn’t most people’s idea of a fun time. I’m glad most places – work, the grocery store – have been within walking distance my whole life. That’s what was great about bigger cities: you could be poor like me and still have a good life. No money wasted on a car. At least, that’s what I told myself.

  I didn’t know if this was considered inappropriate, to go see her, but thinking of how she treated me, it was difficult to even care. She seemed a little beside herself in the beginning, expecting children younger than myself to stay with her painlessly. Then one thing led to another, and she requested I be removed. Jennifer was one of the shortest placements I’d ever been in. Her opinion of my presence was of no consequence to me. This information was life or death, and I needed it now.

  When I finally got to my stop, I recognized the city. It had some pretty architecture and a homey feel. The center of Evanston was more populated than Kenosha, though our downtown was pretty lively in the summer. As soon as I was off the train, anxiety hit me. What if she didn’t open the door? What if she called the cops or came out of the house with a shotgun? What if they didn’t even live there anymore? A crowd of people pushing and shoving their way around the platform brought my claustrophobia out with a vengeance. I pushed my own way through them and sprinted, which was a bad idea. After I got down the steps and through the station to an actual road, my throat was burning. I chuckled at myself as I continued up the street, catching my breath. I needed to work out more.

  I squinted at the street signs to figure out where I was until I found the one I wanted and made my way toward the neighborhood she lived in. It wasn’t far from the station. As I got closer, the anxiety revved up: two more blocks before I would be there. I kept my breath steady and concentrated on inhales and exhales until I got to the corner and saw the edge of her home four houses away. I walked slowly, sorting through how I’d ask for her help.

  I was ringing the bell before I could prepare myself for it. I thought for a split second about running, but then I thought about Friday night, about my near-death experience. I needed to be like I used to be in high school: unafraid. An older woman opened the door. Instantly, I recognized her blond, bushy hair and thin face. The crow’s feet around her eyes had grown more pronounced since the last time I’d seen her, five years ago. I’ve grown plumper in the hips since then, and my face had thinned out a little, but I figured she’d still recognize me. She squinted as if she were seeing me through a fog, and I could tell she didn’t recognize me at all, which eased my nerves.

  “Hello, can I help you?” she asked. I half-grinned in response. I doubted she’d be as polite once she knew who I was.

  “You’re Jennifer Daluth, right?” She stared at me for a long moment after I spoke, as she tried to figure out who I was and then nodded.

  “You don’t recognize me. I’m Lamia. Lamia Relictus,” I spoke a little softer as my last name trailed from my lips. Her expression twisted into shock.

  “You can’t be here. You need to leave!” She started retreating into the house.

  “Please, I need help,” I said in a hard tone, and for a brief moment, she stopped.

  “I can’t help you,” she said as she began to close the glass door. My body tingled as I shoved my foot against the frame before she could close it all the way.

  “Listen, I don’t want to be here, believe me. You were less than welcoming the first time we met, and I’m not surprised you’re acting this way now. But I need answers, and you’re the only one who can give them at the moment. Just help me, and I’ll leave; you’ll never see me again.” I paused, and she gaped at me. “You’re the only person I know who speaks Latin, and my best chance at figuring out some words that were spoken to me recently. Answer them, and I’ll go.” Jennifer stood looking at me, almost hiding behind her glass door. It was another moment before she huffed in agreement, but kept the door cracked like she was afraid I would attack her if she came out.

  “What are the words?” she asked. I focused as I extracted them from my dark memories.

  “There was, um, ‘Ostende mihi faciem tuam.’” I tried my best to say them as my attacker had. Jennifer looked around like we were doing something illegal as she answered.

  “‘Show me your face’ or ‘thy face.’ What else?”

  I paused, trying to call to mind more. “‘Nec miserebor?’” I asked.

  “That means ‘no mercy.’” she said, looking terrified.

  “And the last sentence I memorized vividly. It was, ‘Et incarnatus est de Angelo, anima tanted ostende.’” I said, flinching at the clarity. A heat identical to the other night flared inside me, like when my attacker had originally spoken them. It was little, like the flame of a match. Regardless, I was scared, but for fear of scaring her off, I kept my expression neutral. Jennifer’s brow furrowed as she thought for a moment. There was a twinge of fear in her eye she labored to hide.

  “It means something along the lines of, ‘By the power of the angel, show me your tainted soul,’” she replied, her voice shaking. I watched as she worked to close the door, despite my foot wedged against the frame.

  I didn’t bother mentioning the word demon, but it all made sense if you put them together. What was the man trying to accomplish when he said those words? Was he trying to get something to come out of me? Am I possessed by a d
emon? The thought was silly. I think I’d know if I were possessed.

  “Now, don’t come back, OK?” she warned, and I rolled my eyes. The heat from the Latin words seemed to twist into nasty spite, which was something I’d never acted on before.

  “What the hell did I ever do to you? I was just a child, and you threw me back at the social workers like trash. Whatever happened before you sent me back wasn’t my fault, yet you blamed me anyway: a kid who can’t defend herself. You people disgust me.” As I spoke, animosity oozed from my pores. I had planned to thank her, but she was treating me like a parasite, and it hurt. It hurt a lot. She glanced at me, only showing half her face as she shot a bewildered look at me.

  “You don’t think you started the fire?” she asked from behind the door. She sounded scared out of her skull. I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palm to keep me from reaching out and slapping her. How could she blame a kid for something like that? I had to have been inconsequential incident because I don't remember it.

  “You forced me to go back into housing over a little fire? And you blame me? How ridiculous are you?” I said in a vicious tone. She looked at the ground for a moment and then glanced at me again.

  “I wasn’t the only one who thought so. When the firefighters crawled into your room ...” she trailed off as she looked past me. Clutching her door, she clarified that the firefighters believed it, too: they said it looked like the flames were coming from me, where I was asleep in bed. Engulfed in fire. They rescued me and carried me out of the house, but when the paramedics got there, they checked me over, and I was fine. I didn’t have a single burn. My skin wasn’t even warm. She was rambling like it was a bad dream. “When you did wake up, all you said was that you had a dream about some boy who took your birthday presents, and you got mad or something. I barely escaped my bedroom alive; I had to jump out the window. I couldn’t handle looking at you. I didn’t know if it was witchcraft or the Devil. You – the fire killed our cat, Ruth ... and my husband Charles.”