Flood

by Maria Quinn

  All characters, places, companies and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Maria Quinn is the pseudonym of Katelyn Dechiara

  Copyright © 2019 by Katelyn Dechiara

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be produced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by Katelyn Dechiara

  Printed in the United States.

  “The primary cause of disorder in ourselves is the seeking of reality promised by another.”

  -Jiddu Krishnamurti

  Prologue

  Screaming echoes throughout the mountains. Primal screams, screams of pain. The backdoor to an abandoned cabin opens violently with such a force that it snaps one of its rusty hinges, leaving the door askew. The screaming ran from the house, bleeding, and calling for help, but only the mountains return her calls.

  Trees are closing in, a forest of hands clawing her skin, burdening her escape. Like a nightmare, the river eludes her, inching further away the more she runs towards it. She trips on a vine, catching herself partway, cradling a wound on her side she didn't know she had. Lurching forward trying to regain her momentum, she will not stop, it's not just her she's getting help for.

  She had to leave, he is finished with her and she saw an opportunity and took it. Her feet are raw with cuts, and each step heavier with the burden of what she left behind. Blood is streaming down her stomach and pouring from her torso, losing blood fast she needs to find help. She could barely run after what had happened, and the blood loss made running slow and cumbersome, like trying to swim through molasses.

  A loud crack splinters a tree beside her sending debris into her eyes; he's close. Another shot rings out, but luckily misses her as she tries to pick up the pace. Her long dark curls that once won her a medal in a pageant, now tangle in the trees as she rips what she can free. Not stopping, some of her winning curls rip from her scalp and the blood runs in her dusty blue eyes. The distant sound of rushing water gave her hope, she knew the waterways around here, she can follow it to town.

  She uses that hope as fuel and keeps sprinting, picking up her nightgown as to not get caught in the thorns. She glances at her feet, bloodied from the rocks and branches, yet numbed by the adrenaline; her body wants to live. She will survive, she repeats in her mind as she reaches the clearing ahead. Breaking through the branches to the water she almost smiles, but another crack of his gun echoes throughout the night, this time splintering her body.

  Confused and in shock, she tries to touch the wounds on her back, then a second blast hits her. The force throws her into the river, her lungs fill with blood but she only taste the water as she sharply inhales for air. Scratching the bottom riverbed and trying to push herself above water, his heavy boot on her neck forces her back down. She claws like a wildcat, thrashing around for a full minute as he watches her drown. She slowly stops moving, the forest is silent as if mourning the loss. Planting his boot back on the bank, she slowly starts drifting away with the current, the night matching her once white gown to the moon reflecting crests of the waves. And she is gone.

  He turns back towards the cabin nonchalantly, listening to the sharp cries in the distance; his night isn't over.

  1

  I can’t breathe. It’s happening again. I anxiously reach within the slit of my mattress and pull out my journal from the foamy depths. Maybe she is right, maybe I do need this.

  My mind is flooding. I can’t hold it in. The thoughts. The impulses. I can control myself. Just write. Pick up the pen and write. Let it out; don’t let it consume you again.

  As I begin scribbling out the words eroding my mind, a stream of air escapes my lungs where I’ve unconsciously been holding it in too long. It’s dizzying. It's as if my thoughts break free from a dam, flooding my mind with thoughts I don’t want and urgent impulses that command my attention of any situation I’m in. If I don’t comply, my body vibrates with panic like I'm drowning. Panic attack. My lungs constrict, sweat drips from every pore, confusion takes hold, and I’m drowning.

  I pause to take in a breath, hold it for four seconds, and slowly release. Repeating four times my muscles begin to relax, the haze slips from my mind and out the half-opened window. I lift my pen from the flooding ink pool where I paused and start again.

  Am I actually crazy if I know what I see isn't what I'm seeing and if I know what I feel isn't really how I'm feeling? Fuck you don't answer that. Sorry, where was I? I mean, aren't we all on the crazy spectrum somewhat? I know it's true, I see it in everyone around me. I don’t understand what this is. Sure, they can label me, but I don’t understand ow my mind can be so all-consuming, controlling everything I do, and sometimes without my permission.

  This can’t legitimately be a disorder; I’m not disabled. I’m moody, everyone is. It’s not even near a real problem, not like cancer or AIDs. I mean, I think I just need more self-control. Once I can control myself I won’t need the pills to do it for me anymore. I just need to focus. It’s the last week of school; I need to get through it, get a job, and save up enough to leave this place for good. A fresh start. Everybody gets a second go; this will be mine. My escape. From this town, the judging faces, my past, and from me. It’s just not working out, something needs to change, and it’s going to be soon.

  2

  “You’re that thief.” The cashier accuses.

  She hands my change back without touching me as if I’m contagious.

  Rolling my eyes in reply, I shove the change in my pocket, grab my bag and leave the store all the while feeling Edith, the new cashier’s old eyes burning holes in my neck. Maybe I should grab a Snickers on the way out to confirm everything she believes of me. But I won’t, the thought will pass, leaving where they came along the lithium coated synapses in which they originated.

  Pushing my way through the exit, I can’t help but think of Edith; how she thinks I’m still so rotten when the last time I went on a shoplifting spree was when I was ten. I also can’t help but wonder what the rest of the town thinks of me after my last crusade I went on a few months back. If they're anything like Edith, they’ll be waiting for me outside my house with pitchforks and torches. They can fork me in the heart and end this madness, and torch me leaving no trace of my mental body behind.

  Brushing away the anticipation of my ashes taking to the winds I focus on following my feet. Three hundred eighty-four steps from the convenience store to Lucy’s house. Perfect. Four is the number of stability. Multiples of four mean loads of it. Lucy is my rock; she keeps me stable. What started as my community service for freeing the birds at the zoo has turned into something much more profound than I had anticipated. I love old people, but I didn’t want to visit them, read them books, and sweep their floors. Lucy is different though. She doesn’t need my help, but she needs my friendship, our connection. She has no family, no pets, no friends, just cancer. I can see it eating away her soul every time I look in her eyes. I couldn’t imagine being in her position. The feeling of wanting to die I know all too well, but actually dying is a whole other story.

  My legs brush the vines crawling between the empty spaces of the white picket fence as I stroll up Lucy’s stone path. The paint is peeling and old like it has cancer itself. I want to paint it desperately and heal the wounds. I want to stop Lucy’s suffering; I don’t want her to die. I will get my oil paints and brush color over her jaundice skin. I will paint her fat and merry with rosy cheeks and a puppy to keep her company. However, paint would only mask the problems.

  Twisting the diamond knob,
I force the dying door open. The hinges squeak loudly in defiance.

  Unlocked; she knows I’m coming.

  “I brought a surprise!” I shout in the air as I step inside.

  The words echo back to me un-received.

  “Lucy?” I question the walls as I make my way to the living room.

  “In here dear!” she replies.

  I follow her voice to the kitchen where the aroma of chocolate chip cookies punches me in the nose. I bleed with joy. I turn my bag upside down and let the contents fall on the table before she can say she has a surprise too. “Surprise!” I exclaim, “Marshmallows!” her favorite.

  “I have a surprise too.” She wrinkles with delight as she places the tray of gooey goodness in front of me.

  “Is it a car?” I say muffled as I shove a cookie in my mouth.

  She smiles in amusement as she watches me fight the bag of marshmallows open. I pour them out and begin putting them in rows of four.

  “You’ve gone batty April, I swear.”

  “Perhaps. But, there is a method to my madness.” I point out.

  She angles her head curiously.

  I show her “Four rows of four marshmallows each.” I point to the bag, “Four puffs are one-hundred calories, so all together we each will have four-hundred calories of sugar.”

  “Why four-hundred?”

  “Any more is just sugar overdose, and I can’t have you bouncing off the walls and rollerblading in the house. How would that reflect on me?”

  She laughs. I enjoy it when she’s happy.

  “So.” She finally says, “I guess this is it, huh?”

  “It’s the last day of my community service, not the last day of our friendship.” I remind her, getting up to fill my glass with water. “You know I can’t give up these cookies and sliding down your stair rail.”

  “Well, I just don’t want you to feel obligated.” She pauses and looks intently into my eyes. “But my doors are always open, no matter what.”

  She sounds unsure, as if her cancer might not let that happen.

  “And my phone is always on if you need to talk.” I offer.

  We smile.

  I dive deep into my hand-knitted backpack—thanks to lea—and pull out a journal of another kind. This isn't just a journal, but history; Lucy's legacy. Once started as a requirement of my service has now turned into the highlight of my days. She dictates her lavish stories of unrequited love and forlorn youth while I scribble away, recording her life. What some may find dull, I find it therapeutic. I love getting lost in her stories from decades past; it’s similar to reading a good book and pretending you're the main character. Times were so different back then, for one, I would be in an asylum by now drooling my daily puddle on the floor.

  * * *

  Hours go by; I look at the clock, “One more hour.” I comment.

  “Till you meet Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome?” She says coyly.

  There is actually a surplus of tall-dark-and-handsomes running about this town, as well as their exact opposites. It's as though the backwoods either brings out the hick or hottie in you. Great, now I'm thinking about sexy lumberjacks.

  I clench my jaw, “Why do you like him so much? He’s out to get me—he’s arrested me like eighty times!” I want to throw things at her.

  She puts a hand up as if reading my mind, “I’m just saying I think you two would be a perfect couple. You two have chemistry.”

  “Chemistry?” I contest with a sour face.“You mean the oil and water kind? You’ve gone batty. The only connection we have is how he is always the one to apprehend me when I have a lapse in judgment. He follows me I know it...I hate him.” I cross my arms and glance out the window.

  “He was the only one willing to deal with you and calm you down. Anyone else would have tased you on the spot the way you were going on.”

  It’s true. I won’t admit it though.

  Thinking back to my rage-filled years and the cop that was intertwined with them, and still is, I straighten my posture and shove a cookie in my mouth refusing to think about or speak any more on the subject. I hope she takes a hint and shuts up too. She is always right. But I don’t want to hear it, not out loud.

  She goes on, “Well then, I’ll let you go early so you can get that business done with. I don’t want you walking home in the dark.”

  Relief. She doesn’t go on about James. So now I can get on and get this meeting over with. I will never see him again after this.

  “Thanks,” I say sliding her the forms to sign across the table.

  She signs, and glides them back to me, “There you go darling. Take some with you for your journey; you’re thinner than a rail.” She hands me four cookies.

  She knows me.

  I swipe the cookies and say my goodbyes and leave the fading scent of chocolate in my wake.

  3

  The sun blinds me as I leave through the back door. I shade my eyes as I crumble a cookie and disperse it on her lawn for the doves that linger around her house, like sentries guarding Lucy from death. I need to feed them often so they stay on their game. Flicking off my shoes I feel the hair soft grass between my toes as I step over to peek in her barn. A barn owl lives in here, mostly for the constant supply of mice I suspect. The door creaks open and squeals of mice scatter under the hay castles. I scan the decaying lofts.

  No owl. Maybe next time.

  A sigh escapes as I let the door fall shut and I pick up my shoes to leave. I sand the dirt off my feet along the sidewalk before slipping my flats back on. I take the forms out of my back pocket, unfold it, and refold it the wrong way before cramming it in my back pocket again. I’m sure James will enjoy the creases.

  Two cookies left.

  One foot in front of the other I make it to town. The tired houses scream at me in despair for life. I want to give them life. I want to paint them all. I want to paint this town big, with a mall to escape from your family into. This town is small, so small, and I’m an elephant. The townhouse style stores close in on me heightening my sense of claustrophobia. Four more blocks until the police station, a good sign. Five flags are twisting violently in the wind, telling me to turn around and run the other way. Five, the number of uncertainty; bad sign. I search for other good signs to calm my nerves.

  None.

  My body makes it to the station; my mind is left behind, counting. I stop to let the two unite before entering the medieval archway. Inside, the melancholy lights bounce off half-lit faces leaving a vile trail of unwanted thoughts in my head. One looks up.

  “Well, if it isn’t three strike.” The officer proclaims.

  “Don’t call me that.” I shot him a glare.

  There is a pause that felt similar to waiting for a raindrop in a drought.

  “Where’s Officer Hartman?” I finally ask.

  He points. I follow.

  I kick in his door and throw the forms on his desk. “There,” I say as I scurry over to the small window.

  He smiles while smoothing out the chaos of papers. “Early.” He states, “How was your last day?”

  “Glorious,” I say fidgeting with his owl figurine on the window sill, and feeling him watching me while pretending not too. Slamming the owl down and thrusting myself into the chair opposite of him, I fold my arms and stare back at the owl, not wanting to look at him and his gorgeously stupid face.

  If I were any other girl then sure, I would probably want to wear him like a scrunchie, but I'm not, and I don't. History ruins more things than your skin.

  Chemistry my ass.

  “So can I go?” I insist quickly looking at him with an annoyed appearance.

  “Not quite.” He digs in his file cabinet and pulls out a canary yellow folder.

  Well? I say with my eyes.

  “Just some official documents I need you to sign, then you’re free.” He pulls a pen out of his pocket and hands it to me while turning the papers around to sign.

  The pen is warm. He points to dotted lines a
nd I sign without reading. I want to leave. He doesn’t bother to explain what I’m signing; he knows I don’t care. I think he may want me to go as badly as I do. Lucy is wrong; it’s all business, a job. No one cares about anything but themselves. That is the world today.

  “You’re going to miss me.” He smirks.

  “Like braces.” I retort.

  “Not even a little?”

  I make it clear, “Listen, I’d rather put out a fire with my face.”

  His face sinks.

  I get up to leave but halt at the door. I clench my fist before turning around, “Here” I throw him a life raft and give him a cookie so he doesn’t drown.

  He takes it, our fingers brush. He is so warm. His face lights up. He is saved, no one should drown. I know how it feels.

  I wish someone would save me.

  4

  While walking home, I stare at my cookie like a foreign object; I’m so full. Looking around for someone to give it too, I spot a dog. Throwing it to him like a Frisbee it lands under his chin. He looks down, sniffs, and trots away. Picky bastard. What a waste.

  I continue home. But it’s hard.

  Too many people, running errands, shopping, laughing, living. I hate people.

  I block it out by staring at the sky, watching it transition from a bright yellow to a dark orange. The clouds look like Florida oranges.

  So thirsty.

  It’s late when I arrive home. It’s a far walk to get to anything in the middle of nowhere. Lea Lawson is sitting on my steps, tapping both feet impatiently. She spots me and leaps from her position like a trained dolphin out of water.

  “Where the hell have you been?” She beams.

  “Where the hell you think?” I mock, pushing my way past her into my unlocked house.