Out of the Shadows: Book One of the Velieri Uprising

by Tessa Van Wade

  “Come on,” Ian says while still staring at his phone.

  Yet as I walk away, my eyes stay on this man and his on mine. The crowd billows out around him as he stays still, and he continues to watch me until the people swallow him.

  I love Christmas. Even when my students are drawing pictures of Santa a month before the actual holiday, the wave of nostalgia makes me smile. Tonight, the vision of my empty apartment on Christmas morning makes me wonder if I have made a mistake by saying no to Ian’s invitation.

  The cold is beginning to seep through my jeans on my way home from grocery shopping. Just as my feet jump off the curb to cross the street, a strong icy breeze lifts the end of my scarf, the smell of possibly burnt potatoes from a nearby house wafts by, and a man is standing directly across the street, staring at me.

  I stop abruptly on the asphalt.

  He doesn’t move, rather he glares at me with callous eyes. This feels nothing like the other people who have been watching me; rather the same feeling as the night of the attack overwhelms me, the hair on my neck stands upright. My mother reminded me often, “Listen to your instincts.”

  He is tall and built, his eyes small and squinty. The wave of his dark hair falls just past his ears and his skin is pasty white as though he hasn’t been in the sun in years. His thick lips are tight as he glares at me.

  “Remona.” His voice constricts like someone who hasn’t taken a breath for too long.

  “You’ve got the wrong person. I don’t know that name,” I assure him.

  When I step off the sidewalk, he starts to run at me.

  “No!” I yell. Not again. The groceries fall from my hands to the ground as my feet scrape at the cement to run.

  A car pulls down the street unexpectedly and my heart rejoices. Instinctively my hands fly above my head as I wave the car down.

  “Help!” I yell.

  The man chasing me steps back into the shadows. Everything, from the heavy sole of his black shoe to the way that his body fills out his thick sweater, is terrifying.

  The car screeches to a halt and I run to the driver’s window.

  “You’re going to give me a heart attack, lady!” the older man yells.

  “I’m so sorry. Please help me.”

  “Are you crazy? I nearly ran you over!” says the man with a thick Cuban accent and a parent-like shake of his head.

  “Please, can you give me a ride?”

  “I have to get home.” He shakes his head apologetically. “Listen, lady, I would. I’ve been working for almost ten hours.”

  “I know, sir, I understand, but I . . .” I take a quick glance at the man in the shadows.

  The driver follows my eyes. It takes him a moment as he finally realizes there is someone else there. His eyebrows burrow into his large mustached nose with speculation. He assesses what is happening, discerning his safety.

  “Please,” I whisper.

  After a pregnant pause, he nods. “Okay, get in.” I hustle into the back of his car with broken leather seats and lean nearly halfway out of the car to close the door. I yank hard, but it refuses to budge as though it is pinned to the cement sidewalk. A shadow slides over my arm as a large hand yanks the door away from me so quickly that my fingers crack.

  He is there, holding the door open. His unfamiliar face staring at me.

  I scramble back against the other side door. “No!” I yell. “What do you want?”

  “Hey, go on,” the driver yells.

  Yet the man from the shadows doesn’t care. His long wavy hair falls in front of his eyes but he does nothing to brush it away. Instead he slithers toward me.

  His brown eyes dig into mine, making it difficult to look away, yet I try desperately to search for the door handle behind my back.

  “Leave me alone!” I yell.

  My head pounds with pain. My skin suddenly feels the sensation of hot pokers. When he turns his head to the side, his eyes digging deeper, the pain surges and forces a groan from my lips and my eyes to close.

  “What are you doing?” the driver yells.

  Yet the man’s eyes never leave me. He’s dangerous, angry, as though there is something I have done. The closer he comes, the more the pain worsens until my body goes limp and sinks down into the seat in the vehicle.

  What is happening? My eyes roll back in my head. His jawbone pulses in and out as he clenches.

  Just as I feel my skin stretch to its limit, I hear the gun. For the first time the man’s eyes release mine, giving me instant relief, when he finds the driver’s gun at his temple.

  “Back away,” the driver says with a rough voice.

  For a moment it seems the weapon isn’t going to deter him. “I got plenty of bullets. Ain’t nothin’ gonna stop me from using them all,” the driver threatens.

  Finally, with a low reverberating growl, the man pulls away. Before he can get out, the driver presses his foot on the gas, and I kick the stranger with all my strength until he rolls onto the street. I grab the door as the car peels away and slam it shut. Only moments later, the figure of the man standing directly over the median line of the street glares behind me.

  “Who was he, lady?” the driver asks while racing through a yellow light.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you have an address?” Instead of answering, I fumble through my wallet and hand him my driver’s license.

  I rub my shaking hands together. My breath seems to stick to the walls of my chest. The driver uses his rear-view mirror to check on me several times, so I try to avert my eyes.

  This is not my life.

  Sweat pours down my face, so I hurriedly unzip my jacket while I fight to breathe. In only minutes, the car slows to a stop before the realization hits that I’m home.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod even though the answer might be no.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “It’s not safe out there.” He hesitates before continuing, “I tell my daughter this all of the time . . . go on . . . I’ll wait till you’re in.” I see the door, but my body remains stuck. Finally, he smiles and says, “Come on.” He jumps out of the car. The father in him takes over as he walks me to the door and even retrieves my keys to open it. “Good night, lady.”

  I don’t wait for him to get in his car—rather, I hurry through the lobby and up my stairs. The lights along the old hallway of my apartment building have flickered since I moved in, yet only now I’m wishing I paid more attention. A call to the manager is now on my to-do list.

  Before my key hits the lock, just the small pressure from my fingers force the door open. I step back and stare with a racing heart. I double checked everything before I left. It is impossible for me to forget something as important as the lock on the door.

  I hear Dr. Stella’s voice calming me. “There’s most likely a reasonable explanation.”

  “It’s just me,” I whisper. “It can’t be anything more.” With gentle fingers I press the heavy door open.

  Lying with his hands under his head, watching TV on my couch and blind to the world, is Ian. My body erupts in flames.

  “Are you kidding?” An unwieldy yell pops out, surprising Ian. He falls to the floor, losing his bowl of popcorn that’s resting on his chest.

  “Hi!” he says, trying to brush the popcorn back in the bowl; he gives up quickly due to the look on my face.

  “Do you ever think, Ian? Do me a favor and someday learn how to use your brain.”

  “I found out I don’t have to work tomorrow so I thought I’d come over. I didn’t realize you would still be out.”

  “Give me back my key.” I try to hold back, but to no avail.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Ian, this is not your place anymore. You can’t just walk in whenever you feel like it.”

  “Where’s all this coming from?”

  “Don’t make yourself at home when I am not here.” For the first time he hustles to my side, then with hesitation lays a hand
on my arm.

  The sincerity is there, however unskilled, “I just want to be here for you.”

  “This is ridiculous. We’re basically doing the same thing we did when we were together, only now I don’t have a ring on my finger.”

  “I can put it back on if you want.” I squeeze his hand till he winces. “I’m just kidding. I’ll give you the key back tomorrow. What’s up? What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why do you do that? You don’t tell anybody anything.”

  “I don’t feel like I have to explain everything—all the time.”

  “Not everything . . . but some things.”

  “You wouldn’t want to know anyway.”

  “Try me. I think I would.”

  There are so many reasons to keep my mouth shut, yet I have known those who have sunk deep into their introverted shells, never to return. I don’t want to become this.

  “Okay fine . . .” I say it like I am picking up the gun in a game of Russian roulette. “I’m being watched.” His stare is blank. “Everywhere I go, there are people watching me, just like my mom said.”

  “Human people?” He chuckles.

  I growl and stomp away.

  “Okay . . . I’ll be good!” He chases me. “Who’s watching you?”

  “I don’t know who they are. Some look at me like they’re watching out for me, but this last one was angry.”

  “Angry?” He hesitates in sardonic thought. “Hmmm, okay. Have you been drinking?” He dips his tongue into a reservoir of sarcasm. The universal language of fight or flight, something that I speak well, sends me down the hall without so much as an explanation. “Hey, I’m just kidding!” he calls out with a laugh. “Come back, I won’t say anything else stupid.”

  “That’s impossible. I need a drink of water.”

  In the kitchen, my mother’s healthy face looks at me through the snapshot from a moment several years ago. Her thin lips speak to me from behind the frame and glass. “He’s not right for you,” she sweetly said many times. Only now, in my kitchen, I imagine the miniature version of her saying it again, “There’s someone else for you.”

  “I have no one, Mom.” The words tumble out like they had been piling up behind my lips since her passing. Oh God. What am I doing? She isn’t here and she can’t hear me.

  The water flows from the faucet into my glass, but instead of taking a sip my head sinks to the cool tile counter. Ian has given up on the conversation and the television turns up louder, but I’m grateful. My forehead chills and the counter tiles dig into my skin. The day is fading into night and the only light in my apartment comes from the streetlamps. They are bright, illuminating everything from the outside in, so my eyes survey the jagged edge of square buildings and the flicker of city lights. After a moment, I picture the quiet street.

  My head lifts with curiosity. Is he there? My chest rises with a forced breath. Ian is at my right, and the last thing I need is his attention. I casually walk to the window with a vigilant eye on him as he takes in Jimmy Fallon, but as usual, he pays no attention.

  It is a beautifully clear night, which allows me to scan the winding hill in front of my apartment. My heart pounds—even up the pathways on my neck when I notice a man standing in the shadows on the street below. My hand suctions to the icy glass as I lean in, but he is so far away that it is impossible to determine whether it’s him. Yet after a moment, while the city echoes with a tired hustle, he steps into the light—leaving no subtleties that it is him and he is watching. I notice concern trapped by his features. He’s so close that all I need to do is go to him. Who are you?

  I am startled when a hand slides around my stomach as Ian presses his face to my hair. “Are you coming?” he asks.

  I toss his hand aside with panic and quickly glance at the man with green eyes. He is still standing there, yet something flashes across his face and he returns to his favorite place on the brick wall. That’s when I recognize Ian’s fleck of bravado.

  “Is that who’s been watching you?” Ian asks angrily.

  “Come on, Ian. I’m tired.” When I lay my hand on his chest, his instability pounds against my hand.

  “It is, isn’t it?” Before I can deny anything, he charges across the living room.

  “Ian, stop!” I yell, but he is gone. Ian is a big guy, but my watcher is a beast comparatively. “Ian!”

  The metal stairs shake, sending reverberations through the halls, and when I reach the door to the street, it is slightly ajar. Just a small push sends it slamming into Ian’s heels, but he doesn’t care—the poorly lit street is more interesting.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. He ignores me and runs to the other side of the street.

  “Where did he go?” Ian asks heatedly when he can find no one. “You said people have been watching you. You want me to just let that go?”

  “Just a minute ago, you made me feel like an absolute idiot for this! So, yeah! I remember the times you told me my mom was crazy, Ian. You’re frickin’ lucky we broke up because I’m going to be just like her.”

  There’s truth to what I’m saying so he remains quiet despite his heavy breathing.

  “Go home, Ian. Not back to my apartment . . . but home.”

  Like an angry football coach, his chest flares as he paces the cement. When I chuckle, it exacerbates his irritation. Before long, he retreats. His boots pound the pavement back to the apartment building and the metal door makes a loud clang behind him.

  The street is suddenly silent and strangely peaceful. There are several frogs somewhere having a conversation under the city drum. Until footsteps pad the street behind me, so I turn.

  Just down the road he’s there, standing calmly with his hands in his pockets, and the sight of him wakes my nerves. It is possible that he can see my hands shake or the instability in my footing when I nearly trip. He confidently closes the distance between us.

  I pull my cardigan around my shoulders and we meet each other in the middle of the street. “Hi,” I finally whisper.

  “Hi.” His voice is deep, but familiar. It takes only seconds before my revelation brings me physically closer.

  “It’s you.” How had I not realized this? Instinctively my hands revisit my healed wounds beneath my sweater. “Arek?” There is a need within me to tread lightly so that he will stay.

  He nods.

  “Why’d you leave that night?”

  “I couldn’t stay,” is all he says. He comes closer until I am forced to look up into his eyes—a stranger invoking in me a powerful nostalgia as though we can stand within inches of each other or reminisce about days long ago. Why does it feel this way?

  When he is about to say something, Ian yells from the second story window, “Willow, I’m leaving!”

  “Then go!” I yell back. Ian growls then disappears.

  Yet even this doesn’t force me to look away from the man who saved me.

  “You’d better go,” he nearly whispers.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I don’t want you to either,” he says and my heart flips. “But it’s late.”

  For the first time, he drops his head to the side with a grin and raises his eyebrows to inform me that there is no other option. Against my will, I head back even though my heart searches for reasons to stay.

  After some distance, I peek behind me. He is gone. From side to side I search, but the road is uncomfortably empty.

  I don’t sleep. Since the incident, it is impossible to settle down my body or, when sleep finally comes, the man with arthritic fingers and white hair appears, turning my dreams upside down until I wake drenched in sweat.

  The light flickers for just a moment as my feet shuffle heavily across the floor. The kettle clinks the sink when I’m filling it and sizzles when it’s on the burner, yet when the tea box won’t open, I fling it across the floor and the tea bags scatter.

  “Ugh!” I growl, as I grab my head in my hands. A tear runs down my cheek and I realize
that I haven’t cried since my mom’s funeral. Yet even when my fingers are moist from wiping the tear, there is nothing beyond this. No chin quiver, no convulsion of my chest, no ability to dig deeper—maybe release more.

  I don’t want tea. I want sleep. I want answers. Movement outside my window draws me there. My hand presses against the cold glass as I see an owl swoop from one tree to the next, leading my eyes to fall on Arek standing below. He’s looking at me. My heart excites, patting against my chest, and it no longer feels alone.

  Before I think—because thinking is my enemy right now—I hurry out of my apartment. No one in their right mind is awake currently so the lobby is empty. Finally, the cold temperature of winter hits my face as I walk through the doors, but my coat is upstairs hanging on a hook. Deep within my chest my panic warms me, and I easily forget about the biting weather when I look up.

  He’s there, across the street. After a moment, he walks to me, his hands deep in his pockets and we meet on the centerline of the street. For a moment we are silent, despite his concerned and piercing eyes that seem to be able to dismantle what’s left of me.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. “You can’t sleep.”

  Immediately I wonder what I must look like for him to ask this.

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The smell of moisture fills the air, as it seems to grow colder by the minute and my body shakes. One drop at a time, a cold sprinkle begins. He acts unphased so I try to as well.

  “Why are you here?” I finally ask.