by A. M. Rose
“What’s wrong?” Dylan loops his arm around my waist, catching me. “Here, let me help you.” He pulls me into him and I hold on tight.
“He’s back,” I whisper.
“Who?” Dylan lowers his voice and checks around.
I curl into Dylan’s chest. “The Green-eyed man.”
“Hey, come here.” Dylan pulls me around and stands in front of me, his strong hands gripping both my arms, and he leans down enough so we’re eye to eye. Thankfully his aren’t green. They’re brown and full of reassurance. “You hit your head. Maybe harder than you think. You know he isn’t real.” Dylan wraps those strong arms around me. “It’s gonna be okay. I’m right here.”
I stiffen. And for a second, I want to shove Dylan away or argue with him. How can he be so sure? But Dylan knows all about my recurring nightmare. When we were kids, I’d wake screaming during sleepovers and he’d lull me back to sleep, promising to keep me safe. Even last week when I swore I saw the man at the mall, Dylan let me hold his arm, and we left without buying the hoodie he wanted. He told me I was stressing over nothing. Still he’s trying to help, but it doesn’t stop my nerves from twitching. Or erase the image from my mind.
Dylan rubs my back as I bury my head in his chest, but I can still see the man with my eyes closed. I try to think of anything else. It takes a minute, but soon my breathing slowly returns to normal. When I pull away, the Green-eyed man is gone. Like a ghost, he’s vanished. Left only as an imprint on my mind.
Dylan gestures toward the trees. “See? No one’s there.” He smiles, trying to reassure me.
“You’re right.” He isn’t right. But I’ve been enough trouble today, so I let it go even though the hair on the back of my neck is still standing on end.
Dylan sits next to me on a bench outside the park’s office and talks on and on about nothing in particular. He’s trying to distract me, but as much as he tries, I can’t shake the man from my mind. My nightmare is stronger than any memory, except what happens in the nightmare hasn’t happened in real life. Thank God.
Thirty minutes later, Dad rushes up from the parking lot. He’s not full-out running, but he wants to be, the way every third step is a skip. His cheeks are red. And his plaid shirt sticks out from his favorite blue sweater. The one I tell him he looks like a grandpa in, but he doesn’t care. Mom must’ve gotten called in to work again. “Hey, sport.” He takes a moment to get a good look at me, eyes scanning from my shoes to the bandage on my face. He lets out a breath, probably realizing it’s not a life or death thing. “You okay?”
Dylan stands to greet him. “I’m sorry, Roy. It’s all my fault.”
“Don’t listen to him, Dad. I slipped and hit my face. It’s no big deal. Just a little scratch.” My fingers trace the edge of the bandage.
“Looks like you got yourself a nice shiner.” Dad slings his arm around me and gives me a tight squeeze. “You ready to go?”
“Yeah.” I turn to Dylan. “See you in the morning.”
“Try to be ready for once.” He gives me his crooked smile and hands me my camera. “I really am sorry. If you want to disown me as your best friend, I totally understand.” He pulls me in for a hug. The scent of Dylan wraps around me, clean like freshly washed laundry with a hint of leather. I breathe it in and linger there, if only for a moment.
Friends. Nothing more. Only friends. Best friends, but friends all the same.
I push away from him. “Shut up.”
But when I glance back on my way to Dad’s car, Dylan’s still standing at the same bench watching me go. He offers a quick wave, and my heart flutters in response.
A moment later I’m tucked inside Dad’s car. The silver bullet, he likes to call it. Shiny bullet is more like it. There’s so much wax on it, any dust or water are afraid to stake their claim, and the inside’s the same. Spotless. The heat from the sun-soaked leather seats seeps into my sore muscles and eases my mind. “Mom got another surgery, huh?”
“Nope.” Dad checks his mirrors. “Said she had a mountain of paperwork, though. Looks like it’s just you and me, kid. You up for a little marathon?” He can’t keep the excitement out of his voice, and then he winks.
I grin. Vegging out watching reality TV is what Dad and I do best. And since Mom won’t be home to complain, we can catch up on Naked and Afraid. “I’ll order the pizza.”
“Extra jalapeños this time.”
“You know it.”
We fist bump to seal the deal. “But first your mom wants us to stop by the hospital so she can check you out for herself.”
I release a deep sigh. This sucks. I want to get home and take a hot shower, scrub the great outdoors from my body. Although there’s nothing great about it. “Do we have to?”
Dad flashes “the look,” so there’s no arguing. No one can take care of you better than I can, Mom always says. She keeps a full stock of supplies at the house just in case. If there was ever some kind of world catastrophe, she’d be ready. Sometimes I think she takes her better-safe-than-sorry prepping a step too far. But Dad says it’s her way of showing me she cares. He’s probably right.
He turns the volume up on the radio. The hosts argue that global warming is some political hoax. Dad yells at them and calls them idiots. They are idiots, but I don’t say anything. I pull the visor down and inspect my injury, or at least the huge white gauze and tape covering most of it. Under my eye is already turning a deep shade of purple, like I haven’t slept in a month. Yep, Mom’s gonna freak.
When I shut the mirror and glance out the window, he’s there, in the woods ahead of us. Watching me.
The Green-eyed man.
Our car eats up the space between us and a shiver runs down my spine. His piercing stare never disengages. Then we’re past, and I can finally breathe.
He’s been a vision I’ve had since I was little. First he came in fragments, and then in scenes. I pull my knees into my chest. Today it feels like it’s getting worse. Like I’ve seen him too much in such a short amount of time. No one has ever believed me about this. Sometimes, I don’t even believe me. I scramble for my camera and turn, needing solid proof. But the man’s gone. That’s assuming he was really there to begin with.
“Dad…”
“Are you crazy? It’s a scientific fact, you morons,” he yells.
I sink back into my seat and don’t tell Dad about the monster lurking in the trees.
…
“What kind of two-bit hacks are over there? Do they have any medical training at all?” Mom has removed the bandage Jason applied and studies my face carefully. The sterile smell of the hospital checkup room makes my nose itch. “How exactly did you manage this anyway? They’re supposed to have top-of-the-line safety equipment there.” She narrows her eyes, making her crow’s-feet more pronounced, and taps her foot on the floor.
“It was an accident. And it’s just a little scratch. It’s really not a big deal.” My words come out more like a whisper. I shouldn’t feel nervous, like I did something wrong, but Mom seems to have that effect on me.
“Not a big deal? This wasn’t cleaned properly. Which means it could get infected and worst-case scenario you lose your eyesight. I’ll be calling them first thing in the morning.” She walks over to a cabinet and steps up on a stool. “This shouldn’t hurt.” She pulls out a bottle of blue liquid and pours some onto a sterile pad. I shift on the table and crinkle the paper under me, the memory of the antiseptic wipe still fresh in my mind.
She touches the pad to my face, and it’s nothing like before. It’s cold and removes any lingering pain. Next, she applies ointment and a fresh bandage.
“Alexandrea, you need to be more careful. You’re lucky Dylan was there to take care of you.”
Right on cue.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I could remind her that accidents happen, but this is Mom, where nothing is beyond her control. Well, at least not if she has anything to say about it. And fighting only makes it worse. “Yeah, maybe I should ba
ke him some cookies to thank him.”
She looks at me blankly. “Please don’t. We don’t need the fire department showing up.”
Leave a pot of water boiling on the stove too long and they never let you live it down. “That was once. And Dad got to it in time.”
With a look only Mom can give, she pushes her platinum blonde bob behind her ear, exposing the line from her foundation on her jaw. I’ve told her a million times it isn’t the right shade, but she doesn’t listen, and she’s never without it, even at home. She returns to the cabinet. I hunch forward, my long legs almost touching the floor.
For a petite woman, Mom sure knows how to make others feel small.
“Here, take these.” She hands me two tiny blue pills and two white ones. “I want you to go home and get some rest. No staying up all night with your paintings or photos or whatever new project you have going on.” She gives me the look again. “Do you hear me?” She hands me a cup of water.
“Yes, ma’am, Dr. Smith, sir.” I shouldn’t, but I salute and then swallow the pills and water in one gulp.
She shakes her head at me.
I gingerly touch the new bandage on my face and step down from the exam table as Mom puts the bottle of blue liquid away. “Alexandrea?” Mom says, and I pause at the door. She’s bent over a chart, her gaze fixed on the paper. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
My eyebrows shoot up. Excuse me? Mom isn’t known for being the sensitive one. Dad always kissed my boo-boos as a kid.
Her phone goes off. “I have to go. They need me for a consult.” She tucks the chart under her arm and lets out a huff. “Can’t you do something with that hair?”
I smile and pull it back into a messy bun before leaving the room. Now that’s Mom.
…
After Dad and I eat our way through a large pizza and watch a few episodes of Naked and Afraid and Cutthroat Kitchen, my head’s thick—in a fog. My body’s heavy, and the right side of my face is pulsing again. Who’d have thought hitting my head could make me feel so shitty?
Dad helps carry me up to my room, his arm around my waist, my elbow resting on his shoulder. His daily workouts give him more than enough strength to support most of my weight. But each step still sends sharp pain through me. “Almost there,” Dad says.
“He was there today…I saw him…I know I did…” Words are like mud in my mouth. My tongue feels two sizes too big.
“Who?”
I take another step, my leg heavier than an elephant. “The Green-eyed man…”
“Oh.” He takes a deep breath. “You’ll feel better once you get a good night’s sleep.”
Sleep is the last thing I want to do. “Don’t come tonight,” I whisper. “Don’t come.” But the only way to keep him at bay is to stay awake.
Dad’s warm arm squeezes me tighter into his side and feels like a protective barrier no one could ever get through. When we reach my room and he lays me on the bed, a cold emptiness settles inside me.
He pulls the blanket up to my chin and tucks it tightly around me. “Everything will be okay. I’ll come check on you in a little while.” The scruff of his dark beard tickles as he kisses my cheek. And then he’s gone.
Pain settles deep in my bones, laughing at my need to get a good night’s rest for school tomorrow. I force my eyes open, but they immediately close. Other kids dream of monsters who want to kill them or giant snakes that want to eat them alive. Hell, I’ve had those dreams. But they don’t scare me like the Green-eyed man. I fight the images away and pray we won’t be seeing each other on the other side of sleep.
Chapter Two
Bitter cold clings to the windows, its icy veins eating the blank space. But it has no effect on me as I snuggle down into my seat. The snow-covered hills roll like white satin sheets and glisten in the dwindling sun. As we drive along, Dad and I listen to music, fluttering notes played on a violin. They’re quick and complicated, but beautiful just the same. He turns to me and frowns, his eyes are kind, then sad, and they aren’t his at all anymore. They’re mine. The same blue. And it isn’t Dad anymore, either. This man is tall and slender with dark hair that has just a little gray above his ears and a neatly manicured beard.
“Who are you?” Fear keeps my voice at barely a whisper.
But he doesn’t answer. And now the car has changed, too. The steering wheel is missing and in front of the windshield is another screen that looks like a hologram of a computer screen. The man sitting next to me types on it with one hand, while holding a travel mug in the other. This is all wrong.
I spin around, knees shaking, panic and confusion settling in my chest. In the back seat is a young girl, maybe five. Her ginger hair is pulled into a single braid draped over her shoulder. On her neck is a heart locket. She seems happy, the rubber boots on her feet kicking in time with the music.
Something starts ringing like an alarm. The screen the man is typing on flashes Вони знайшли вас. I don’t know how, but I know it’s Ukrainian, and means, “They found you.”
The girl says something…looks up and… My mouth goes dry. Because her eyes are mine, too. My nose, my chin.
I reach out toward her, and she vanishes. So does the man. And Dad is back at the wheel. I want to be relieved, but something still isn’t right.
Without warning, my body’s thrown forward into my seat belt. I dig my nails into the cushion, holding on to anything I can. Dad’s eyes are wide with fright, and his fingers curl around the steering wheel, locking them tight. We’re hit again and I scream.
The car spins; the world around me cyclones.
With another hard hit, we flip end over end, off the road. The metal buckle cuts into my hip as we tumble down an embankment and come to a stop upside down. My lips quiver.
Except for the sound of my heart pounding in my ears, silence surrounds me. Not a single soft note from the music that had been playing, or even the wind that blows through the smashed glass makes a sound. The icy air tears through my skin like angry dogs; my aching body shivers against them.
“Dad.” My voice is the first sound to pierce the silence.
Blood streams down the side of his face.
I claw at my seat belt. “I’m coming.”
He whispers something, but it’s so quiet I can’t make it out.
Suddenly, I’m looking at him through a pane of glass. “No!” I throw my hands against it. They bounce off, soundless, and a shock wave ripples through me. The excruciating pain means nothing. I have to get to him. I slam my hands over and over, but it’s no use. It’s determined to keep me from him.
A pair of gloved hands reaches through the driver’s side window, ripping Dad from the car. “Stop. Where are you taking him?” I press my hands against the force holding me back.
A man’s face comes into view. My eyes widen, but other than that I can’t move. His hair is as black as ink. His emerald eyes pierce through me. Just under his right eye is a crescent-shaped scar. My breath catches in my chest as he looks straight through me, like I don’t even exist.
“He’s alone.” His voice is dark and raspy. It cuts through me like a jagged knife.
I open my mouth to scream, but it’s caught, trapped—like me. I’m helpless as the Green-eyed man drags Dad away from the car unconscious, leaving behind a scarlet trail in the snow.
I’m wrenched from my sleep, sit straight up, gasping to catch my breath. Sweat drips from my hair, but I’m cold. Oh, so cold.
“It’s okay. It was just a dream.” Mom puts her arm around my shoulders.
Slowly, my eyes focus, and the familiarity of my bedroom sets in. But right away I know it wasn’t just a dream. It was wrong. All of it. The same nightmare I’ve had forever, but so different. The man. The car. The girl. I try to reach for the covers but come up short.
Mom’s beside me. Her arm draped over me feels like cardboard. The clock on my bedside table reads 6:45 a.m. But that’s not right either. My nightmares always wake me in the middle of the night, not
this late in the morning. My alarm should’ve gone off an hour ago.
“Why are you here?” I cringe; even to my ears that sounded bitchy. And it’s not like I meant it to be, it’s just I wish Dad was here. Why does he have to work so early?
She pushes my hair back. “You’re on fire.” She shifts on the bed. “Dylan, grab my bag from the hall and bring it up here,” she yells.
I grip my head in my hands.
The pain pulses over and over like an echo. “Son of a bitch.” It comes out before I can stop it, not that I care about the consequences of swearing in front of Mom right now.
“What’s the matter?” She sounds more concerned than angry, which catches me by surprise.
“My head hurts.” It’s a total understatement. The pressure’s so intense, my skull feels like it’s going to explode.
I blink, and Dylan’s standing in my doorway, Mom’s medical bag, her big one, gripped in his hands. “What’s going on, Doc?” His voice is dripping with unease.
Mom doesn’t respond. Instead she takes the bag from him as he sits next to me, the bed pulling me in his direction. He wraps his arm around me, and unlike Mom’s it comforts me. She shifts on the bed, then shoves a thermometer under my tongue, inspects my fingernails, and shines a light in my face. “Alexandrea, can you follow the light with your eyes?” Her voice is firm but calm.
The beam moves so fast I can’t keep up. My body becomes heavier, and I have to lean into Dylan for support. He doesn’t complain. He never complains.
Mom pulls the thermometer from my mouth. “1-0-3.” She reaches in her bag and comes out with a few pills, some of them the same as yesterday. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of you. Here, swallow these.”
Baby? Don’t worry? If I wasn’t staring at her, I wouldn’t believe it was Mom sitting next to me.
I try to reach for them, but my arms won’t move, like they’re glued to my sides. I want to ask what’s wrong with me. I want to cry. But all I can do is open my mouth for Mom to put the pills on my tongue. She tips my head back and fills my mouth with water. It takes all my concentration to swallow before Dylan lays me back down.