The Risen: Dawning

by Marie F. Crow

  I remember our late night chats. We would lean upon my car after I closed the bar on the nights we were both seeking reasons to avoid heading home. We had become each others blankets of comfort. The soft fabric of it served to soften the edges of life’s hard lessons. We wrapped ourselves in it so tight that we have become the others main source for comfort in this life. Its seams were sewn from the many shared laughs, the heart-felt moments, and our stolen glances. The fabric has been wearing thin as of late. The seams are shredding as the threads unravel. I would give anything to have that warm blanket wrapped around me now.

  The fabric of my jeans feels like sandpaper upon my tender flesh. Gripping anything sends pinpoint pains through my fingers. At this moment, I am very happy for slip-on boots. I am not happy with their new marks. They seem to be as battered as my flesh, with deep gouges through the leather mimicking my many bruises. The toes are scuffed beyond repair from my desperate sliding along the rough pavement from trying to escape. I am so engrossed in the damage to my boots, and the disappointment it causes, that I do not notice the person coming into the room. His deep cologne of male scent and stale cigarettes announces him for me.

  He rests against the white wooden door frame, watching me with his soul-seeking eyes. Neither of us says a word to the other for a few moments in mutual silence. His eyes are taking me in as he waits for any female mine fields that he fears he will have to navigate. I wait for his anger to whip through the room at my actions in the form of his own male mine field. When nothing explodes between us, a smile slips upon his face, tugging mine out to play.

  “Shame about the boots.” J.D. says in the closest thing to a playful voice he has. “Always love a girl in a good pair of boots.” He drags the words out, adding extra heat to them.

  “Well, seeing as how they are still in one piece, I guess they are still “good” boots.” I turn my legs side to side to gain a better vantage point of the damage. “I’m sure Aimes will just call them broken in.”

  “That she will. That she will. What would she call that little stunt you pulled back there?” He is tipping his toes into the water of the real reason he started this conversation.

  “Suicidally gifted.” I smile my best “look, just a harmless girl” smile hoping to save myself from what I feel forming.

  He chuckles his deep male vibration of a laugh. “That would be a good summary. I would call it a massive fuck up. What were you thinking?” The playful tones melt away as his voice lowers to a pitch warning of his destruction.

  “That I had to save Aimes. Other than that, the truck would have been nice to have.” I hold no attempt to earn approval from him. I did nothing seeking any rewards, but just the safety of my friend. Therefore, his opinion of the event is meaningless to me. I would do it all again. I may just run sooner next time.

  He stores the words I offer, but also the body language I hold. J.D. never wastes words. He tells you what he needs you to know only in that moment, leaving you to fill in the rest of the conversation yourself. What you fill in, is up to you. What you do with the filler, that is what he will be watching. It is a tight rope relationship with him and the truth is your only balancing tool of safety.

  He lets his silence fill the room with its own weight, waiting to see if I will cave before him. Waiting to see If I will beg for his mercy, and understanding, to regain any lost good graces with him. He is testing my strength of resolve for what I have done, as a doctor would test one for shock after such an event. Whatever he finds suits him and he nods with the smile again.

  “Next time you want to go all Zombie Barbie on me, give a guy a heads up. It would be a shame to lose your sweet ass. We may just need those balls of steel you are hiding somewhere. You might want to pick an automatic, too.”

  His deep laughter follows him into the dark hallway beyond the room. He moves without a sound, which always amazes me for such a large man. Not even the well-worn wooden floors moan under his steps. They do not want to attract his attention any more than the living do. The darkness absorbs his form as if he is a missing piece of it. It welcomes him home.

  I have always thought of him as the Boogeyman. Until now, he was the most mind wracking fear I have met with his icy-cold exterior and the no limits to his level of destruction. A level of destruction that never gifts him sleepless nights as it would so many others with the things he has done. Not even a pause in conversation to debate any of the rumored horror stories collected about him. The fact that he is now on the “good guy” side of the world shows just how far up the evil creek we are. I do not have a paddle strong enough to fight against the current that is rushing towards me with each hour that slips away.

  I make my way slowly through the same hallway with small shuffling steps. I use the wall as a guide, not as comfortable in the darkness as the one that went ahead of me. My legs are almost a dead weight of pains and aches. It reminds me of Margaret with her swaying pigtails as another memory crashes through me, almost doubling me over with it. I had come close to having more in common with her today than just my mobility.

  The whole place is decorated in a retro country theme with bead board paneling in the various shades of white clichés. The wooden floor creaks under my feet even with the few well-worn runners spaced throughout in an attempted color scheme. Windows are covered in various plaids that have been bleached to pastels from years of sunlight. Seeing those shades, I cringe without a conscious effort.

  The furniture is sparse. Even to say “bare necessity” would not be an exaggeration to the rooms. It is the same with any personal touches that may give a clue to the owner of this place. There are no mementos. There are no framed faces or events in well placed spots. There is nothing here to associate J.D. with this place at all, much less any of his personality reflected upon it.

  There appears to be four bedrooms in which bags have been placed. A wooden ladder bolted to a wall leads up to an open loft style bedroom. I can see the duffels from Lee’s stacked against one of its walls. Various smaller guns are laying out along the loft’s edge. I cannot help but wonder if that is their idea of a final desperation set up or just boys being boys with their toys. It brings me no comfort to see them already either this prepared or this on edge.

  “Hey, Zombie Barbie is up!” Rhett calls out as I pass the doorway to what opens to a small kitchen and dining room.

  “I think I preferred Snow White.” I mutter to him, returning his mock smile.

  “Trust me when I tell you Zombie Barbie is way better than the other things they were naming you.” Aimes and I smile at each other before it all melts into silent tear-filled embraces. We cling to one another in a silent affirmation of our friendship, the survival of today, and the freedom of being a girl that allows us to do this.

  “I’m so sorry.” She whispers over and over again. I hold her, knowing deep inside she is just not apologizing to me but to herself in her imagined sense of failure. I know because I have done the same thing myself when I was surrounded by true pastels, fallen Angels, and the perfumes of death a life time ago. I know because I have enough of my own failures to apologize over. I hold her and let us both be okay with them.

  Chapter 18

  Dinner consisted of canned goods and meat in a color and shape that I have never seen in any supermarket. At the time, I was so hungry I did not think much of it. Now as I do, my stomach does a warning roll to stop. The conversation around me ebbs and flows with various mood swings. Each time it flows to a serious note a new tide is inserted to change its course. No one has the strength yet to talk about the day, even as long glances are being cast my way when the swings go south. Though we are all curious about the shadowed looks the conversations place upon each of our faces, no one wants to share first. Who would? “Hey, I stabbed a room full of kids today. How was your morning?”, is not the most encouraging of starters.

  Chapel decides to do it anyway though. His own soul is bursting
with the need of it. I wonder if all religious men are so immune to others efforts of avoidance of soul baring or if ours is just super talented at it.

  “I lost them all.” His statement brings the room to a hush. Everyone at the table does their best to find something amazing on the walls around us. Everyone ,that is, but our leader, J.D. He leans back in the chair, giving Chapel the full weight of his blank stare. If Chapel is going to be strong enough to take the journey, then J.D. is going to be strong enough to travel it silently with him.

  Lawless discovers how interesting the engraved art is on his lighter. Rhett makes an amazing find under his thumbnail and begins to stare at it with concerning confusion. Marxx is overcome with a sudden urge to wash his plate, taking him away from not only the table, but also any involvement in the conversation. Even our lighthearted pixie begins to treat the leftover vegetables on her plate as if they are a scientific discovery of wonders. I myself am curious. Will his be as bad as mine? Will I find some redemption for my sins in his story? Will this finally open the door for all of our ghosts that have been haunting us throughout the day to storm through? Will the door be able to close again if they do? Or, are we still too fragile to open the door at all, much less breathe life into the nightmares that haunt us in our minds?

  “It started with the little ones. They complained of feeling wrong last night, but other than a small fever they were fine. We sent them to bed. We checked on them a few times before we went to bed ourselves. They were fine. A little warm, but fine. Then Trina woke earlier than normal. She was so sick. Her fever just kept climbing, but she kept refusing to go to the ER. We would have to wake the kids and all, you know. Mother’s logic, it being what it is. I left to get her a cool rag. She was right there in the bedroom. I could not have been gone for more than a few minutes. I came back and she was gone. Her body still burning hot, but she was gone.”

  His eyes shift side to side, not seeing us right now. He is reliving his own projections of memories behind those eyes.

  “I was so confused. Who do you call, and admit, to letting your wife die while you were getting her a rag? I just shut off, you know. Tucked the blankets in around her. Made her more comfortable like I guess. Then I just left her. I don’t know. I just left her. God forgive me, I just left her and went to sit with the kids.”

  His voice never cracks as the first tear escapes, forging the path down his lined face.

  “Their little bodies were all contorted in their beds. Sheets tangled around them something forceful. It’s their eyes though, all glazed over, looking right at you, that tells you. Tells you they are gone. I do not remember walking into the room but I must’ve. I must’ve because I remember touching them. Their little bodies were soaked and so stiff. Like soft plastic but still warm. I always thought the dead were supposed to be cold, you know. They were warm. Not as warm as Trina but still…..warm.”

  He keeps whispering the word warm like a taboo word in church. As if it holds some damning qualities the rest of us do not notice yet. Like white carpet mixed with so much red.

  “I just shut their door and sat there in the hallway. I don’t remember how long. I don’t remember how I got the pistol either. My wife is dead. My kids are dead. I just wanted to join them. I did not want to be alone, you know. There I was in that hallway with all our pictures looking at me and I could not imagine being without them. Those damn pictures. I was just about to pull the trigger when I heard it. It was like something fell in the kids’ room. I remember just sitting there. Just listening, when I heard it again. It was the damn door. Something was hitting it. Hitting it hard.”

  His hands begin to clench into tight fists before releasing to only repeat the process. He seems to hunch over with his grief as he talks. His shoulders fall inward making him shrink upon himself. For the first time, I see Chapel broken and brittle before us. I look to J.D. for his reaction and those powerful eyes hold mine, still set in a blank face. Like me, he is waiting for the revelations to begin. It makes me wonder what sins of his own he is holding Chapel’s up against.

  “I remember seeing that damn door knob move. Just a little. It rotated so slow I thought I must have been imagining it until the damn thing did it again. I just sat there. Gun still to my head. Just sitting there like a damn daydream when the door started to shake. The damn fingers. Their damn fingers were under the door pulling on it. Shaking it. I just sat there. Sat through it all. God forgive me, I just sat there as they tore open those damn fingers on the wood pulling against it so hard. I called out, you know. Told them stop that now. “Kay, Ken, you stop that.” They did. They did. Just froze there, but they just started back up again. Rattling that damn door. Never saying a word no matter what I called out. I remember that door opening finally. I think I was almost relieved, you know. Stopped the damn noise. It just sits there though. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t close. Just sits there and me a grown man too afraid to go look. I am their Father and I am too afraid to go look. They were gone. I checked. No heart beat. Nothing. Gone. Yet here is their damn fingers under the door still. Just sitting. Those tiny little fingers.”

  I notice how he never says dead. Is that word too final or just impossible to believe? The dead do not put their fingers under the door to escape from a room. The dead do not try to even escape a room to begin with. At least they did not till today. Today the dead have a completely new bag of tricks.

  “I called out again. Hell if I know why, but I did. Those fingers slid up the doorframe, never stopping. They just slid right around and there they were. Standing there. Staring right at me like they were as confused to see me and I was to see them. You know, for a moment, I was so happy to see them there. My kids, you know. My kids. Something just wasn’t right though. Their eyes. Something about the eyes. Like fish eyes. Dead fish eyes when they cloud over like that. That’s what it was like. What they are all like. Why is it always the eyes?”

  He pauses, clearing his throat. Aimes slides him her glass, still amazed by her plate. No matter how hard they have been pretending to not be here, at this moment, they are. Each of them are lost in the moment. Ingesting every word he says. They are comparing it to their ghosts. Taking notes for any similarities to help them find comfort from their trials. Only J.D. and I have the strength to be here openly. We both sit watching Chapel’s every moment of memory. A sick version of truth or dare between us. I have already learned where dares can take one. I will brave the truths.

  “I called out to Kay. My girl. My sweet girl. It was almost funny, really, the way their heads cocked slowly at the same time. We used to own a little mutt of a dog that would do that same thing when it heard something. That cock, you know. It never attacked me though. They did. I swear they did. Came right at me. Still all calm like. Just walked right up to me, like needing a hug or something, but then they attacked me. Those little hands that I have held a thousand times just started to pull on me. They kept trying to bite me. My kids. Fighting me. I didn’t want to. God forgive me, I didn’t want to. Those fish eyes staring at me on those faces that used to belong to my kids. God forgive me, but I did. I shot them. One bullet each. I shot them right there in that hallway. In the hallway surrounded by all those damn pictures.”

  “…and the wife?” J.D. asks, his voice showing no reflections to the story told.

  “Didn’t take any chances.” Is all Chapel says on the matter.

  “Till death do you part,” J.D. says as he downs whatever amber liquid was left in his glass, “then death again.”

  “It was my old man.” Lawless never looks up from his lighter, completely unmoved, when he speaks. If you did not know his voice, you would never have known he spoke.

  “He wasn’t feeling well. Took him to the doctor just the day before. Viral they said. Gave him some shots. Some new vaccine, too. Supposed to help save your life. Make you live longer or something. Irony huh?”

  His words are clipping short. His sentences are provi
ding no more than the basic needs of his ideas. That warm voice I have grown so used to is now dull and flat. Tired. Defeated.

  “So all is good. Just a normal day. Go to get him up and he’s just standing there. His back to me. I thought it was just going to be another one of those days when the Alzheimer’s really gets a hold of him. I’ll go in. Put him back in bed. Turn his T.V. on and wait. He’ll wake up. Bitch at me for being in his room and want to know why his breakfast is late. No big deal. I don’t even think about it. I put my hand on his shoulder to help him back into bed when he lunges at me. I’m used to it. He gets combative sometimes. No big deal. I push him off me and normally that’s it. This time he came back again. Harder.”

  Each “no big deal” is accented with a short shrug of his shoulders. The engraving is becoming more interesting now as he brings the lighter up close to his face to examine it. He never takes his brown eyes off the lighter. It is such a small object for him to use as a shield before such a large monster sneaking up on us.

  Something on my face must have shown my concern for him, and it places the full weight of J.D.’s eyes on me. His finger silently tap the glass’s rim in his hand with our eyes locked. I know what he is not saying to me. One word from me and the fragile thread of bravery in the room will be plucked from Lawless. It will rob him of his need to release these confessions. I say nothing. Like a priest in a wooden booth, I say nothing to break the spell.

  “Chap’s right about the eyes. Never thought of fish, but yeah, it works. He kept coming at me. Wouldn’t answer to his name. Just kept coming. I hit him. Right in the face. Bounced right back up. His nose was all messed up. It never even slowed him down. So, I hit him again. I thought of my Mom. All those times he hit her. I thought of all the times he hit me.” He shrugs, flipping the lighter to spark its flame before shutting it again. “He isn’t going to be hitting anyone anymore.”