Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories
Page 4
Later that same night after she left, I was alone. My deadhead boyfriend wasn’t home, neither was our equally stoned roommate. I was sitting on our single mattress on the floor, looking around our bare room with its one dresser and a floor strewn with clothes. It hit me.
What are you doing? Really?
Was I just trying to prove I could do it on my own? Because I couldn’t. Obviously.
In a flash of grief and pain, I realized my life had spiraled out of control simply because I was too stubborn to admit my parents were right.
I packed my things. My dog and I climbed in the old Jeep. And we came home to Louisville.
During the upheaval of moving back, I also found something I hadn’t yet realized I had lost—my writing. Whether it was my grief over Cory or simply returning home, I don’t know—but I started writing again.
Even better…I finished the novels I had started years before and I have started (and finished) even more in the time since.
I’ve been through a lot in my life. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as some, maybe it wasn’t as rough…but it shows that a girl can make bad decisions, life-changing mistakes, and still bounce back.
My mom is a Major with the Louisville Metro Police force—the third highest ranking female on the department. She just celebrated her 21st anniversary this month. I am in a stable, committed relationship with a man who will one day be my husband. We live in a small but nice home—I’m a police dispatcher. He’s a police officer.
I was a latchkey kid and because of it, I am now a writer. I am the daughter of a female police officer, and because of that, I’m a stronger, better woman.
About the Chick
Heather Marie Adkins is an independent fiction novelist and avid bibliophile with the library to prove it. She first began publishing her work in June 2011, much to the chagrin of her mother. To date, she has dabbled in numerous genres including chick lit, historical romance, horror, mystery, and various forms of the paranormal. She loves to garden, cook, and travel, and would give anything to live in a cottage in Ireland. Heather is the author of paranormal mystery “The Temple”, as well as paranormal romance “Abigail” and chick lit “Constant State of Disaster”. She is currently working on numerous projects, including a thriller with a ghostly protagonist and the first in a new witchcraft series. She can be found barefoot on her urban Kentucky farm, wrangling chickens and saving field mice from her cats.
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Abigail
Heather Marie Adkins
An Excerpt
Chapter 1
My father was selling me into slavery.
No manner of pressure could fix the uncomfortable tick caused by the throbbing behind my closed eyelids. I alternated between digging the palms of my hands into my eyes and seeking solace from the earth.
Sliding my right hand behind me between my back and the wall, I pressed it firmly to the moist stone. With just a little mental push, I sent myself into the ground beyond, feeling the worms crawl and the dirt shift. For a moment, I was able to forget the dank cell and let the Mother’s arms wrap around my shoulders, the earth’s strength seeping into my skin like a much-cherished blanket.
A burst of girlish laughter brought me back to myself, leaving me bereft. My skin was chilled beneath my thin, muslin dress; a stark contrast to the way the earth had brought me warmth. Bringing my hand back around, I pulled the shawl tighter around my shoulders—even though it was riddled with holes—and tucked my bare feet under my knees.
Perching on an old barrel that smelled of stale wine and piss, I surveyed the scene around me feeling oddly detached. It was the kind of dark that made one sluggish and miserable, from where nightmares originated. There was not a single window, or even a crack in the earthen walls to bring us comfort from the outside world; we were lucky to have the pale yellow glow of the oil lantern hanging by the only door.
We swam in the scent of feces, its source a crude hole in the floor where we relieved ourselves. The stench hung in the air like another entity, stagnant and unhealthy. From where I sat, I could feel two women with illness creeping through their bodies.
Fourteen women, some of them but children, in a room barely big enough to house eight.
The little girl sitting to my right leaned against the wall with her knees pulled up to a face so covered in filth she looked like an animal. I caught her eye, a vivid green shiny with unshed tears but hard with lessons learned much too early. She couldn’t have been nine years old. I tried to give her a comforting smile only to find the muscles in my face weren’t responding.
How do you comfort innocence destroyed?
Matilda, the one person I counted friend in my five weeks locked away, was in a puppy pile of teenagers in the corner, telling stories she shouldn’t. I knew from previous conversation that she had once belonged to an older aristocrat who had raped and mutilated her in ways beyond imagination. How she continued to exist day to day with the memories of such…even more so that she told the tales so easily.
If I know anything now from my own experiences, humans tend to practice selective memory.
I closed my eyes once more, attempting to rein my thoughts. With nothing else to do—no books to read, no garden to plant—my mind tends to run wild.
“You seem very calm today, Abigail.”
Pretty Matilda, finished traumatizing the young ones, was settling beside me on an old wooden crate, tucking her dingy blue dress around her knees. Her chestnut eyes were sparkling with good humor in her pale, simple face. I gazed down at her, and cocked my head in contemplation as I counted her freckles. “To feel anything right now is redundant. What comes will come despite thought or hope.”
She rolled her eyes, leaning back against the wall. “Could you at least try to speak as if you are only twenty?”
Breaking eye contact, I focused on my usual meditation point, a black knot in the wood wall directly across the room. It was nearly invisible in the flickering lamplight. I closed my eyes once again in an attempt to shut out reality. “I’ll try. It’s harder when I’m upset.”
One of the consequences of appearing young when my body is much older than it seems. Sometimes what comes from my lips doesn’t match what others see.
I felt her lean close on the little stool, her wild red curls brushing my bare knee below my dress. I cringed away from her so slightly that she didn’t notice. Five weeks I’d gone without touching her and delving into her mind; I refused to give in. “It’s almost over. We are almost out.”
I straightened imperceptibly, drawing in a deep breath, comfortable in the darkness behind my eyelids. “Yes.”
“We can hope our new masters are good—”
“Matilda,” I cut in sharply, eyes flying open. When she jumped back slightly at the sight, I knew I had lost my glamour. I closed my lids on the lavender fire that glowed there, and steadied myself. Sometimes she made me lose my temper. The downside of keeping human friends, I suppose. I took a few deep breaths before opening my eyes and going on in a lower tone. “False hope will only make the little ones worse in the long run. I wish you would put an end to it.”
“What is life without hope?” Her voice was small and I felt a pang of regret. Good intentions never go without punishment.
“Life is a long, terrible thing,” I whispered, more to myself. I couldn’t meet her eyes.
The door creaked open like a scream in the hushed room, pivoting outward. Every face around me, nondescript and identical to the one beside it, turned to see who was on the other side. The big one with the bushy red beard stood in the doorway, dressed in rags fit for no better than a pirate. His dirty white shirt had short sleeves and barely covered his rotund belly, while his black vest hung open over his loosely draped black pants. Scuffed brown boots tapped on the floor as he gazed around in disdain.
It was time.
“1, 4, 8, 9, and 13,”
he said sharply. Thirteen; that was me; it was crudely tattooed on the inside of my right wrist. I slid from the barrel, my heart beating wildly. Matilda followed me, her fingers clutching my shawl and her eyes wide.
The room was silent as we were shackled together. I brought up the rear, stepping lightly and slowly so as not to walk all over the little one in front of me: the green-eyed girl. I could see every bone in her little shoulders. She looked like a beaten dog.
Torches lined the hallway outside our cell, casting evil, wavering shadows on the dirt floor. Mine, as usual, was absent, a by-product of my abnormal heritage. The young man walking somewhat behind and to the left of me, obviously new to the guard, kept glancing from the floor to me as if I might disappear.
Too bad that wasn’t within my range of powers. If that was the case, I’d be harvesting my potato patch instead of walking towards an unknown destiny.
Dry dust swirled around my ankles, the hallway steadily getting warmer as we ascended the steep hill. A sharp corner brought us into blinding sunlight and fresh air. I felt unwelcome tears sting my eyes and choked down a sob of gratitude for the warm rays that caressed my shoulders. I let go of my shawl outside the door, where it trailed from my fingers to the ground without a thought; it had never been mine, anyway. Already I could feel my strength returning, the sun filling my reserves with its loving energy.
We came out of the jail tunnel behind a raised platform crudely constructed of wood and haphazardly sewn burlap sacks. I could hear the noise of the crowd on the other side as we were lined up with our backs to the stage.
The first girl was a teen with shorn brown hair and slumped shoulders, her spirit in tatters on the ground. Her hands were shaking so much I feared she was going into shock. A man with muscular arms and an almost invisible neck unshackled her from the community chain and led her away.
So the waiting began.
The big guard walked by tapping his sword to the side of his beefy leg. His black belt strained with the weight of his belly, a wild patch of red hair sprouting from above the loose ties of his shirt. He leered at me from the center of a head full of dirty, rust colored curls.
“Glad to see you’ve survived, pretty thing,” he murmured, brushing a thumb down my cheek. The offensive finger continued to my neck, and even further to the crest of my breast.
Disgust flooded me. I gave him my best glare and emptied my eyes of emotion. The human color remained, but he was seeing the inhuman inside, the part of me that is connected to the Earth, to the things that bump and crawl in this world.
Confusion darted across his countenance and he inched away.
It was entirely too tempting to do something stupid, like zap him with a single touch. My cover would be broken and the people who knew what exactly I was. They’d slap a steel cuff on my ankle so fast my head would spin…if they didn’t hang me first.
“How is it you see out of those pig-like, squinty eyes?” I retorted with a sneer.
Slap. Colors exploded. One of his hands was the size of my head; the force threw me to the ground where I landed hard in the dirt. I sucked in a couple of deep, centering breaths with my chin tucked to my chest. I kept my eyes and palms to the ground, spitting blood as he walked away laughing.
One by one my companions were unchained and led to the stage I couldn’t see. The sting of my cheek eventually ebbed. Matilda gave me a cautious smile and a lighthearted goodbye wave as she shuffled to the stairs. I watched until she rounded the corner, her ankle chains leaving lines in her wake. It wasn’t clear to me whether I would miss her or be glad to be rid of her.
The young guard, handsome in a childish sort of way, waited until we were alone before coming to me. Lacing my fingers before me, I tried to appear as easy and approachable as possible, despite the chains weighing me down like a criminal.
“Why do you cast no shadow?” If I hadn’t already been prepared for the question, I might not have understood the whoosh of air that escaped him in the form of words.
I regarded the Italian thoughtfully, all dark coloring and confidence. The physical closeness of his body to mine would allow me to read him, and I conceded to the temptation. When my eyes caught his, he froze; prey. I could imagine the hairs rising on the back of his neck as he watched the dark brown of my eyes fade to be replaced by irises so bright purple they could burn. With a decent amount of effort, I focused on not allowing my skin to revert to its natural form; I didn’t want to scare him away. One, two, three…I charged in.
I can’t explain how the thoughts come. A series of pictures, words uttered in my head; also scents, colors, emotions, and sensations. Flashes of insight into the life of the person I choose to read. Physical touch isn’t necessary, just proximity, although with touch sometimes it comes unbidden.
His wife’s name was Theodora and his daughter, Victory. They lived in a one bedroom shack above a butcher’s shop. I could smell the blood. His daughter was sick…tuberculosis. She was going to die; it was in her stars. Mere man can’t fight the fate set forth by the universe. He was a good man, who took care of an elderly mother and gave to the poor…I saw an empty pantry and a deteriorating marriage.
“Why are you here, Marcello?” One might have thought I’d hit him. I saw the questions pass over his face. I placed a hand to his bare arm, my skin like fire next to his human temperature. “You don’t belong with these men.”
“I need the money,” he stuttered. Even unsure, he didn’t shake me off. I let his dark eyes study me, his other hand coming up to cover mine on his arm. “My daughter—”
“The butcher needs help,” I told him watching the elderly man in that sacred place of my mind. His wife was passing away as we spoke, her hold on life threadbare. The timing was impeccable; how grand the Universe is when it demands intervention. “You will make much more money. The old man has no child, and his only will to live is leaving soon. He will leave you the shop if you take a job with him. You have a choice to make. Your current path will end your marriage and result in suicide.”
The poor man was shaking, his skin ice beneath my hand. His brown eyes resembled that of a doe, flashing around in panic beneath the archer’s gaze. I could feel his indecision on my skin.
“Number 13, your turn.” The brute was back, abruptly ending my connection to the sweet, naïve Italian. My hands twitched to wrap themselves around the big man’s neck.
I’ve killed before. I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.
Chapter 2
I found my father’s face in the crowd before I even came to a stop at the edge of the stage. He looked like a swaying corpse, expressionless, a blank mockery of the once joyful man who had helped give me life. I never saw the age take him; deep crevices at the corners of his eyes, skin sagging at his neck. For so long he had watched my mother stay young and beautiful as he withered before her eyes; yet she had loved him until the end. I fought to contain the intense emotion I felt at thinking of her.
It broke my heart when I realized this would be the death of him. His soul would pass to the Otherworld in less than four hours. I felt the certainty like a knife to my chest. I tried to be angry, knowing he had condemned me to an unpredictable fate, but I was unable to hold on to the ire. At least I had the knowledge that if I were to be put into a bad situation, I had the power to get myself out of it. I could take care of myself.
If I couldn’t give my father love as his last memory before death, that made me no better than he. I gave the old man a cautious smile and was rewarded with a sorrowful twist of his lips in return.
The air thickened each minute as the sun kept reaching higher. I felt like I was drowning in the humidity, choking on the dirty, dusty air. The thin shift clung to my starving body at every curve, and sweat poured down my face and neck. I’d been humiliated for so long I hardly cared how I appeared. I batted away the flies and gnats who threatened to annoy me to death with their little wings and bodies.
It was tough to ignore the eyes on me. The monotonous voice of the
auctioneer rambled on until I wanted to put my hands over my ears and hum. It wasn’t worth trying for humanity, the useless shifting of body weight or fumbling of hands to appear human. I stood statue still, waiting and watching. I heard the whispers and felt the titters of the crowd as they realized something was off about me.
I glanced down at my bare, sun-kissed toes curling against the cracked planks of the platform on which I stood. I was at least four feet above the rest of the world, and yet I felt so small. It wasn’t a feeling I was happy to experience, but it was one I was ecstatic to push away and forget it.
The auctioneer spoke fast. It was unintelligible. The various farmers and merchants who littered the crowd, hands in the air like little school kids at split second pauses, obviously had no trouble understanding. I quickly gave up on following who was bidding. I thought of Matilda and her stories, and prayed to the Universe there was someone in the sea of faces that would spend their money wisely and treat me fairly.
I broke from my reverie at the sound of a gavel banging on the podium beside me. Two new guards on either side of me took me roughly by the arms. The contact snapped the fine thread upon which I walked, and I thrashed about as they led me to the edge of the auction table and down the stairs to level ground. An irrational, unfathomable anger burned hot in my veins as I muttered curses at them, kicking and spitting to punctuate my fury. I lifted my leg, intent on kicking the man whose fingers were numbing my arm.
“Let her go,” a sharp voice demanded. I looked up through my tangled hair to see a young man motion for the guards to release me. His jaw jutted in anger, a small vein throbbing in his temple. I was promptly released. I stumbled from the initial lack of support, and my foot dropped to the cobblestones in defeat—and a little bit of embarrassment. I rubbed my bruised biceps, my ego trying to rise above petulant child mode.