by Idella Breen
Chapter 2
I woke to the godly smell of coffee, and surprisingly, it was mixed with the scent of burnt cinnamon. A curious smell. A familiar smell. Smiling, I stretched out on what I soon realized was the couch from my living room. It was a ratty old thing that I bought when I moved into my apartment. The family down the hall was moving out when I was moving in, and they couldn’t figure out how to get the monstrosity down the stairs, as it wouldn’t fit in the elevator. When I offered to take the lovely piece of furniture off their hands, they were only too happy to hand it over, for a small price. I’ve been in love with it ever since. It was just the right amount of comfy and old that suited me just fine. Why did I fall asleep on the couch? Was I working late again? Sitting up, a black leather jacket with silver lines running across the chest, slid down off of me, and along with it, the strange but pleasant smell. I felt a sting in my neck, and reached up, only to come in contact with the rough material that could only be gauze. What the?
It hit me then. It was so powerful that I felt it with my whole body, a physical jerk. It was like being hit by a bus. I began to shake uncontrollably, and a sound that could only be called animalistic escaped my throat. My fingers gripped the jacket until my knuckles turned white. I released another inhuman sound and pulled my knees up to my chest.
“You’re safe now.” A woman’s soft voice cut through my shock induced haze, and I looked up, only to jerk back on the sofa. Standing at the end of the couch was the Grim Reaper from earlier. I had honestly thought I imagined the events that occurred before I passed out. It looks like I was wrong.
“What?” I gasped as I tried to hold myself together. It had to be a hockey mask or something. Halloween was coming up, after all.
“I said you’re safe now. You’re also in shock. Drink this.”
She shoved a mug of coffee into my hands, making sure I had a solid grip on it, before letting go and standing back; leaving a scent trail of burnt cinnamon in her wake. I looked down. It was my Garfield mug. The one Angela got me for my twenty-third birthday as a gag gift. She always said I was too lazy for my own good. The warmth seeping through the mug brought me back to the present, and my shaking began to slow. I took a drink and the heat of the coffee sliding down my throat helped ground me. After taking a few more sips, I set the mug down on the coffee table and sat back. I was only slightly surprised to see that the woman was studying me. Her gunmetal gray eyes were watching me, through the holes of the mask, in a familiar way. I had a strange sense of déjá vu, and a sudden warmth in my chest, as our eyes met.
I cleared my throat. “So, are you going to tell me who you are?”
She didn’t answer, and instead turned around and took a seat on one of the few chairs in my living room, across from me. She adjusted, until she was comfortable, before meeting my gaze again.
I guess I have to begin this conversation. “My name is Eliza Trust. May I ask what your name is? I should probably say thanks for saving me. I’m sorry, I’m rambling. What’s up with your mask, anyway? Is it like a Halloween mask or something? I’m going to stop talking now-”
I cut myself off as the shakes began to take over again. I shrunk into myself, trying to slow down the adrenaline that was coursing through my body and to get my thoughts in order. Maybe drinking coffee hadn’t been the best idea, but I knew that it was the only warm beverage I had in my kitchen. The woman wasn’t helping with her eerie silent treatment, either.
“Eliza, why don’t you go and take a shower? You’re dirty.”
A flash of anger bubbled up at her harsh comment, and I shifted to give her a piece of my mind, only to feel a breeze on my nether regions. I gave a testing movement and realized I wasn’t wearing any underwear. Blushing, I jumped up, only to stagger a moment before getting my balance.
I haughty adjusted my skirt. “I’m going to take a shower.”
The woman simply nodded, and steepled her fingers, while resting her elbows on the arms of the chair. I marched down the hallway, and turned into the first door on the right, my bedroom. After retrieving some new underwear, a pair of relaxed fit jeans, and a long-sleeved black shirt with the words, ‘Dare To Be Different,’ printed in white lettering across the chest, I crossed the hallway to the bathroom.
The hot water helped with the shaking and to settle my irregular heartbeat. I took off the gauze, and the spray from the shower head stung the cut, trailing bloody water down into the drain. I would need to bandage it up again, I idly thought, as I shampooed and conditioned my hair. I took a minute in the shower, to just lean my head against the tiled wall, letting the boiling water cascade down my frame as the shaking began to subside completely.
What the hell was I doing? What was I going to do? I didn’t even know anymore. I don’t even know what to do next. That man-
I shuddered as I could still feel his calloused hands trailing up my legs. Anger spiked deep in my chest. I grabbed the bath sponge and vigorously scrubbed at my legs. I needed to erase the memory of his hands. I scrubbed them until the skin was pink and almost raw. The water stung it was so hot, and my skin was so tender.
What the fuck was I even doing? I was almost-
I slammed my hand against the tiled wall, a wet fleshy sound resounding in the shower, only to be covered up by the sob that escaped involuntarily from my lips. I knew I was crying even though the tears mingled with the water from the shower head. The trembling began anew, and I sank to the floor clutching my legs to my naked chest. What was I even supposed to do?
I don’t know how long I sat there, rocking back and forth, letting the water burn and wash away the pain and terror I had woken to, but it was long enough for the water to turn ice cold.
Shakily, I eventually managed to pull myself up to turn off the water; I opened the window to let out what was left of the steam. Then, I climbed out of the shower and went to the sink. Wiping the condensation off the mirror, I was greeted with my reflection, and it left much to be desired. Pathetic would have been a compliment. My eyeshadow ran down my face making me look like a wet raccoon. I gingerly poked at the black bruise on the side of my face and winced. Not doing that again, I mused. Taking a moment, I removed what was left of my makeup. Grabbing a hairbrush from the basket above my toilet, I pulled it through my hair while sighing in content. Although my eyes were by far my unique feature, my hair was an entirely different story. It was dark brown, like mud, and was usually a pain in my ass to take care of. Even as I blow dried it, after finishing my shower, it had already begun to curl at the ends. The familiarity of the routine made sense, though. It helped because it was normal and right then, I needed normal. I made quick work of taming the wild strands into a messy bun, and after getting dressed, I opened the door to the bathroom only to pause.
The woman’s voice echoed down the hallway in a distressed tone.
“I didn’t mean to make contact, but I had no choice.” She paused.
“Yes, I know it’s too soon. I know, I’ll handle it.” Another pause.
“Yes, Sir. Yes, understood. Goodbye.”
Fear gripped my heart in its cold grasp. What did she mean when she said she would handle it? I closed the bathroom door quietly and stood back. I needed to think about this. I know the woman saved me but should I really trust her? I mean, she could have done anything she wanted to when I was asleep, right? But that phone call didn’t sound very reassuring, either. What if the “I’ll handle it…” meant she was going to kill me. Maybe that’s why she had been so quiet. She was deciding what to do with me next.
I glanced at the window behind me. I could probably fit through it. It would be a squeeze, but I’m pretty slight. I walked over to the window and slid it completely open. A strong gust of cold air blew into my face as I glanced outside. There was a fire escape just below it. Did I want to do this?
The memory of the gray light that came out the mouth of the rapist flashed in my mind, and I had my answer. I slipped through the window, and settled barefoot on the fire escape, only
making a little bit of noise. The cold of the metal sent a chill up my legs as it bit into the soles of my feet. I was wishing for shoes even as I slowly walked down the stairs. When I made it to the last flight, I threw the ladder down. Just as I was climbing down, I chanced a glance up to my bathroom window and yelled causing me to jerk in surprise, falling the last couple of steps to the ground. The sight of the woman in the skull mask, looking down at me, scared the shit out of me. I stood shakily, only to feel a sharp pain in my ankle followed by the sound of clanging metal, as the Grim Reaper ran down the metal stairs.
“Leave me alone!” I yelled, and tried to walk again, only to fall back down from the shooting pain up my leg. Of fucking course, I would sprain my ankle! Why the fuck not!
I had only managed to crawl to the end of the alley when I heard the slap of boots on concrete and the splash of a puddle.
I was almost there! Suddenly, I was grabbed and pulled into warm arms that held me almost protectively, as the woman picked me up in a bridals hold. Naturally, I struggled.
“Let me go! Please! I don’t want to die!” I babbled as I waved my arms wildly.
Absently, I could feel water dripping down my face. Whether it was from the rain or tears, I didn’t know, but the woman managed to tuck my arms against her chest and carried me as I turned my head into her shoulder and wailed. The smell of burnt cinnamon filled my senses, and along with it, that same strange sense of comfort and a feeling of safety. I greedily drank the scent into my lungs, needing the feelings it evoked in me to settle my chaotic emotions, but fearing the woman that it came from.
I don’t know how long it took but eventually, the woman was carrying me into my apartment, after unlocking my door with my key, that she somehow magically produced from her pocket. She walked over to the sofa again, but instead of dropping me on it like I thought she would, she sat, still holding me in her arms and pulled one of my throw blankets off the arm of the couch to wrap it around me. Her actions struck me as something odd, for someone that was going to kill me to do, but this woman seemed to be all kinds of strange.
Now that we were out of the rain, I realized, I was in fact crying. The soft murmurs of the woman holding me, and the warmth of her body along with the blanket, helped me settle once again. Afterward, I simply kept my face on her shoulder, gripping her shirt like she was the only thing keeping me grounded, which honestly, she probably was. It was a few minutes later when her soft voice filled the room.
“I’m sorry, Eliza. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She breathed deeply.
“Shit, we weren’t supposed to meet like this. I wasn’t ready.” She murmured.
I looked up, only to come face to face with the mask, and her haunting gunmetal gray eyes were peering down at me. This close, I was able to see that the mask fully encased her head, so that it was more like a helmet. I couldn’t even see what color her hair was, but I could see that the mask was made of what could only be white bone. I reached up and ran my fingers along the contours of her cheek. Her eyes closed as I felt the cold hard bone.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
Her eyes slowly opened again, and I felt her cool breath fan gently over my face. The smell of burnt cinnamon was filling my lungs once again.
“My name is June West.”
“June?”
She nodded.
“Are you going to kill me, June?”
I could see a flash of pain enter her eyes at my words as she shook her head. “No, Eliza. I’m not going to kill you.”
“Then are you going to protect me?” I dared to ask and even as the words left my mouth the feeling of déjá vu filled me with such an intensity that it was almost painful.
It was a moment before she spoke, but her words carried a certain weight to them as if she wasn’t quite sure they were what she wanted to say.
“I’ll do what I can Eliza, but ultimately, the choice will be yours to make when the time comes.”
I nodded slightly. “Why are you here? You seem to have made a mistake.”
“I see you listened to my conversation. Is that why I had to chase you down the fire-escape in the pouring rain?”
I blushed. “Well, you made it sound like you were going to kill me to cover up your mistake. I did what any sane person would have done.”
June shook her head but when her eyes met mine they held a lightness to them that hinted at a hidden humor.
“Protecting you will never be a mistake, and if given a choice to do it over, I wouldn’t change anything. You’re too important Eliza, and it wasn’t your time to die yet. You still have to make a choice.”
“A choice?”
She seemed to jerk at my question as if realizing she said too much.
“Never mind,” June whispered.
“What choice do I have to make? What did you mean?”
She shook her head but held me tighter. “It’s not the time to discuss those things. The other side hasn’t made a decision yet.”
I pulled away from her slightly but forced her to meet my gaze. “June, tell me what’s going on. You’re confusing me.”
But she shook her head again and moved to settle me on the couch while wrapping me more tightly in the blanket. I let her put the physical distance between us even though I felt the sting of rejection. June stood back and studied me once more.
“I have to go.”
“Why?”
“Because, it isn’t time yet. They aren’t ready, and I made a mistake showing myself to you too soon. I have to go.”
She moved to walk around the couch, and I felt panic bubble up from deep within my chest.
“Don’t go, June!” I yelled, but even as I stood to chase after her, I heard the slam of the front door. I hobbled over to the door and threw it open, but she was nowhere in sight. It was as if she simply disappeared into thin air. As I closed the door and made my way back to the couch, I felt the panic settling inside and tearing everything to pieces. I moved to lay down but landed on something soft. Sitting up, I realized it was June’s leather jacket. Desperately, I grabbed it and drew it to my face. The scent of burnt cinnamon filled me with a deep sense of peace and safety; the likes of which I haven’t felt since my family was alive.
I settled down on the couch and pulled the blanket up to cover me, as well as wrapping the jacket around my chest, and fell asleep in a state of panicked-bliss I hadn't felt since being sent to my first foster home. It was the mixture of panic from the uncertainty of the future and bliss in the thought that everything might finally be better. It was a state that would only ever last until morning, when the light of day would shine it’s harshness, illuminating the imperfections of reality. But for now, I would sleep restlessly and pray for a better tomorrow, where there wasn’t so much fear and pain. I would pray for a tomorrow filled with hard gray eyes and soft arms, and most of all, the smell of burnt cinnamon and the peace it brought along with it.
Chapter 3
About a week after the incident, I was finally starting to get over my initial shock to the trauma of everything. I would still jump at loud sounds, letting me know I was nowhere near being completely over it, and I still had yet to leave my apartment. Instead, I holed up indoors and set up my easel in the kitchen, where it was easier to clean up the paint, and began painting. By the eighth day, I realized what exactly it was that I was painting, as I mixed the colors until they formed the same gunmetal gray that had haunted my dreams, and were hidden behind the mask of the Grim Reaper.
Sometimes, I dreamt of her sucking the life out of me, like she did my rapist. I would imagine the way the gray light would be pulled from my body. Had that been his soul? Gray was such an unappealing color when it was his, but her shade was beautiful. It was the color of the ocean just before a storm, foreboding, a warning of the danger yet to come.
Other times, I remembered the gentle way she held me in her arms, and the same feeling of safety and peace would fill me until I woke back to the harsh reality. The reality was tha
t I was still too afraid to leave my apartment, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me from painting. Actually, if anything, painting was exactly what I needed right now more than anything.
Some nights, I would think that I dreamt the whole thing. I was known to have an overactive imagination. Then, I would feel the genuine leather of the jacket she left behind, with the photograph of my family that I found tucked into the left pocket. Or, I would see the long pink scar running from my collarbone up the right side of my neck from where the box cutter had dug into my skin, forever branding the memories of that night into my body. I would tremble as I traced the scar while looking into my bathroom mirror. I wanted to be stronger, but the ghost pain from both the event and the scar left as a reminder, prevented me from moving forward.
So, instead, I would paint. It was a way of processing the event. It was my only solace and had been so throughout my teenage years well into college. Once again, it was serving as a way to make sense of what had happened that night, for it had all happened so quickly, and some part of me still believed it was all a dream, despite the evidence to prove otherwise.
Somedays, I wanted to hate my Grim Reaper. I needed to direct my anger at someone, but I had no one I was close to, and she had released so many emotions inside of me. It made me ask questions I didn't want too because she had suddenly just disappeared into thin air, leaving me confused, frustrated, and with more questions than answers.