by Dyan Brown
Ceramic and glass crash against a hard surface. Jack grunts forcefully, as if he’s swinging something hard, then there’s a sickening thud. A pain-filled female shriek follows. I put my right hand over Tessa’s left ear, using my body to cover her right. Hoping against hope I can at least muffle the horrible noises, I hold her as tightly as I can. Gruesome, unimaginably vicious sounds rise from the living room to burrow into my psyche, noises I know I’ll never be able to forget.
Half-a-dozen baritone grunts of exertion, labored breathing, and nauseatingly moist thuds follow before I realize there’s something missing from the onslaught of horror-movie noises below. The air instantly evaporates from my lungs, as if the room is an incubator and the valve to the oxygen supply line was just frozen shut.
At the end of every smack of the bat, the feminine shrieks and cries of pain have dwindled away. The repetition of whoosh, thud-splat, whoosh slows until it fades completely, leaving only the silence of death.
No. Please, no! My own thoughts mirror the woman’s pleas from just moments before. Tears stain my cheeks, matching Tessa’s. He didn’t do what I think he did! No, this is not happening. Taking a deep breath, I try to calm myself and re-inflate my burning, air-starved lungs. Think, Sam, think. Stupid women in movies get murdered by the bad guys for not taking two seconds to plan their next move. I refuse to be that girl.
All right, I’m in control here. This is my hallucination. I’m taking that little girl and leaving, I repeat in my mind, trying to psych myself up.
“Tessa, we need to leave, sweetheart. Let’s go as quietly as we can, okay?” I whisper.
Against my chest, there’s a shuddering breath, then she nods. Gathering her frail body more fully into my arms, I lift her. She weighs next to nothing. Using my left arm to support her and my right to grasp the handrail along the wall, I manage to balance us. After we descend the first few steps, the living room comes more fully into view. Keep it together, Sam.
“Tessa,” I breathe into her ear, “I want you to close your eyes really tight and keep them like that until I tell you to open them. Okay, sweetheart?”
Not waiting for her to nod this time, I begin to creep down the stairs, sinking as low as I can into the stairwell. At the fourth step from the bottom, I peer over the banister into the once-quaint living room. Inhaling sharply, I swallow a sob. Bile rises in my throat, and I have to force myself not to throw up.
At the far end of the room, Tessa’s mom has pressed herself into a corner. If it weren’t for her pants, I wouldn’t have known it was her. There is only a bloody mess of hair and flesh beneath a pair of pulverized arms crossed in front like she tried to shield herself. Jack kneels in front of her, his head touching the floor at her feet, his shoulders shaking from silent sobs. Blood splatters across the wall to the left. A baseball bat is discarded behind him.
He can’t be more than eight or ten feet from us, but by the amount of debris scattered about him, he may as well be twenty feet. I look from him to the door, knowing I can’t chance him hearing it open. Now that Tessa can hear me, what if he can as well? It’s just too risky.
“I’m going to set you down. Face the wall and stay as quiet as you can,” I say, my voice as hushed as I can manage.
She holds on tighter, silently saying she doesn’t want to let me go.
“I need to make sure we can leave, okay? I promise you I’ll come back, and we’ll leave as soon as I do.”
I pull her back, seeing her silent tears fall. Then it hits me. Tessa is too good at keeping quiet through all this for someone so young. To think she has lived this way her whole life—to know she has seen this horror before tonight… It tears at my heart.
She finally allows me to set her on the step, then huddles against the wall. I creep down the last few steps into the crime scene. As calmly as I can, one step at a time, I find a clear spot to place my foot, each step bringing me closer to Jack’s back. He’s still sobbing in front of his wife’s body, unaware of me.
A few feet behind him, I start to crouch toward the floor. My heart quickens as my eyes dart from the bat beneath my outstretched hand to Jack’s back. I frown, looking at my hand for a fraction of a second. The center of my palm feels like it’s on fire. I try to shake it out.
Breathe, Sam. You can do this.
My hand touches the still-warm handle of the bat. It’s slick with sweat, blood, and other things I don’t want to contemplate. I wrap my fingers around it, focusing only on him. My eyes focus on his shoulders as I try to figure out how to do this. Never having hit anyone before, I finally decide to just swing and pray it’s hard enough.
Behind me, Tessa whimpers. Jack must hear it, too, because he lifts his head and tilts it slightly. Still facing forward, he pauses, listening. I can’t waste a moment. Seizing my opportunity, I pull back and swing with everything I have. The wood connects with his right temple harder than I would have thought was capable from my non-athletic arms. The pronounced thwack is a sound I doubt I’ll ever forget. He topples to his left side, as limp as his victim. Yes!
“Shit,” I mutter, slightly horrified. But, yes!
I freeze for a split second to see if he moves. Only the slight expansion of his ribs indicates he still lives. When he doesn’t appear to be conscious, I drop the bat and run back to the stairs. I was afraid Tessa’s whimper meant she had looked. But if she did, she’d recoiled right back into her original position.
“It’s all right now. Let’s go,” I say with soft urgency.
Gathering her in my arms, I tuck her face into my chest, intentionally blocking any chance she might see her mother. I can’t stand the thought of her living with this memory, not like I will. Once I get to the door, I unlock it. As we walk out into the night, warm mist surrounds us. A dimly lit parking lot ahead is full of cars. I settle my gaze on an old beige truck I suspect is Tessa’s father’s before I realize blue and red lights are flashing down the street. Hopefully, a neighbor finally called the cops. I try suppressing the ‘too little, too late’ scream of rage caught in my throat, glaring at the surrounding units in angry frustration.
“Tessa, honey, is that your truck right there?” I try to keep my voice as soothing as possible, but she stays balled up in my arms. “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s all over. We’re outside now. You can look.”
Hesitating for just one more breath, she lifts her head to rest it on my shoulder, glancing toward the parking lot. She points a skinny finger to the one I indicated. “Yes, that’s it,” she says, her voice a little stronger than it has been.
I carry her to the truck, then pull on the passenger handle. To my relief, the door clanks open. I put Tessa on the seat, sheltering her from the drizzling rain. “You’ll be dry in here. The police are around the corner, okay?”
Fear flushes her delicate features at my words. I’d guess the police have caused more violence in her sad life—once they’d come and gone—than any help they should have or could have provided.
“It’ll be different this time. They won’t leave. You will go with them, and you’ll tell them what happened. You’re going to be fine now. No one else is going to hurt you, and your mommy will never get hurt again.” I’m doing my best not to choke on the words. I feel in my gut this is the right thing for me to tell her. That it’s the truth. “Do you have a grandma or grandpa?”
When she nods, her damp curls bounce around. She’s such an adorable little girl, all big brown eyes and a pixie nose. Once she has a proper diet, she will be perfect.
“All right, you tell the police about your grandparents, and they can take you to them. I’m going to stand at the back of the truck to let the police know where we are, so they can help you and your mom. They will take your dad away—get him help. He won’t ever hurt you again. You stay in the truck until you see me or a police officer. Okay, sweetheart?”
She nods. “Thank you, Samantha,” she says, then hesitates. “Samantha?”
“Yeah, what is it?” I ask with a reassuring smile.
“I’m so happy you’re my angel.”
Well, doesn’t that just light me up from the inside out? I beam, my eyes welling with emotion. “Okay, Tessa, put your legs inside, and let’s lock the door. Everything’s going to be good now,” I repeat, kissing her forehead and shutting her inside the truck.
She stares at me through the window. So much emotion swirls in her eyes—sadness, fear, and a small amount of… hope. I can feel the look she gives me pressing into my memories. Imprinting. Haunting.
That familiar feeling washes over my head as I walk away. My body is sucked into a void, twisting and thrown around. Like trying to do a flip backward underwater in a pool. Just like being in the water, I try to fight my way to the top for air. When I break through the surface, I’m back in my bed, jolted awake and gasping. Panic floods through me again until I see my ceiling.
Oh, thank God that wasn’t real! These nightmares are getting worse. They feel real. Too real. This was the worst one so far. That poor child…
Where does my brain come up with these things? That man murdering his wife—it was horrible. I rest my forearm over my head, my arm gliding over slick skin. Oh great, I’m sweating. Everyone else gets to have nightmares about showing up to work naked. Why can’t I do that?
I scan the room to make sure it’s still my room, still normal. The same pale-oak bedroom set sits exactly where it should. The same lavender geometric bedspread and décor I’ve had for the last five years still decorate the room. Blood-free cream walls are a complete contrast from my dream. On my nightstand, the clock indicates it’s a little past two in the morning. Groaning, I sit up. Something drips, wet and viscous, on my T-shirt. In the dim light of my room, I glance down.
And see bright red blood.
2
Why can’t my nightmares end at seven AM instead of two? I flip on my lamp, grabbing some tissues for my bloody nose. It seems to have been a short-lived bleed, as is recently becoming the norm. That feeling was horrible. I imagine that’s what drowning would feel like. Please, God, don’t ever let me know what that would feel like. I can’t imagine anything worse. I’d rather be burned alive. Slowly.
I’m not ignorant to domestic violence happing, but what I just dreamt was way worse than any that I’ve heard of. My body shudders as I stare at the ceiling, watching the horrors of the dream play back through my mind.
Well, I’m awake now, so I may as well jot this one down in my dream journal. I’m still woozy from being twisted around and the nosebleed, my body aching as I turn for the hardbound notebook on my nightstand. But I manage to fill up a few pages with my most recent nightmare. Flipping through page after page of loopy ink, I realize the dreams are coming more frequently and getting progressively worse. Stress must be manifesting itself, or whatever sort of psycho-babble-BS my uncle would spout.
After my older sister died is when I started the dream journal. I used to believe dreams were supposed to mean something—that just maybe, people who were gone from my life may come to me in my dreams and give me messages. A few times, I’d convinced myself I’d received a message from her, but it was just wishful thinking. Now, I just like writing them down and re-reading them later. Although at this point, it’s just habitual. Sometimes, looking up what they mean is entertaining, if not a little freaky.
The nosebleeds are something of a family tradition. My great aunt, my uncle, my sister, and now me—we all have them. Had, I correct. Sahra was three years older than me, and she died three years ago in a car accident. They said my picture-of-health-sister had had a seizure while driving. Her car flipped and crashed into the lake off I-90. Her official cause of death was drowning. There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think of her—don’t hear her voice or imagine I smell her perfume. And every time I do, it cuts me just as deeply as the first time. There is a constant pain in the center of my chest. A hole that will never heal.
Her death planted two fears deep into my psyche—drowning and driving. I’m more than likely the only nineteen-year-old to ask for a new bike as their going-away present instead of a car. I’ve worn out my old wheels in the last year of riding back and forth from work.
I had my license for about a month before the accident, but it became apparent after several severe panic attacks that driving wasn’t for me. Being driven around is all right, though. Or at least, I can handle it, knowing that I’m not the one who’s going to hurt someone or get myself killed, as she did.
My first day at the University of Oklahoma’s campus is only a week from now. I can make it until then. When I’d stopped talking, so did my so-called ‘friends’. Guess it’s my fault for closing off after Sahra was gone. She may have been ‘just’ my sister, but she was also my best friend. I just didn’t feel like I could talk to anyone after she died. Uncle Carl helped me through a lot of it. It’s nice to have a therapist in the family—when you’re a little nutty, that is.
He offered to counsel me after Sahra’s death, and my parents gratefully accepted. Funerals are expensive, and so is having your only other child freak out on you at the same time. He and I were much closer when I was younger, but it’s mainly about therapy these days. Unless it’s a holiday or special occasion, he’s just my therapist. We’re still working on my thalassophobia and vehophobia. Although the term thalassophobia usually refers to the fear of oceans, it can also reference other large bodies of water, like lakes. And so ends today’s psychology lesson, I think sarcastically in my uncle’s voice.
He should have added insomnia to my list, but I guess I’d have to tell him about my nights first. These nights of random, exhausting dreams are freaking annoying as shit.
The dreams, or nightmares—whatever—got worse after high school. This last year has been overwhelming to say the least. My parents were going to let me have the summer to myself after graduation, but two months turned into seven, then eight months, and I was still at the same tiny coffee shop I’d been at since they opened a couple of years back.
A little after the new year—no doubt prompted by his brother—my dad insisted that I needed to figure out a goal for my life other than part-time barista, part-time cook, part-time dishwasher, and full-time gofer for The Pearl Cup. Apparently, a ‘work-home-read-sleep-repeat’ life isn’t a valid way to spend one’s days. I thought that’s what all “adults” did, but whatever. I cut him off before he reached the “as long as you live under our roof” cliché. In the end, Uncle Carl talked me into a year at OU to figure out what I should do. It was a compromise.
Uncle Carl wants me to make at least one friend in my first month of school. According to him, I’m missing a social outlet that will “open me up to a healthier lifestyle.” Honestly, getting close to anyone again makes me slightly nauseated. Being a social butterfly was never in my playbook, even before Sahra. Luckily, my acceptance into OU came with a scholarship—which I am betting was also complements of my uncle—so my parents were able to afford for me to live in an apartment just off campus. Not sure what strings they pulled, but I imagine my uncle working there might’ve helped my case for not having to live on campus my first year. I found a roommate, April, through my advisor, and I’ll meet her when I get up there next week when we sign our lease.
April and I have been messaging each other on Instagram, and she seems nice so far. Her posts are a little flakey, but whatever. This will be her second year at OU, so at least she knows the ins and outs. I wonder if she would count as my ‘making at least one friend’ deal? I snort to myself, thinking I may have already found a way around Uncle Carl’s stipulation to my grief recovery.
“Argh!”
I really don’t think I can go back to sleep now. I toss my covers aside, get up, and slip on a blood-free shirt. Wandering down the hall and through the living room, I walk into the kitchen. Opening the fridge door wide, I stand in the gap, letting the chilly air spill over my lower limbs. After a thorough inspection of the contents inside, and when my toes are sufficiently chilled, I pick out some red
grapes and a bottle of water.
I take my snack back to my room, flop onto my bed, and click the remote. Lucille Ball’s laugh comes on way too loud for two AM, and I quickly turn the volume down. A little I Love Lucy is exactly what I need to take my mind off that ‘dream’. Of course, I already knew it would be there waiting for me. It’s not as if this were the first time I’ve had a dream like that. They just normally aren’t quite that bad. Tonight was the first time I actually felt like I was there instead of just watching from afar, as I do most of the time. I shiver at the thought of the mother’s mangled, beaten body.
Maybe it’s the fear of driving that keeps my subconscious repeating all sorts of car accidents, not to mention the other crap in my nightmares. I dream about car accidents a lot, especially my sister’s accident. As Lucy tries to stomp grapes with her bare feet on TV, thoughts about Sahra’s accident invade my early morning. Tears flood my eyes as I remember Mom trying to ‘prepare me’ to see Sahra. A totally unnecessary preparation as it turned out, since the next time I saw her was at the funeral. I shake off my memory as the rioting laughter of the studio audience brings me back to the now.
My finger drifts down to my side and gently nudges the button on my phone, looking for the news my brain doesn’t really want to know—the trader. Yep. It’s Friday. I can’t start the day off like this. Uncle Carl, Jason, and my grandparents will all be here for my dad’s fiftieth birthday. I need to change my mindset. Wiping the moisture from my face, I pop in a movie.
I think Brave should put me in the right frame of mind. Disney movies always help me get out of a funk. I let my mind wander into the plot. It won’t hurt to have a fighter’s frame of mind today.
After Tomb Raider, my mini movie marathon of girls kicking butt is over. I hear my parents in the kitchen. With a sigh, I get up, undoing my nightly French braid but not bothering to change. It’s still only six-thirty, and I don’t have to be at work for two hours. I can already smell the bacon wafting down the hall, beckoning my noisy stomach.