Visioness

by Lincoln Law

  There was a struggle falling asleep on the firm cobbles, but she eventually managed some thin vestige of a rest there on the cold ground. The alley was cold, but her blanket was warm enough to fight away the bite of the breeze.

  She awoke cold, her stomach grumbling, her back sore. She quickly decided she would never take a bed with a mattress and blankets for granted again. She had survived her first night on the street, and that alone was an achievement to be proud of. When she stepped out on the streets, where the first few collections of people were beginning their ways to work and about their chores, she realised the real hunt for her would begin. She imagined wanted posters with her likeness appearing about the city. She had to change at some point today. She had to become a new woman.

  In the bins outside a closed restaurant, she found a blunted knife, old and stained and a little cracked from where an angry chef had let out his anger at his broken tool. With that, she sliced away section after section of hair, hacking through her ebony strands, watching it come away in clumps. Sawing through the mass, she eventually stood before a pile of black hair, glistening with crystals of her own tears. Her face and dress were dirty, the blanket draped around her shoulders like a shawl, her hair uneven and clumped; she was a mess. But she was also unrecognisable from the woman she was before. That would be her protection.

  Sure enough, by that afternoon, wanted posters had begun to appear about Odilla, down every rue, avenue and boulevard. Her beautiful face stared at her, printed in black-and-white. That woman there had shoulder-length black hair, smooth dark skin, brown eyes and a soft nose. The girl who stared at the picture was dirty and ill and cold.

  I’m unrecognisable, she thought. But it’s what I need to be. It’s what I have to be.

  Later in the afternoon, she found a homeless shelter that was handing out soup and a bed for the night. They were only open twice a week, due to minimal funding from outside sources, but Adabelle was quick to decide that two nights a week were better than none. She went inside and found the room bustling with men and women, all of them bedraggled, all of them dirty. There was the hint of human body odour present, but Adabelle could barely smell it over her own, yet stronger than that was the scent of food. Bread rolls and a rich, vegetable-filled stew sat atop a gas stovetop, as a set of five people ladled out the food. Adabelle’s eyes lit up at the sight of the food, and she quickly got in line.

  “Good evening, miss,” said the lady handing out bowls and spoons.”

  “Good evening,” Adabelle replied.

  “Will you be taking a bed here tonight?” she asked.

  “Yes, please,” Adabelle replied, nodding, eyes still fixed upon the food.

  “Well if you’ll please write down your name here,” she handed her a clip board and a piece of paper. “We just have to track who’s coming and going to make sure we have enough beds.”

  “Yes,” Adabelle said. She scribbled down the first name that came to mind—Nynette Therron—she did it without hesitation so as to not rouse suspicion.

  “Very good,” the lady said. “Now here’s a bowl and some bread. Enjoy your dinner.”

  Adabelle welcomed the bowl of soup and bread. It was warm and spicy, and the vegetables soft from sitting in the warm broth. She finished the first helping, by which time they announced there was enough for everyone to get a second helping if they desired. Adabelle did so, knowing this might be the last time for a while she would sleep with a full stomach.

  Once that was done, the people who were staying the night helped shift the tables and chairs aside. It was at this point she realised that some of the people who had come for dinner were families who had homes but couldn’t afford food. The hall quietened with their leaving. With the furniture out of the way, cots were set up in rows, with the women and the children that remained on one side of the hall, the men on the other. Adabelle felt sad at her own situation, but in many ways, this was her own choice. Some of these people had no other option.

  Growing up a child of the street, she thought, noticing how many of these children still seemed happy somehow. I can barely fathom any of it.

  That night she slept soundly, keeping her own blanket close to her alongside the thick one they had supplied her. Curled up on the soft cot, she slept deeply and without any dreams to stir her.

  When she awoke, she found a supply of toast in paper bags on the counter. It was cold, and scraped with butter, but it was better than nothing so she ate it gratefully. Yet as she sat on the edge of the cot, she looked about the room and found her eyes settling on one figure, that had only just entered the room and had begun to speak with the lady handing out toast.

  “Detective Olin,” she whispered, getting up suddenly. She grabbed her blanket tightly in her grasp, and began her way to the door, attempting to look as casual as she could. Somehow—she did not know how—she managed to slip past the pair talking without a second glance and out the door onto the street.

  They know I’m on the run, then, she thought, as she raced up the street, cold toast in one hand, blanket in the other. They’re searching for me.

  The wanted signs spoke of a dangerous woman who had committed murders and arson, and yet if they saw her now, they would see a frightened woman. She was nervous and jumpy and exhausted from running, yet she had to run. So long as she ran, she was safe from the authorities and safe from the father that hunted her.

  In the back of her mind, she kept a checklist of things she had to be wary of.

  Detective Olin, my father, a tall, bald man with green eyes. All of these she had to remember, all of these she had to avoid if she were to remain safe.

  Yet beside that list was another, of those things that bound her to Odilla. Most would argue that leaving the city would be the safest option. Eventually, if she evaded them long enough, the scale of the search would grow to a national level. But for a little while—a very little while—she would find some peace elsewhere. But she had Charlotte to think of, and Rhene. She had to stay close to them, remember them, so that when a chance for freedom arrived, she knews they were close.

  She continued to run down the street, finding herself in a botanical park. Once in the shade of a tree, she took a seat with her blanket and closed her eyes, hoping to find a moment of peace and to catch her breath.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A Darkening Nightmare

  Adabelle found peace in the shade of the park tree. It wasn’t unusual for people to enjoy their leisure hours, whiling them away under the shadow of the wide-reaching trees, so to find a girl napping there wouldn’t be an entirely curious sight. It wasn’t an easy rest, by any means. It was fitful, with her taking an occasional moment to open her eyes and scan the people walking past, but it was a welcome piece of respite regardless.

  As the afternoon wore on, she found herself with a powerful thirst. She hadn’t drunk much at all since the night before, and her head was beginning to pound from the time spent out in the open. Her mouth felt full of cotton, her throat parched.

  She rose up from her space in the shade and found a fountain, in which some birds were seeking refuge from the afternoon sun. But for the cracks, caked with green slime, the stones were clean,. The water itself looked clean and cold and fresh, and when no one was looking, Adabelle took the opportunity to drink from it. Handful-after-handful, she scooped up the crystalline liquid, drawing it into her mouth gratefully. Deciding there was no better time than the present, she also splashed the water on her face, letting it clean away the dirt that made her sweat sticky, and the sweat that made the heat heavy. It wasn’t entirely lady-like—then again, not much of what she did was—but she lifted the front of her skirt to dry her face. Much of the dirt came away on the skirt, leaving a thin, coloured streak on the fabric.

  Deciding the park might not be such a horrible place to spend the night, she found a collection of bushes under which she could hide. She pulled her blanket around her, wrapping up like a pupae within a cocoon. Only, she wouldn’t emerge a beautifu
l butterfly. She would emerge as herself; plain and broke.

  But I have my strength, she thought. I have my strength and I have my hope, and that will have to do for now.

  The sky darkened with clouds, thick and heavy, warning of rain to come. Adabelle silently prayed, while shivering, that the heavens would not open and unleash a torrent of icy rain. Whichever god listened to the prayers of the homeless seemed to answer, holding off the rain. The firmament growled, disappointed at not being able to release the rain, grumbling at the girl whose prayers had been answered. Adabelle was able to ignore most of these thunderous moans and sleep.

  Unlike the night before, Adabelle dreamed. She imagined her sister, sitting in town hall, wondering what had become of her sister. She imagined her collecting her dinner from a queue of people lined up to be fed, and on the same thought imagined her getting pushed over in the bustle for food. She wouldn’t cry, though; her sister was stronger than that. So often Adabelle forgot how old the girl was. Only four years her junior, there ought to have not been too great a gap between both of them, and yet that gap meant the world to her. That gap meant the difference between who cared for whom, who accepted help, who hugged when a hug was needed. She was the big sister, and she had promised to protect.

  Yet Adabelle couldn’t help in this dream. She could only watch as images flashed past her, merging one into the next, carried on the mists of thought.

  After that image came the appearance of the University being rebuilt from the ashes. It had been damaged badly in most sections, leading to demolishing and rebuilding. It wouldn’t be as grand or as ancient-looking as it had been before, but it would be a place to learn, a place to stay, a place to live.

  But not for Charlotte.

  The image of her sister, slightly older now, appeared in the dream, standing on the sidewalk, watching longingly as the University was built. Then an unfamiliar voice spoke.

  “Come along, Charlotte, we have to hurry!”

  Charlotte looked along the path towards a woman Adabelle didn’t recognise. She was liver-spotted, and frightful in her complexion; old and impatient. She had a sternness and a stiffness about her dress and her walk. She had Charlotte dressed in some ridiculous clothes that forced her back into an uncomfortably straight line, the skirt touching the ground, revealing only the thinnest sliver of the bottom of her feet.

  She hurried along behind the stern-looking woman, nodding and apologising profusely.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she whispered.

  “Don’t mumble,” the woman replied. “A lady doesn’t mumble.”

  “Who is this woman to talk to my sister like that?” Adabelle thought out loud.

  The dream shifted again, blurring, revealing Charlotte crying on her bed. How Adabelle knew it was her bed, she did not know. This was no room Adabelle was familiar with. It was bare and barren, like a desert with furniture.

  “I hate it here,” Charlotte sobbed.

  “Charlotte!” cried a shrill voice from downstairs.

  Charlotte looked up.

  “Charlotte, get down here now!”

  Her sister appeared terrified, as if the fear of death itself had bolted down her spine. Charlotte attempted to hide, rolling onto the floor and under the bed. The door burst open, and the same angry lady from before appeared, face like stone, expression like fire.

  “Don’t you dare hide from me, girl,” she roared. A man followed in close behind her.

  “Ungrateful witch!” said the man. He was just like the woman, all jagged edges and square, furious expressions. “We give you a house and you repay us with thievery!”

  “Get out from under there!” the woman commanded.

  “I didn’t steal anything!” Charlotte sobbed, her voice rich with fear and sadness. But in that voice there was also honesty.

  “You did, you little witch! Get her! Beat her!” the woman demanded, turning to her husband. He dragged Charlotte out from under the bed by the leg, the girl screaming as she was scraped along the carpet, skin burning from the friction. From there she was pulled to her feet and struck hard across the face with a hand like a shovel. She fell to her bed, screaming, before that hand rose again and struck her across the back.

  “Steal again and you’ll get worse!” he roared. Another beat, another scream, Adabelle unable to turn away from the darkening nightmare.

  The images flashed, and Adabelle heard a voice.

  She has stolen from us, said the sharp, clipped voice. We want her out of our care.

  Another family appeared, this one a much younger couple. The story was much the same, though. Beating, abuse, and emotional cruelty. From home-to-government-home Charlotte moved, a burden of the state now that she had no money and no home. Therron was to blame, and yet Adabelle knew she had been a part of this too.

  This is what will happen if I do nothing, she thought. This is what’s going to happen if Therron wins.

  Down this path Charlotte continued to descend, each step darkening. Those lies and taunts eventually became truths, those fabrications turning to genuine accusations. She was stealing, she had turned to drugs. An abusive husband, an unwanted child, all because of this single event. All because Adabelle had chosen to run, abandoning her sister.

  But I haven’t abandoned her, Adabelle thought, as if in an attempt to justify her actions, if only to herself. I’m protecting her. I’m protecting both of them.

  But was she? By running away, by not facing her fear and accepting things outside of her control, was she really protecting them. Maybe for a short while Therron will have lost his targets—they only went to them because through them he could get to her—but in the long-term, had she honestly saved them.

  It wasn’t a premonition she saw—Dreaming was by no means a form of soothsaying or divination—but it was a possible outcome. A possible future if Adabelle chose not to act; if she chose not to fight.

  The Dreamer’s Lullaby began, the choking scent of cologne appearing. Therron was an inevitability, yet Adabelle felt within the dream that he was here on peaceful terms. It came towards her in the form of a gut-feeling. She just somehow knew that Therron meant no intentional harm to her.

  Therron appeared, suited and smiling, walking into her mind with the cane for support. He looked calm, if a little tired.

  “Hello, Adabelle,” he said.

  “Therron,” she replied.

  He seemed troubled for a moment that she didn’t call him father, but he made nothing of it.

  “How are you, my daughter?”

  He knew how to get her deep down. “I’m fine,” she replied.

  “You don’t look fine,” he said. “You look terrible, as a matter of fact.”

  She realised now that she had retained her image from the real world in here. She wasn’t used to concerning herself with her image; she’d never really minded. At present she had a dirty face, her hair was ragged and her clothes were tattered. She mustered up the strength she needed to change her image, letting her hair grow long, her face clear up and her clothes restore themselves. Once she felt presentable, she replied, “Is that better?”

  “Much better,” Therron said. She’d meant it to be rhetorical, and yet he still responded honestly. “No daughter of mine should ever live in tatters.”

  “And yet I do, because of you.” She had to tell him the truth; he had to understand her pain. “You attacked the University, you burnt down the one home I had. You killed the one person I could count—truthfully—to be my mother, and then you claim that no daughter of yours should live in tatters.” She shook her head in disgust. “You should be ashamed, really, of what you’ve done.”

  Therron shrugged. “It was your choice to react how you did. I did not make you run, I did not force you into homelessness. I would not, for a second, demand that of you.”

  “Then why chase me?” she retorted. “Why force me to make these kinds of decisions?”

  Therron was silent, his face remaining as smooth as stone. That calm express
ion did not change or shift for even a moment.

  “No reply then?” she asked, almost arrogantly. Now was truly the time to show he did not affect her as badly as he believed. Now was the time to show her true power. He could push her down, throw her back, make her feel like dirt; but she could stay proud. He needn’t know her fears for her sister now, nor the nightmares she had faced—though a small part of her told her that he’d know some small aspect of those images. Of Charlotte in foster care, and the cruelty of others.

  “You do know there is an easy way out of all of this?” he said. “I could make all the pain end. You know by now that there is no money in our bank account, yes?”

  “My bank account,” Adabelle spat, “and yes I know.” She paused, partially curious. “How do you think you could make this all go away.”

  Therron took a step forward. “Step forward. Reveal yourself. Go to the police, tell them you are Adabelle Blaise and go into their custody. Easy?”

  “And what will that do?” Adabelle retorted. “I’m meant to care for Charlotte. How am I meant to do that from a prison?”

  “My agents have money,” Therron replied, still calm despite Adabelle’s harsh tone. “My agents have connections, far more numerous than you could comprehend. Through this web of ties, I could insure you are not found guilty. I could protect you. And all you have to do is step forward to the police. I am quite capable to take everything from there.”

  Just as in her dream before, Adabelle found herself able to hear the truth. She sensed sincerity in his words, and it confused her.

  Even he isn’t that powerful, she thought. He couldn’t be! You can’t lie in Dreams.

  “You’re lying,” she replied, uncertainty tinging her words.