Half-Breed

by Zachary Smith

  Chapter 9

  The light is so bright I’m blinded, unable to focus on anything further than an inch away from my face. So I lay motionless on the floor, a docile zombie, waiting to regain my bearings. Obviously, this being far too long for the blurred figure to wait as they grab me and hoist me back to my feet with such a strength I hardly have to move. It’s Matthew – he is alive.

  “You’re finally awake!” he beams.

  Dazed, my legs wobble as I take my first steps, with the help of Matthew, to the bed. His room is a state, the wardrobe doors have fallen from their hinges and the computer desk has been overturned, but is fixable. Unfortunately, I cannot say this for the rest of his furniture, which lays in ruins, much like the town centre I’d dreamt of.

  Studying my face, Matthew narrows his glazed eyes in on me, reflecting a perfect mirror image of the bright white light from his window. And for a moment, I’m sure he might cry, but he hurries to his feet and busies himself, moving the many scattered notebooks back and forth, hiding his face from my view.

  “So… I didn’t think you were going to wake up,” – he coughs to clear his throat – “you had me worried. I kept calling to you, hoping on some level you’d hear me and come back.” He says with a slight quiver in his voice. I must’ve really scared him – although he’d never admit it – as I’ve never seen him act so on edge before.

  “I heard you,” I confirm, to which he smiles.

  Overcome by a rush to the head, I stagger forward as I rise from the bed, having got up too fast. On me at a speed, Matthew places his hand firmly on my back, supporting me upright. “Steady Mitchell, it’s not every day you spout fire from your body.” He says with a forced laugh. Even now, in his shaken state he’s trying to make light of the situation, make me feel at ease. And it works, slightly as we both begin to laugh – albeit a nervously.

  Making a start on his room, we first clear the floor and then move his bed back to its original position, scraping it along the old wooden floor as we push it tight to the wall under the window. “How’re we going to explain the wardrobe to mum?” I ask.

  We both grab a side of the desk and flip it, although I’m pretty sure Matthew could have done it all on his own as I barely even touched it. “I have no idea,” he replies, raising his hand to his forehead to wipe off a bead of sweat, causing his bicep to bugle and stretch the opening of his short sleeve t-shirt. “The wardrobe is the least of my worries, how am I going to explain the burn marks? She’s going to think I’ve been smoking!”

  I count a total of eight separate burn marks, six to the floor, another to the base of his bed frame and the one on his desk. Even if we can hide them, there is still the obvious aroma of burnt wood laying heavy in the air. “I’ll crack open the window, at least we can try and get the smell out before she gets home,” I suggest.

  Lifting the handle, I push the window open and allow a gust of fresh clean air into the room. It’s a typical winter’s wind, with a chill that spikes at my exposed skin, sending a shiver down my spine. Looking out to the sun, I become captivated by its glow and remain still, staring at it, trying to remember something important I’d forgotten.

  “Is the boogie man out there again?” laughs Matthew.

  I snap out of my daydream. “Oh. No, I just feel like I’m forgetting something.”

  It takes us a good hour to finish tidying his room, once all the furniture was put back to its correct place we only had to stack together his magazines and notebooks, then throw his dirty used clothes into the corner of his room – we didn’t want it too clean, otherwise mum would get suspicious. I even had some time to scrub the charred marks from the floor, once the blackened soot was wiped away, they didn’t look half as bad and were only slightly visible.

  “Job well done.” Boasts Matthew inspecting the room.

  Grabbing at the window handle, Matthew pulls it shut with such a force it shakes the whole frame, leaving a noticeable crack in the corner. “You’ve got to be kidding me! What more could go wrong?” He whines.

  “What did you expect? It’s a window, not a steel door!”

  He repeats what I say, word for word, trying to mimic my voice in a mockingly over exaggerated way while screwing up his face.

  “Are you done?” I firmly ask.

  He smirks. “Yes, yes I am. The silver lining, that sunset is pretty sweet. The sky is nearly completely orange.”

  Nerves rip through my stomach, I know I’m forgetting something and rack my brain trying to figure out what it is, but nothing comes to mind. Think Mitchell, think! Suddenly her voice rings through my ears, that emotionless monotonic voice. It’s finally time for answers. Meet me in Shellbourne gardens at sunset.

  “We have to get to Shellbourne gardens now!” I yell.

  Matthew raises an eyebrow, a perfect arch above his green eye. “It’s a nice sunset and all, but I ain't that bothered about seeing it.” He replies.

  “What?... No, no! Not the sunset. We need to meet her.”

  Caught in a rumble, I curse myself for forgetting. What if she’s already gone? Will I ever find out what's wrong with me? With us?! This could be our only chance and I go and forget!

  “Her?” asks Matthew.

  I erratically grab him by the shoulders. “The voice! The high pitched voice from my dream. She told me to meet her at Shellbourne gardens at sunset.” I know how irrational I must sound, even I have a hard time trying to believe it.

  “It was just a dream, Mitchell,” argues Matthew, taking a step back.

  “Please Matthew, she said for me to bring you too.” I plead.

  He stands silent for a moment, calmly thinking over his answer. As I impatiently watch the sun becoming less visible and slowly disappear into the distance.

  “Fine.” He calmly decides with a shrug. “But, I think this is weird chasing after some girl you heard in a dream. Ya know, just throwing it out there.”

  “Any weirder than anything else that has happened to us today?” I shoot back.

  “Oh, good point.”

  The ground outside is still damp from the rain we had earlier and puddles have formed in the street, which we need to leap over as we run. It’s about a fifteen-minute walk to the gardens, but we are not walking, so should make it just in time. Unable to take my eyes off the sky, I watch helplessly as the black of night spreads from the horizon, blanketing any light from above that the sun once claimed.

  Picking up the pace, I ignore the burning sensation in my thighs as I power through, leaving Matthew to fall behind. “Come on!” I demand. “You’re meant to be a rugby player.”

  A low blow, but if there’s one thing I know about Matthew, it's that he hates having his sporting ability criticised. And it works, as he lunges into a powerful sprint, pounding his muscular legs on the pavement, passing me within seconds. To keep up with him is not an option as I can already feel a stitch forming on my side, regardless of this, I’d never be able to match his speed anyways. “Mitchell, hurry up,” he calls back to me. “You’re meant to be a sketch artist.”

  “That… doesn’t… even… make… sense.” I shout through deep long breaths.

  “I think you’ll find it does!” he laughs.

  With a struggle and a gasp for air, my heavy legs shuffle along the ground, like I’m carrying two useless weights, and I watch as the gap between us grows bigger with each stride he takes until he fades into the distance.

  Finally, I reach the gardens. By now the sun has completely set and the sky is black, the only light being the street lamps that have come on. The gardens cover a large area, consisting of open fields with neatly trimmed grass and two main concrete paths that cut down the middle and overlay in the centre, forming the shape of a cross if viewed from above. This creates four sections within the gardens, one for each season, so at any point in the year, one area will be in bloom. Connected to these paths are four main entrances, one to the north; one to the east; one to the south and one to the west. I enter through the south
entrance, in between the winter and spring sections. As it is winter, I assume she’d be waiting there and decide to check out that quarter first. Walking the main path, I reach one of the wood chip tracks that splinters off, leading through the section I’d chosen. The ground is soft, almost springy as I weave between the flower beds, trying to avoid stepping on the minimal amount of cold-looking flowers on display. The winter section is my least favourite of all the seasons in the gardens, as even in bloom it still looks bare to me. There isn’t a wide range of different plants around, and each flower bed looks similar to the last, lacking colour and life.

  Entering the wooded area, I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder, as the trees block out most of the moonlight, making it seem much darker than it really is. Unwanted doubts then enter my mind, what if this is a trap? I really have no idea what I’m getting myself into, or who I’m going to meet. Maybe this was a bad idea, after all, it was just a dream… wasn’t it?

  A rustle of the tree branches quickens my pace, just below a jog, as I look behind to check I’m not being followed. This is close to being one of my night terrors, being alone in the eerie woods, with swaying branches and minimal to no light. Now all I need is someone to be chasing me, a crazed escaped convict or perhaps even a monster of some kind. Maybe I’ll get lucky and wake in my bed before anything terrifying happens, but something tells me I won’t be having such luck tonight.

  Suddenly a dark figure jumps from behind a tree, catching me off guard as the culprit pounces my way, howling in my face. With it happening so fast I instinctively leap back, a response I didn’t think I had in me, but clip my heel on an exposed root and fall to the ground, crashing into the dirt. Stunned, and unable to move, I cower on the floor as the howls echo through the trees, becoming louder as the shadow covered attacker descends upon me. I was right, it is a trap.