Under the Influence

by L. B. Simmons

  And to my readers. YOU ARE AMAZING! Thank you so much for taking your time to read my stories. I know life gets busy, and the fact that you choose to take time out of your day to read my words will always humble me. As always, thank you for your support, your letters, your messages—all that you do that reminds me of why I continue to write. Thank you.

  The Resurrection of Aubrey Miller

  Copyright © 2014 by L. B. Simmons

  Cover by Mae I Designs (www.maeidesign.com)

  Edited By Jennifer Roberts-Hall

  Interior Design by Kassi Cooper

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are purely fictitious. Any resemblances to any persons, living or dead, are completely coincidental.

  “UM, HI.

  “My name is Aubrey Miller, or Raven Miller, depending on what part of my life I’m referencing, and this is my story.

  “I’m not going to bore you with every single detail, not yet anyway. All you need to know at this point is that, for many years, my life was a dark, endless abyss of death. It followed me around like I was some sort of knock-off, subpar grim-reaper. The overwhelming guilt of the role I played in each death reigned over my life, and many of those days consisted of me just trying to keep my head above the grief that consumed me.

  “But that is neither here nor there. What is relevant for you to understand is that this is my story—my fight to emerge from underneath the shroud of death that I was fearfully hiding behind for so many years. And it happened over the course of four years, my college years.

  “Those years, while for most are defined by constant partying and keg stands, with the occasional random hook-up—well, maybe more than occasional for some people—for me were just another pitiful reminder of my lack of social skill and personal grace. In the beginning. By the end, I had acquired life-long friends who helped guide me through some of the darkest parts of my life. In them I found the strength to lie to rest the person who walked onto campus that very first day, the one cloaked in death and darkness, and become the person speaking to you today.

  “I am here to finally share my story.

  “A story of discovering not only myself, but the meaning of true friendship and unconditional love. A story of some of the most challenging, yet most beautiful and awe-inspiring years of my life, in hopes that you will take something away from my journey.

  “After all, when life gives you lemons, aren’t you supposed to make lemonade or some shit like that?

  “Wait. What? I can’t say that?

  “Oops. Sorry about that, folks.

  “Anyway, back to why we’re here.

  “Drumroll, please.

  “So without further ado, here is the story of my resurrection.”

  “THE BLUE...”

  Glancing over, I see lips moving but hear nothing else so I gently tug the earbuds out of my ears. After pausing the Hole playing on my iPod, I look at my legal guardian as she concentrates on the road in front of her.

  “What?”

  Linda breaks her stare from the seemingly endless highway to look in my direction. “I said the blue looks good on you.” Removing her hand from the steering wheel, she reaches across the space separating us to touch the lower layers of the hair barely brushing the top of my arm, and pieces a section between her fingers before lifting it up in front of my eyes. The electric blue tips of my blackened hair bend fiercely toward my face as the breeze from the air conditioning blows against it. The corners of my mouth tilt downward as I take her wrist, removing her hand from my hair, and lean forward to place it back on the steering wheel.

  Safety first, Linda. Always.

  As I recline back into my seat, she adds, “The cat eyes kind of freak me out, though.”

  “Good,” I respond. “That’s what I was going for when I bought the contacts.” I snatch up the layer of the hair she has just released and hold it up again, inspecting the blue. “Anyway, I thought Blue Goth Punk Emo # B 000 would be a nice choice for today, seeing as though I’ll be meeting all sorts of new people. I wouldn’t want to make a bad first impression,” I say, sarcasm coating the last words spoken.

  Linda snickers to herself, her shoulder length blonde hair falling across her shoulders as she dips her head in laughter. She’s so not looking at the road right now.

  “Eyes on the road, please.” Releasing my hair, I watch until she lifts her face to focus on the grey pavement. Once satisfied that we’re not going to drift into oncoming traffic, my head finds the back of the seat and soon the sound of the humming tires almost lulls me to sleep. “God,” I moan as I stretch my arms above my head, attempting to release the pressure of my aching back muscles. “How much longer?” Even shifting in my seat does absolutely nothing to alleviate the throbbing.

  “Not much. Half an hour, maybe,” she responds, her green eyes once again breaking away from the very important highway to meet mine. “Seriously, the cat eyes are creeping me out. They make my eyes water.” Right on cue, moisture brims the base of her dark lashes.

  Pointing my index finger in the direction of the windshield, my blackened eyebrow lifts and I narrow my stare. “Then stop looking at them and focus on driving, please. I would like to get there in one piece, limbs intact, preferably alive if you don’t mind. Living and breathing is kind of crucial to attend college.”

  Turning her head away, she inhales deeply and then releases a long sigh. “You’re so morbid.”

  No return remark is necessary. That’s like saying water is wet. Morbid and I go hand-in-hand.

  Flipping down the visor above my head as she continues to drive, I glance at the reflection in front of me, taking note of my latest physical manifestation. Deep black dye covers the top of an entire base layer of electric blue, fulfilling its purpose in concealing my naturally light blonde hair. The contacts in my eyes are completely white, with the exception of the black pointed ellipses right in the middle. A 16-gauge circular barbell crosses through the septum in my nose, the newest addition to my piercings.

  I run my tongue across the back of the tiny skull-shaped stud currently residing in my left dimple piercing, a mirror image of the one on the right, while my fingertips graze over the 12-gauge mini-curved barbell in my eyebrow on the same side. The sight of the skulls serves as a constant reminder of the permanent loss of my once beaming smile, its grave marked with silver.

  After pinning the hair to the nape of my neck, I glance briefly at the industrial piercing at the top of my left ear, and then at the seven silver closure rings that line the side of the right.

  I look like a freak.

  Sometimes I wonder if I overdid the attempt to deter anyone and everyone from ever getting near me.

  Well, if the piercings don’t work, the cat eyes should definitely get my point across.

  Sigh.

  While releasing the hair from my grasp, my other hand lifts toward my face and extends a finger, touching the surface of the contact before moving it aside to reveal a bright, sky-blue iris staring back at me. The color suited me at one time. Happy and alive, sunny.

  No longer though.

  Death becomes me.

  I release the contact, and after it slides back into place I bend at the waist, feeling for the backpack that’s just beneath my feet. After locating it and zipping open the front pocket, I blindly finger through the items encased inside: eye drops, (wearing contacts day in and day out tends to dry out my eyes, go figure), a tiny notebook (which contains the ramblings of my journal), a full can of mace (forced upon me before leaving by Linda earlier this morning), until I find what I’m looking for nestled in the corner. Extracting the pot of pigment based cream eye-shadow and a
round tube of lip stain from the pocket, I lay them in my lap as I scoot back into my seat, centering my face in the mirror.

  Inhaling deeply, I relax my face and begin to apply the stain to my full lips, the hue of red so deep it’s just a smidge shy of appearing black as it settles in and creates a sharp contrast against my pallid skin. As the color sets, I place the tube back in my lap, then rub the side of my pinky finger along the outside of my bottom lip where the coloring has bled beyond its edges. Once my lips are taken care of, I unscrew the pot of cream and dip my forefinger directly inside before removing it, the tip now coated in what looks like black paste. After smearing it over both eyelids, I follow it up with another application underneath my eyes.

  The familiarity of the ritual—the cloaking of my face, if you will—settles my nervous heartbeat. I don’t do so well around…people, so needless to say, my first day of college is going to be interesting.

  After throwing the contents of my lap back into my backpack, I recline into my seat. As the wheels of the car continue their soothing roll, I chance a glimpse at the driver whose eyes are thankfully concentrating on the road in front of her.

  Linda Walker.

  She is the epitome of beauty.

  I watch the short sleeves on her cream colored wrap dress dance along the skin of her upper arm as the cool air circulates inside the car, and privately take note at how the leather of her black belt is expertly coordinated with her heels.

  But it’s not only her tailored outfit, or her thick, long, blonde hair, or her magnificent green eyes, or even her almost contagious smile. Her beauty is internal, derived from the enviable amount of ferocity in which she chooses to live her life. I would never say it to her, of course, but sometimes I find myself envious of her valor. It’s something I know without a doubt that I will never be able to possess. Hell, simply processing it doesn’t even seem possible for me.

  She took me in at the tender age of eight as a lost and frightened, blue-eyed, blonde-haired little girl and will be leaving me at Titan University a terrified, cat-eyed, black-and-emo-punk-blue-haired woman. I know she wonders where she went wrong, but I’ve tried several times to explain to her that you can’t break something that’s so clearly already broken.

  With the loss of my parents—first my mother and then my father shortly after—I was handed over to her since, as my mother’s best friend, she had been dutifully ordained as my godmother when I was born. She has since retained full custody, due to the fact that I have no other living relatives. Those deaths I thankfully did not play a part in. Although, both of my mother’s parents passed away while I was in utero, so maybe I did.

  Yeah, I probably did.

  Anyway, after the death of my parents, I was shuttled her way via C.P.S., four hours away from the tiny town of Wilmer and the home I grew up in to her residence in Canton. I don’t remember much around that time. I was pretty much a zombie for the next year or so, trying unsuccessfully to integrate myself into a new, much larger school and make new life-long friends.

  Right.

  Saying I had a hard time adjusting would be a massive understatement. I had just lost my family and left the only real friend I ever had back in Wilmer, so the transition was not an easy one to say the least.

  Yet, the more difficult it became, the harder Linda tried.

  One day, she decided to bring home a parakeet, thinking the idea of having a pet and possibly one friend would help me move on and find some sort of joy again. It died the next day when it face-planted into the sliding glass door in the living room.

  Undeterred, she brought home a kitten the next week. It was run over by our neighbors the next Thursday.

  I don’t even want to go into the puppy she attempted to bring home for my twelfth birthday. That one still breaks my heart. Who knew six-week old puppies weren’t allowed copious amounts of chocolate cake?

  “Why are you staring at me?” Linda’s voice disrupts my thoughts. It’s then that I realize I’ve been gawking at her for the past couple of minutes while lost in my memories. Directing my gaze forward, I fold my hands together and lay them on top of my olive green Dickies while stretching my legs until my Doc Martens hit the bottom of the glove compartment.

  After releasing a weighted breath, I respond, “Walter.”

  “Walter? Was that the bird or the kitten?”

  “Neither, it was the puppy.”

  Linda’s intake of air doesn’t go unnoticed, just unmentioned.

  “It wasn’t your fault, honey. How were you supposed to know that too much chocolate can poison a dog?”

  Puppy, Linda.

  And why the hell she refuses to just give in and call me by the name I prefer I have no idea. Trying to dissolve the conversation about poor Walter before it starts, I correct her.

  “Raven. My name is Raven. Please use it.”

  She expels her breath forcefully before speaking, the same response I get every time we broach this subject. And I couldn’t agree more with her gesture. I’m tired of having this same conversation with her. We’ve been having it since I was twelve, when my new naming convention was prompted by the loss of Walter.

  Sigh.

  Like I said, I took his death pretty hard.

  “No, I will most certainly not. I refuse to reinforce your ridiculous theory that you are some winged bringer of death to all who come across your path.” She inhales deeply, then once again exhales her breath. “I’m so tired of having this conversation with you.”

  Likewise, Linda.

  Rolling my eyes, I shift in my seat and lean my forehead against the window, watching the terrain slowly evolve from trees and open ranges to tall, grey buildings offset with stop lights at every corner. Shortly after entering the city, we turn onto campus and are immediately greeted by a huge academic building with a square-shaped, limestone sign placed just at the edge of the grass-laced clearing.

  Welcome to Titan University

  Gooooooo Titans.

  Mental fist-pump in the air ensues before I inhale a much needed calming breath. My heart begins to pound within my rapidly rising ribcage, the knowledge of required social gatherings just on the horizon sending it into overdrive.

  Barely able to squeeze our way through the congested roadways, we follow the green signs with arrows pointing us in the direction of my dorm, practically running over three unsuspecting pedestrians paying absolutely no attention to the cars around them as they walk with their noses melded with the campus maps in their hands.

  Three.

  Jesus.

  After sideswiping the curb and nearly taking out two more possible victims, Linda finally lands the car right in front of Harris Hall. My arms are tingling, the result of being forced ramrod straight for the past five minutes; muscles I didn’t even know existed are flexed to full capacity as my nails dig into both the leather-covered handle of the door and the center console separating us. Slowly, my head turns in her direction. Mouth wide-open and with eyes the size of saucers, I watch as she carefully runs the palms of her hands over her blonde hair before returning my aghast stare.

  Hair important.

  Pedestrians not so much, I guess.

  Peeling my eyes away from her, I watch in fear while several people nonchalantly carry luggage, boxes, microwaves, and mini-fridges as they file into the main hall. Seemingly mindless activities for them as they chat and laugh upon their entrance. My mind is, however, continuously pounded with the same recurring thought.

  So many accidents waiting to happen.

  I sigh to myself in resignation before opening the car door.

  Well, I guess it’s official.

  Ready or not, Titan University…here I come.

  “HOLE. LEE. SHIT.”

  Three separate words make up the only response I’m capable of speaking when observing my dorm room for the very first time.

  Linda huffs behind me, and the sound of her fishing through her purse directly behind me is all I can hear as I take in the sight before me
. There are no words.

  Well, actually, there are three very choice words.

  Just before I take another step, Linda’s heels click against the floor and a pint-sized glass jar mysteriously appears right above the curve of my shoulder. I don’t even have to turn my head to know what it is.

  “Quarter in the swear jar, please.”

  Sigh.

  Reaching into my pocket—which happens to always be overflowing with “swear quarters”—I dutifully deposit one into the already half-full jar, pushing it past the make-shift “swear slot” in the top. Not bad, considering she just emptied it yesterday.

  I have no idea what she does with the money, but I’m pretty sure she has a Swiss bank account receiving the earnings from the priceless gems that tend to fall from my mouth.

  Just as the quarter lands on top of the mountain of silver, my eyes rake over the left side of the room. It looks like someone threw up cotton candy, drained an entire bottle of Pepto Bismol into their stomach, then threw up again.

  Pink.

  It’s everywhere.

  Pink poster of a ballerina, pink knick-knacks lining the shelving built into the walls, pink scepter with matching tiara lined in clear crystals along its edges, and—wait.

  Hold up.

  Is that a pink boa?

  Fuck. Me.

  Without even registering that the expletive was internal, I reach into my baggy Dickies to grab another quarter. Before I can retrieve it, Linda’s palm lands on my shoulder blade and she presses forward gently, trying to force my entry into the room. My feet, however, are in total sync with my brain and refuse to step any further into this atrocity. As I remain rooted to the floor, my hand makes its way out of my pocket and crosses my body until my fingers find the skin of my forearm, which suddenly has become unbearably itchy. Is it possible to be allergic to a color?