by M. J. Labeff
Derrick flopped down on the couch and kicked off his shoes. Hell, he hadn’t even picked out the furniture for the place. No time, of course. He’d allowed a decorator he’d paid a minimal fee to furnish the house. He didn’t care. He grabbed the remote from the coffee table and flicked on the TV. He stretched out and reached the throw blanket from the back of the couch. It lacked the softness of Sparrow’s pink blanket and its heavenly scent. The background noise of the TV might lull him to sleep, but restlessness gripped him as visions of Sparrow danced in his head.
Derrick shifted onto his side, turning his face from the glaring TV. In the darkness, his fantasy took flight. Sparrow faced him, running her long fingers up his chest, twining them behind his neck. She reached up on her tiptoes for a kiss. He imagined the sweet taste of her palate, and the sweet spot between her legs. His hand stroking her between her thighs, rubbing the soft cotton barrier separating her flesh from his, he’d rip her panties free and press his hardness against her, urging her to take him. Her hand would close around him, and she’d look up at him with those innocent, girl-next-door eyes.
Derrick moaned, frustrated by his arousal and the realization he could be deep inside of her right now, making love to the woman he found riveting. If only he hadn’t spoken so hastily about Dr. Von Langley. And that thought killed the fantasy, just as it had ruined their night earlier.
He punched at the pillow and tossed and turned on the couch, twisting his body from one side to the other, trying to get comfortable. It was no use. He faced the television and searched for the remote. It had probably fallen on the floor. Sleep escaped him. His mind flooded with questions about Dr. Von Langley.
Forget about Dr. Von Langley. You need sleep. More importantly, you need to make things right with Sparrow.
His mind drifted to thoughts of sex again, which he wouldn’t be having with her if he didn’t drop the subject of her father and his questionable “rice” method. Thinking about her that way, and having thoughts of Dr. Von Langley filter in and out, squashed his arousal for good.
Derrick swung his legs over the sofa and ran his hands through his hair, dragging them down his face. He rubbed his tired eyes. Worry overcame his desire for sleep. He picked up his fancy watch—three o’clock in the morning.
Some old rerun of a nineties sitcom blared from the TV. Reaching under the sofa, he found the lost TV remote and flicked through the channel menu. Why did he bother to pay for cable? He was hardly home to watch TV, and when he was, like now, nothing interested him.
“Damn, you really screwed up,” he muttered. Had she accused his own father of some sort of negligent behavior, he’d have reacted the exact same way.
Uninterested with the noise on the TV, he went to his bedroom. He should crawl into bed and force himself to sleep, but that wasn’t going to happen. He grabbed his laptop and took it out to the living room. The screen illuminated, and he connected to the Internet. Don’t do this. He couldn’t stop from searching for information on the illustrious career of Dr. Theodore Von Langley.
Chapter 14
Sparrow pulled the blanket over her shoulders and curled into the fetal position. She wasn’t sure what woke her, but she knew she wasn’t ready to leave the warm confines of her bed, or her sulking. The bedside clock flashed three o’clock, and she watched the digital numbers slowly turn. The minutes ticked away to morning. Focusing on the glowing numbers might help her fall asleep. She watched time slip by. Guilt niggled at her for not getting up and doing something productive. Relax. That was the wrong word to think of—her mind jumped to Derrick caressing her arms and pulling her close, telling her how she needed to relax.
She felt foolish thinking he’d come home with her to seduce her. His purpose had been to question her about her father. The nerve he’d touched shocked her with anger again. Her body broke from her cozy slumber. She threw back the covers and got out of bed.
She went into the bathroom and brushed her hair, sweeping it up into a clip, and then splashed cool water on her face. It was too early to go to the nursery for dirt and flowers. She decided to pamper herself.
She smoothed a cool mudpack over her face guaranteed to draw out impurities within thirty minutes, or so the instructions declared. Perhaps once the impurities were cleansed from her pores, the craziness running through her brain would seep out through those tiny holes in her face and clear her mind of the lunacy causing her to have visions. Perfect. She’d make a cup of tea and work on her project for the Alternative Doll Convention.
The teakettle whistled. She steeped a teabag and carried the steaming cup of peppermint tea into her studio. She raised the full cup to her lips and took a sip. The mudpack on her face had tightened, but she’d made sure to leave the area around her mouth clear of the hardening mask. She set the steaming cup of tea on her desk and then picked up the bags she’d piled in the corner of the room and sorted through what she would need to work on the scene: several patches of green indoor/outdoor carpet, plastic doll legs, brown clay, and moss.
She grabbed a pair of scissors from her desk organizer and the metal tray lined with scalpels, cuticle scissors, and other sharp objects. She cut the faux grass to fit the area of the wood board and glued it firmly in place. Next she made mounds of dirt out of the brown clay, covering each lightly with a brownish-green moss that would pass for mulch. She’d use a scalpel to shape the clay mounds later, but right now, she was anxious to plant the legs. Pulling a thin, sharp blade from the metal tray, she shoved the sharp point into the doll’s foot. She stabbed a small hole in the remaining plastic feet and then plopped down the moss-covered mounds of brown clay, sticking the middles with an upside-down doll leg. The landscape looked impressive.
Now for the treetops. She dragged the plastic storage box from the corner and peeled off the lid. An assortment of doll parts, hair, and clothes was inside. She found the plastic baggies filled with long strands of blonde hair. She picked them out of the box, twitching her lips from side to side.
“Hmm.”
She’d need to dye the blonde hair green. That would make for interesting-looking palm trees if she could bind the hair just so and plait together several strands to make it thick. School glue would work to clump the hair. But first the dye job.
She picked up her cup of tea with her free hand and went back to the kitchen. Tossing the bag of doll hair on the counter, she gulped down some of the tea and then got busy diluting green food coloring. Dipping the long blonde hair in the green solution, she estimated it’d take about one minute for the color to adhere. She watched the second hand on the pineapple-shaped wall clock. She pulled the strands from the liquid; she liked the nice shade of green they’d taken on. She placed them on a stained hand towel and continued dyeing the remaining hair. When the last strands were finished, she left the kitchen. The hair needed time to dry.
Back in her studio, she pondered the project while sipping the peppermint tea. Her face felt itchy from the mask, and she resisted the urge to scratch it. She’d bought miniatures to add detail to the scenery. There were teeny, tiny squirrels, birds, and flowers. The selection of miniatures was random, but she was certain she’d bought them with something in mind. An idea was just waiting to come to fruition.
When she had conceived the project, it was a seed waiting to germinate. The seed blossomed. She smiled at the plastic tree trunk doll legs. Her smile cracked the mud mask. “Rats.” She went into the bathroom and rinsed the mask from her face.
The cool water poured chills over her body. She applied a light moisturizer and went back to the kitchen to retrieve the green hair and a fresh cup of tea to drown out the goose bumps popping up on her flesh. She took a sip and carried the cup and the hair back to her studio.
With clear glue, she carefully applied a thin amount to the hair and created the likeness of palm fronds. She took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and dropped a tiny bit of permanent adhesive glue to the tip of the bound green hair strands. Very carefully, she pushed the palm fronds of
hair into the holes she’d punctured into the doll’s feet. She held very still, waiting for the adhesive to stick.
She had already worked on making flowers for the gardens using tiny upturned dolls’ hands glued together to look like petals, with an eye glued into the center for the iris. Another uncomfortable chill raced up her spine. When she’d strolled along the paths of the flowerbeds near the potting shed at her parents’ estate, she always felt like there were eyes watching her. She believed it so much, one time she had dug up small sections of the flowers. She’d dropped the trowel and ran from the finger protruding from the soil. Her father had never suspected her, insisting it was rodents. She didn’t confess her crime, but had confided in him about her suspicions concerning those gardens. He shrugged her hysterics off as nonsense and an overactive imagination, suggesting she read less horror novels and more literature. She shook off the unpleasant memory. The display was supposed to be a tropical oasis, not a replica of the grounds of her parents’ estate.
She planted the last palm frond and sleep gripped her body. She berated herself for not drinking a stronger black tea. The peppermint tea had relaxed her, and her fingers and hands were fatigued from the detail work with the palm trees. She wanted to work on the project longer, but her mind and body refused to cooperate.
With her mind in such a peaceful place, she decided to practice some deep meditation. She cleared a space on the floor for a yoga mat and turned up the heat in the room. Cocooning herself in warmth would further her state of mind. She felt so drowsy. As a precaution, she set the alarm clock in her bedroom for eight, thankful she didn’t have an early morning yoga class to teach. She walked back across the hall to her studio and sat in the lotus position on top of the yoga mat. With her hands upturned on her knees, she joined her index fingers to her thumbs, deeply inhaling and exhaling.
“All I need is deep within me waiting to unfold. I must be still and search for the silence. I must seek the truth and it will reveal itself to me.”
She sat in silence for several minutes, focusing on the blackness behind her closed eyes. Inhaling and exhaling cleansing breaths, she felt as light as a feather. With each breath she took, her mind became a blank canvas, free of thoughts. She was ready to start the mantra.
“Aoom-Mani-Padmay-Hoom, Aoom-Mani-Padmay-Hoom, Aoom-Mani-Padmay-Hoom…”
She concentrated on the rhythm and sound flowing from between her lips. Deep from her diaphragm she chanted, forcing the words up from her stomach, to her esophagus, through her vocal cords, and out her mouth, releasing each syllable slowly, clearly. Endorphins released. Behind her closed eyes, she saw a pinpoint of light. The circle of light grew, a soft golden glow, and like a bird ready for flight, her weightless body raised above the floor.
“Aoom-Mani-Padmay-Hoom, Aoom-Mani-Padmay-Hoom, Aoom-Mani-Padmay-Hoom…”
Behind the fair light she saw her father and Angel in the garden. Their lips moved, but she couldn’t hear what they were saying. Her father pointed to several species of flowers. Angel smiled adoringly at him. He plucked a lush pink rose from its stem and handed it to her. The golden haze of light turned murky green. Her father wrapped an arm around Angel, who smiled up at his kindness. Water pooled under her father’s feet. The dripping wet vision of the dead girl from the ocean stepped out from behind him. A raised piece of driftwood in her hands, she swung it like a bat, whacking Dr. Von Langley with it and sending him falling onto his hands and knees.
Sparrow was jolted from the assault; her backside hit the floor and her eyes popped open. Her uneven breathing hitched at the sight of the dead girl standing in front of her smiling and leaning against the piece of driftwood she’d struck Sparrow’s father with. Sparrow rubbed her eyes, hoping to wipe the vision away. Her cheeks felt moist, and she realized she had been crying.
The dead girl’s face contorted in anger. She squinted her eyes at Sparrow, wrinkling her nose in disgust, and puckering her lips in rage. Thrusting her right arm forward, she dangled the charm bracelet on her wrist with fury. The charms clattered throughout Sparrow’s studio like wind chimes assaulted by a gusty breeze. Sparrow clapped her hands over her ears. The chiming intensified. She pressed her hands tighter against the side of her head, but the chiming grew louder. The dead girl would not be ignored.
“What do you want from me?” Sparrow yelled over the deafening and frightening sound.
“Stop him.”
Sparrow’s transcended state of mind slowly drew out of the hypnotic state. She tried to regain control of her splintering thoughts. The vision of the dead girl grew fuzzy. The chiming diminished.
“Wait. Don’t go. Who are you?”
It was too late. Her altered state escaped her. The dead girl vanished before Sparrow’s eyes.
Chapter 15
Derrick’s research on Dr. Von Langley revealed questionable but respected techniques used by the glorified therapist. Most accounts had parents commenting that their child or children required therapy to keep them focused. Blame it on the advent of the Internet and the cell phone, the music, the clothes, and the times. Things parents had complained about for decades. New inventions posed new threats for parents. Had the world become so much more complex that children required therapy? According to what Derrick had read, the answer was a resounding “yes.”
Could the real problem lie with the parents? He gazed down at the article he’d been reading dated from 1999. He laughed. That infamous year went down in history as the masses worried about Y2K. Derrick had been in college. He smiled, thinking back to his first year in medical school.
He clicked the back button in the upper left corner of the computer screen and scrolled down to the other articles. A headline caught his eye. “Girls and Boys, Interrupted.” He dragged the pointing arrow over the article to partially reveal some of the text.
Experts say borderline personality disorder is more than a mood disorder. Commonly misunderstood in teens and young adults, fueling careless and impulsive behavior…
Derrick clicked open the article, curious about what Dr. Von Langley had contributed to the story. In the back of his mind, something told him to stop, but the article glared at him on the glowing computer screen. He leaned back against the couch and clasped his hands behind his head, conflicted over his feelings for Sparrow and his concern over her father’s work. It didn’t stop his eyes from straining to read the distant words on the screen, his duty to do no harm prevailing.
…fueling careless and impulsive behavior, including drug and alcohol addiction, eating disorders, reckless driving, and pleasure-seeking activities, from overspending in shopaholics to promiscuity in sex addicts; other forms of compulsive behavior can develop, including cutting and injuring themselves or putting themselves in risky situations. Many young adults with personality disorder are daredevils with desires for extreme sports. Relationships with others are often difficult to maintain.
He paused. The behaviors described in the article were commonly found in teens and young adults. He was beginning to see why so many kids were easily diagnosed with everything from hyperactivity to attention deficit disorder. Did the therapists involved with these cases bother to look at the physical and psychological changes teens faced?
So far, nothing in the article mentioned those changes. What was the story trying to convey—that a majority of young people with any of the above mentioned problems had a borderline personality disorder? He read on.
A person with borderline personality disorder lacks emotional control of his feelings and erupts in unexpected tantrums. According to Dr. Theodore Von Langley, “it is impossible to predict what triggers the emotional outburst.” He suggests people with the disorder have a “thin emotional skin,” therefore, another person’s look, word, gesture, or facial expression can “set off the individual with borderline personality disorder.”
That still didn’t explain the difficulty in maintaining relationships. At those ages people grew up and changed, and it stood to reason friendships were na
turally going to come together and fall apart. During that cycle of life young people were making tough choices about colleges and careers and for some marriage and family.
Look at what happened to me and Dana.
Derrick slumped against the couch and dragged his hands through his hair. That last fateful summer they’d spent hanging out together haunted him. Dana was cool, and Derrick liked living on the edge with someone his polar opposite. Someone who wasn’t as focused on school and studying as himself; Dana would rather pick up hot chicks at the beach or find a drag race in the city. Or find some other kind of trouble. Dana was the kind of kid who behaved like he was from the wrong side of the tracks. He’d been a daredevil, and on more than one occasion Derrick was sure he’d end up a dead man.
Fond memories of his teenage friend brought tears to his eyes. To make matters worse, Sparrow was Dana’s ex-girlfriend, and now he was dating her. Derrick would never get the chance to right the past. Would remorse eat away at his conscience if he built a future with Sparrow? The friendship he had with Dana dissolved years ago; yet, to this day, Derrick felt responsible for Dana’s destructive life. After all, he’d bought the beer and scored the drugs.
“Show us your tits,” Dana had yelled out, guzzling another beer. He jabbed Derrick in the arm. “Can you believe these sluts? Dancing around like strippers…for free.” Dana reached for another beer in the cooler and kicked his bare foot through the sand before he staggered over to the dancing girls. Derrick watched as Dana picked his next victim. The girl’s hips swayed from side to side; her body moved to the rhythm of the music, sliding up and down Dana’s. He’d worried when Dana coaxed her away from the crowd, knowing Dana had taken enough ecstasy to fuel a horse, and his next move would be to get into her pants.