by R.K. Ryals
~Bezaliel~
“Remind me again why we’re watching this?” I asked Monroe breathlessly, my face stuffed unceremoniously in my pillow. A popcorn kernel hit me on the side of the head and my stomach heaved. I didn’t see how she could eat.
“You have to ask me that?” Monroe remarked as I looked up just in time to see the girl on the portable DVD player yell profanities at the priest next to her bed. My face hit the pillow again.
“Oh!”
Monroe laughed before moving to plop down beside me.
“How many people can say they’ve watched the Exorcist while inside a church?” Monroe asked. I saw her point. My stomach didn’t.
“I’m very glad you’re so easily amused,” I complained as Monroe reached over and hit the pause button.
I refused to glance at the screen. I had never liked horror movies. I wasn’t starting now. I was your typical cry during a Gerber commercial, chick flick, over-sensitive kind of gal. If that made me a romantic, then so be it.
“We’ve got to work on hardening you up,” Monroe said with a grin.
I threw my pillow at her.
“Speak for yourself. Let’s watch a tamer classic. Maybe a little Gone With the Wind?” I suggested gamely while leafing through Monroe’s overnight bag.
Monroe always brought her entire house in one piece of luggage. It was like being best friends with Mary Poppins. I kept expecting her to pull out a coat rack, coffee table, and lamp. Monroe claimed being prepared was an essential part of living. I was convinced being under-prepared led to adventure. We tended to debate the issue. I found the Margaret Mitchell-based film and held it up.
“Hell, for that matter, let’s just fast forward it to the end so we can watch Rhett walk out the door.”
Monroe gasped in delight at the suggestion, jumping up to lift my hand theatrically before feigning a faint on the bed. I sprawled out next to her, and we both reached a hand toward the ceiling. Our other hands rested forlornly against our hearts.
“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!” we both cried out in unison, our gaudy southern accents sorely overdone as we collapsed into a fit of giggles.
We are, admittedly, cheesy "closet" performing artists who love to dramatize things for fun. And I was definitely seeking laughter over goose bumps. No more Exorcist for me tonight. I had to live in this dank, stone fortress my aunt called home. And while Aunt Kyra coveted the Abbey, it was obvious I didn’t share her love for the place. It was simply a place to sleep. The only way I could handle its monotonous gloom was to constantly re-imagine it in my head. Even now, I saw the stone walls transform in front of my eyes, becoming a foreboding dungeon protected by a fire breathing dragon. Only I wasn’t a damsel in distress and I wasn’t holding my breath for my knight in shining Armani.
“Stop it, Dayton,” I whispered to myself as I glanced over at Monroe.
She got to go home. I envied her that. A familiar sense of depression and foreboding filled me, and I let myself sink into the mattress before growing still. Our giggles still echoed around us. Monroe must have noticed the change in mood because she rolled over onto her side and propped her head up on her fist.
“There you go again,” she said. “Where do you go when you do that?”
I turned my face away, determined not to bring down the mood. I didn’t want to ruin our moment. They seemed to come fewer and further between the older we became.
“What do you mean?” I asked vaguely. Monroe snorted.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
I turned my head back toward her.
“I’m being Rapunzel, my tower a lifeless dungeon of doom,” I joked, waving my hands the same way I’d seen Marshall Duncan do when he narrated a school production of Romeo and Juliet the year before. Monroe gave me the look. I rolled my eyes.
“I don’t know, Roe. I’m just having a blah-ness moment. Sometimes, I get this feeling . . . I don’t know. Really, let’s just let it go."
Monroe sat up and tucked a pillow beneath her chin. She hugged it. I knew she expected a better response, but sometimes it’s just easier to feel rather than broadcast an emotion and I met her expectant stare with one just as stubborn. I stared until she broke eye contact. It worked every time. She grumbled profanities, something about stubborn-ass red heads, as she reached out and picked at a piece of fuzz on my comforter. She was funny about things like that. Obsessive compulsive even.
“You know, since the funeral—” she began hesitantly. I cut her off.
“It’s not about my parents.”
Monroe shrugged and looked down at her hands. I hadn’t meant to snap at her. I just didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. I reached over and patted her leg.
“I’m sorry . . . it’s just not about them,” I said distantly, my mind wandering as I glanced around the small bedroom. It was a drafty room constructed almost entirely of stone, mostly bare with the exception of a small wooden desk and a cheap plywood dresser. The bed was the main focal point. It was twin size with purple satin sheets and a deep violet comforter. Beside it, there was a small wooden table with a stack of composition books. Crumpled paper littered the floor. Each piece held a discarded thought or idea. One sheet was turned up and I read the line I'd scrawled on it in my head. Ludicrous is He, a tyrant that rules the past you see. The past. A tyrant. My tyrant
“It’s the Abbey."
Monroe looked up, startled.
“The Abbey?”
I nodded. It was definitely my dungeon, my own personal Hell. It was filled with nothing but grieving memories and little affection. I’d never shared that thought before but speaking an emotion made it real. I hadn’t wanted that. Reality reeked. I watched Monroe a moment, imagining her as a fussy psychiatrist with tiny, wire rimmed glasses perched on the tip of her nose. The image was missing the legal pad and pen, but it still made the whole "spilling of mental deficiencies" easier. My bed became an office corner lounge.
“It scares me,” I said. “Something about it . . . I don’t know. It’s like the walls themselves are waiting for something. Watching.”
Monroe shook her head, her eyes round.
“Waiting for what?”
I frowned.
“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.”
“Are you trying to scare me?” she asked.
I looked her straight in the eyes. I never lied to Monroe. She knew that. A simple shake of my head told her I wasn’t. She looked around the room, her eyes troubled. We’d gone from watching a scary movie to me creating the plot for one. I was regretting it.
“Waiting for what you think?” she asked again.
Maybe she felt it too. I honestly didn’t know, so I shrugged. It was, like I said, just a feeling. Sometimes it was suffocating. It had me counting down the days till I graduated, mentally marking the stone walls of the Abbey the same way Edmond Dantes recorded his time of imprisonment in The Count of Monte Cristo. I loved that book. If only I had my own island of treasure to discover minus the need for vengeance.
“And then there’s my aunt,” I said, moving away from the Abbey subject.
I was afraid the walls could hear. Sometimes they seemed to close in on me. Maybe I was going crazy. Monroe found another piece of fuzz.
“Lady Ky is intimidating,” Monroe said, using the nickname she and I had given my aunt years ago. I didn’t disagree.
“And disappointed in me.”
It surprised me to admit that. The psychiatrist image was working too well. I hadn’t meant to say it. Monroe removed the pillow and leaned forward, her expression thoughtful.
“What makes you think that?”
I pointed out another piece of lint. She scowled at me but didn’t reach for it.
“There’s always some reason to feel not good enough,” I said. “She has very high expectations. And I don’t seem to be what she wants me to be. Amber is, I think.”
Monroe scooted off the bed and wa
lked over to my desk. I could tell she knew what I was talking about. She had seen the way things were at the Abbey, but she didn’t seem to know what to say. And I was more than ready to let go of the whole conversation. The Abbey was a whole world of its own, a society ruled by little affection but iron clad rules. The halls were always full of black robed, short-haired sober women who seemed intent on a purpose no one else knew about. It was eerie, and it tended to make most people uncomfortable. Even Monroe seemed tense when she stayed. I didn’t blame her.
“We need to do something to your room,” she said, changing the subject as she reached into the back of my desk drawer. Her hand came out holding a dumdum lollipop and a piece of gum. The gum, she popped into her mouth, the dumdum, she handed to me. I took it gratefully. Mmmmm . . . pineapple. Monroe watched my face.
“Tastes like the tropics, right?” she asked. I grinned.
“Tahiti,” I added as I rolled the sucker around on my tongue.
We did this often, pretending we were somewhere other than Lodeston, Mississippi. Monroe loved this game.
“There’s sand the color of pearls and water like turquoise. And coconut scented suntan lotion—” she continued. I picked up where she left off.
“We have Bahama-mama size cold, fruity drinks with those little toothpick umbrellas and huge padded lounge chairs—”
Monroe began fanning herself desperately.
“And Paul Walker is rubbing lotion into my back.”
I laughed as she sighed heavily. Monroe was obsessed with Paul. She told me he reminded her of those sexy surf dudes in the old Gidget films. Only Monroe. There weren’t many sixteen-year-olds who’d even know what those films were. Paul was ooookay, but I, personally, found the dude from Clash of the Titans more appealing. Sam Worthington. He just had sex appeal. Or maybe it was Perseus I found alluring. I did have the uncanny ability of falling in love with book and film characters. Who wouldn’t want to rub up against a sexy, tortured demi-god?
“You are impossible,” I said. She grinned.
“Touché.”
I stuck out my tongue. She danced around the room, pretending to waltz with her invisible "Paul." She was tall enough and elegant enough to make it look like a ballroom demonstration. I rolled my eyes and lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as Monroe sang softly under her breath. We stayed that way awhile until my dumdum had completely melted and I’d thrown the stick on my bedside table. That was the great thing about our friendship. We didn’t always have to be talking or stay busy to enjoy each other’s company. I closed my eyes briefly, letting myself drift off into my own daydreams. The bed was comfortable beneath me, the satin sheets warm, and my body began to slacken.
A blood curdling scream woke me.
What the hell? I flew upward, my heart a heavy drum in my chest, to find Monroe pushed up against my bedroom wall. She had a hand clamped over her mouth, and her face was bone white. Her eyes were glued to my bedroom window. I climbed off the bed and moved toward her.
“Monroe?” I asked carefully, my gaze following hers.
My heart beat twice for each step I took. Sweat made my neck feel cool. The curtains were pulled back and dusk was beginning to fall outside. Purple and pink weaved through a semi-dark cloud strewn sky pierced by a rising crescent moon. Nothing seemed out of place.
“Th-there was a man at your window,” Monroe stuttered.
I turned toward her, my eyes wide. My heart skipped a beat before resuming its too quick staccato.
“What?”
Monroe came unfrozen, her hands flailing in agitation.
“A man, Dayton. A fucking man,” she breathed as she moved shakily over to my curtains, hiding in the fabric as she searched the yard beyond.
I moved up behind her, and she jumped as I looked over her shoulder. A man? Really? I wasn’t slow. It just seemed too unreal. My bedroom was on the second floor.
Monroe began shaking. I was close enough to see the goose bumps lining her shoulders, and I stiffened. There was no doubt she was telling the truth. I grew numb. The prickly sensation of being watched gripped me,
“What did he look like?”
Monroe let go of the curtain and slid down to the floor. Her breath was coming fast. I stayed standing.
“It was just his face. I saw it briefly. Dark hair, dark eyes—”
My bedroom door flew open.
“What in God’s name!” my sister cried out as she marched into the room.
Monroe and I both looked up at her, startled. Amber’s face was pale. I glanced quickly at Monroe and found she had turned to face me as well. The unspoken words were there. "Are you going to tell her?" my eyes asked. "Don’t say anything!" Monroe’s eyes shouted back. Mine narrowed. "Why not?" Amber moved over to the window.
“What’s wrong?” Amber asked, her gaze moving between us frantically, settling finally on Monroe’s pale visage.
“Monroe?”
Monroe pushed to her feet.
“I’m okay,” she said unsteadily, “I thought I saw a mouse.”
Amber didn’t say anything, but her eyes narrowed. It was a lame excuse. I glanced at Monroe quickly before looking down at the floor. I wasn’t good at lying. It was a good thing Amber didn’t question us further. Weak or not, the excuse was plausible. Mice liked the Abbey. I looked at Monroe again. She shook her head.
“What are you doing in here?” Amber asked, her gaze moving to land on my bed and Monroe’s portable DVD player.
I cringed. The screaming girl was still plainly paused in mid-action. Very few electronics, unless approved, were allowed at the Abbey. It corrupted the soul. Amber stared at the image on the screen. Neither Monroe nor I answered.
“Put it away before anyone finds it. Please. You know the rules, Dayton. The Order is already pushed to its limits with you,” Amber whispered. I knew that.
“And after last year . . .”
I pushed away from Monroe and stalked over to the bedroom door. It was already open, but I held it wider, my knuckles white with the desire to shove Amber through it. Logic stopped me. I wasn’t mad at her. I was angry at the memory.
“I know, Amber."
I was weary of being reminded of my flaws. Last year had been a mistake. Monroe and I had gone with a group of friends to a bar called Everett’s on the edge of Lodeston to celebrate our friend, Lita’s, birthday. We’d used fake I.D.’s, put back more than the legal amount of alcohol, and managed to wreck Lita’s brand new car on our way home. At the scene of the accident, marijuana had been discovered stuffed inside the glove compartment of her candy-red Sentra. It had not been a good evening. All five of us involved tested positive for THC, spent a few days in Juvenile Detention, had our licenses temporarily suspended, and came out of the incident with tainted records and months spent on parole doing community service. Not to mention our friend, Conor Reinhardt, had to spend six months in physical therapy for a leg injury. He still limped occasionally.
“Everything’s fine. We just had a scare,” I said as I motioned for her to leave my room.
Amber glanced at us warily. The reminder of last year’s incident had brought the color back into Monroe’s cheeks.
“We’re fine,” Monroe echoed. Amber took the hint.
“I’m just down the hall, Dayton,” Amber said as she walked out the door.
I slammed it behind her. My irritation with Amber was evident. I knew she loved me, but I wished she’d find a new way to show me she cared. Being pushy was her preferred method. It annoyed me only because the older we became, the more she sounded like my aunt. Monroe walked toward me.
“Why didn’t you tell Amber about the face in the window?” I asked.
She looked down at the floor.
“I wasn’t sure it was real."
She didn’t have to say more. We both knew she had a talent for seeing things no one else could see. Visions her mother called it. Her parents conside
red it an esteemed gift. As practicing Wiccans, her family valued the rare ability. Sometimes it frightened Monroe, mainly because she couldn’t always discern vision from reality. She’d never admit it though. She saw it as a failing. I felt it meant she was incredibly powerful. The more real a vision appears, the more ability you must have. The concept made sense to me.
“Let’s put in a comedy,” I suggested lightly while moving over to the bed. Monroe nodded.
I’d never admit it, but the window incident had me freaked out. I kept glancing over at the side of my room. Monroe settled in next to me, and we went through her movies, popping in one we knew we’d both laugh at before settling in for the night.
The sky outside my window grew darker, the crickets outside grew louder, and my Grumpy Care Bear nightlight made up for the lack of light as the sun faded completely. Sleep came to us. The dream engulfed me. But, used to it as I was, it only woke me up once that night. I stared at my bedroom window as I came to. My heart was beating fast. The window mesmerized me. Maybe it was a mix of the dream and Monroe’s vision but I could swear that I saw a face. It seemed familiar to me, and I squinted. It was gone. One blink and it was no longer there. Grumpy Bear scowled back at me. Weariness carried me away again.
Chapter 2
In spirit, she is her mother. The mystery of her life will be hard to unravel. She will grieve. But, as her mother before her, she will own her problems even when it seems she has given up. This I trust.