by M. P. Reeves
Something he would be inclined to believe if he wasn’t laying in a bed fit for a king in a place he had never seen before in his life.
He was unsure of how he came to be here. In fact, he had expected never to open his eyes to the living world again. Had even accepted he was headed to the ever after alongside his father and grandparents, all those people whom he had been told loved him but he had never met. Instead he found himself quite alive, his heart beating along without apology, eyes working in a haggard fashion. All in all he awoke slowly, fighting a strong headache and a sore back. Attempting to take a deep breath brought a sharp pain to his abdomen, so instead he took shallow pulls through his nose. The air was surprisingly fresh, carrying a twinge of jasmine rather than the musty odor that accompanied mold.
There were two queen beds with expensive linens decorated on each side with matching nightstands, a dark wood armoire - which probably contained a television across from it, soft gold damask wallpaper between the white painted crown molding and the baseboards, thick ivory drapes and a shade on the long window at the back of the room, a black sofa chaise and a small breakfast table where a large man in a dark grey suit was currently seated.
His first thought was that his man was powerful. Either in business or otherwise, he had that aura about him. Be it the shrewd look to his pale blue eyes or the way he sat straight in his chair, he was one in command of his surroundings. His second thought was that this man was handsome, even offputtingly so. The kind of face that gave much trepidation before approaching the individual with a hello, not that Rick was in the mood to greet anyone.
Instead Rick screamed for help at the top of his lungs.
"Stop that." The tall man spoke quietly, raising just two fingers on his left hand before folding his digits in his lap.
Rick was suddenly calm, emotion washing over him in inexplicable waves. His frightened sound ceased of its own accord, mouth shutting while the tense feeling that had been building in his arms and legs dissipated. The panic was gone.
The stranger pointed to the chair across from him, clearly ordering him to sit. A mandate he had no desire to follow and yet his legs complied regardless. With a slight limp his traitorous limbs took him from the comfortable bed to the stiff backed chair. Although he knew he was in pain, he felt none. The blissful haze made him believe he had been drugged. Again.
"Well I was just kidnapped by a stranger." The misplaced comfort he felt allowed him to speak freely.
A deep throaty chuckle followed the shake of his head. "I'm not a stranger. I'm your uncle."
"What?" That simply wasn't possible.
"Erik Slaine, at your service." Erik held out his hand, waiting for Rick to accept it. His open palm hung there in the air between them, the light reflecting off the gold cufflinks on his black tailored shirt.
Rick knew he had no family besides his Mom. His grandparents had died before he was born, his mother had no siblings, and his father was dead. Still, she had never made mention of his father’s kin. Was it possible? No. She would have told him, she wouldn’t keep something as important as living family members a secret from him.
Rick shook his head. This guy had to be a nutter, yet he did not feel as though he were in any immediate danger.
Which made absolutely no sense. Had to be drugs.
"Let me go. Please. I won't tell the police." It was more of a conversational remark than a plea, stated as one may ask to pass the salt at the dinner table. Whatever this man had drugged him with made his bare skin feel like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer. The invisible comfort made him want to take a nap.
No, he had to get out of there. He had to get home. He was feeling off, worried, and yet worried wouldn’t be quite right word for it. At the moment he honestly felt no pressing concern for anything.
"I don't think you'll want to go anywhere near the police." Erik, if that was his name, grabbed a rolled copy of the evening edition from the nightstand by the bed. Unfurling it slowly revealed a headline that took Rick’s breath away.
Teenage Terror! Boy shoots mother to death, bombs found.
Below the headline was his class picture from this year. He remembered putting on that navy blue polo style shirt and fussing with his hair for all of ten minutes that morning, walking into the cafeteria and taking his place in line, even the sound of the photographer’s voice enthusiastically asking him to smile. His mother had loved that picture, she had gone on and on to all that would listen about what a handsome son she had. He would blush every time she did that, but secretly appreciated her affection.
She can’t be gone, he thought. Rick couldn’t comprehend life without her. He forced himself to read the small times new roman print beneath the picture, desperately searching for some indication that this was a joke or a misunderstanding.
The actual article was appalling. The reporter had interviewed his best friend Matt, who referred to him only as a nice kid. His teachers who had called him both odd and quiet. His neighbors, the kindly old couple, now spouted venom claiming his mother’s lifestyle had been questionable, shouting and loud crashes coming from the apartment at all hours. The police stated the suspect set of some sort of building wide booby trap, charges that exploded in a abandoned apartment down the hall, confirmed by bomb making materials found in his apartment by the police. Richard Smith was currently considered to be armed and dangerous. If sighted people were to notify the authorities immediately.
"I couldn't have...I didn't..." The last thing he remembered was being tied to a chair and screamed at by those men in suits, and then there was that giant bird…
He thought of the last conversation he had with his mother. Such a simplistic exchange really, the kind families had every night.
“Pepperoni?” He had hoped, it was his favorite.
“Of course.”
“Sounds awesome.” And it was, she made two hand pressed thin crusts loaded with the perfect amount of cheese and pepperoni. He finished an entire pie by himself. One of the first nights he remembered feeling stuffed in a long time.
“Look what I made.” Mom chirped from the kitchenette while he was stuffing down his ninth slice. With a spin, she revealed a two tier chocolate cake smothered in dark frosting.
“Chocolate cherry?” He asked, based on the little red fruits circling the top.
“Your favorite!” Her face immediately fell, despite her happy tone.
“Oh drat, I forgot to grab ice cream for your cake.”
Rick smirked, as much as she got on him about his chores it was refreshing to see that forgetfulness did kind of run in the family. “I can grab some from the corner store, while you do dishes?”
“That’s sweet of you.” She handed him a five. “Here.”
“Be back in a few.” Sneakers on, he left their apartment, taking the disgusting stairs two at a time down to the main floor.
He had never made it back.
"It is a lie. A lie to make you wanted by the people in this country. It is their tactic to have all available eyes looking for you.”
“How…how can anyone do this? How do they even pull it off?” The moral issue was explainable by evil intent, the execution of such a lie boggled the mind.
“Fifty years ago there were hundreds of independent companies across the globe in the media industry. Now? Now you have maybe six conglomerates total with ownership of assets that produce, sell and market news. Smaller number increases the ability to disseminate false information to the masses. Information, not always utilized for the purpose of enlightenment but for the agenda of a select few.”
"But why? Is my Mom really...dead?" Rick’s eyes watered, the black and white portrait on the paper blurring. He could care less at the moment about corporate consolidation the only thing on his mind was his mother. Hints of vanilla and coconut filling his nose in desperate nostalgia.
The calm felt just moments earlier was gone, replaced with bottomless sorrow and rising fear.
Be back in a few.
Such poor words to part on. He didn’t tell her how much he loved her or that he would miss her every moment from now until he died. He hadn’t thanked her for her years of love and care, for all the sacrifices she had made for him, for the joy they had shared and the tears. He hadn’t said…anything really.
That fact alone made him want to wretch. His stomach flipped, as though it were desperate to comply.
"I do not know,” To his credit the stranger’s voice carried genuine empathy, “it is best to assume the worst. For that I am sorry."
No. Rick refused, simply refused to believe she was gone.
A loud caw came from the window causing the boy to jump. An enormous bird had perched on top the side table beneath the long window at the back of the room. A beautiful creature, one found in magazines not in cities. The look of the bird reminded him of an American Bald Eagle, but its coloring was a mixture of gold and light brown from head to toe.
It was the same one that attacked those men who had grabbed him. That bird can’t be real...
"Ah Arcedes! Glad to have you back my dear girl." As though she had understood him, Arcedes let out a caw and tipped her head. Erik went over to the window and ruffled the bird’s feathers atop her head, similar to how one would pet a dog. The bird let out a trill of approval too dainty to fit its large size. Erik spoke softly to it for a moment in a language Rick didn’t understand.
"None of this is real...I lost my mind, killed my mother and now I'm in a mental institution dreaming of a strange man that talks to birds. Or could it be that I am dreaming. Yes, that’s what it is; I should never have eaten that leftover takeout for lunch." Rick muttered, desperately wishing he would wake up. He closed his eyes, focusing on a singular thought.
Wake up Rick Wake up!
Instead he felt a sharp quick pain on his left forearm.
“Ow!” His eyes flipped open, Erik was standing inches from him, his mouth pursed into a thin line. Did he just pinch me?
"I'm sorry to tell you this is very real Carrick."
"My name is Richard. Richard Smith." Rick snapped back at him. Erik sighed, shaking his head slowly. "This must be some sort of misunderstanding maybe-"
"No. It isn't. Carrick is the name your father bestowed upon you the day you were born. You are Carrick Slaine, son of Brannon Slaine Elderwood."
"My father died before I was born. He wasn't there."
"Aye he was, and he was so proud to have such a healthy son." Erik took a deep breath, his deep blue stare leveling on the boy. "Shortly after you were born, the life you were to live was too much for your mother to bear. She stole you away in the night, bringing you here to grow up as an ordinary American child. Your father, despite the deep pain it caused him, let her. For he too knew his life was dangerous, and you were so small, so defenseless. Over the years he has bade me to watch over you at times when we could find you, especially when you are out and about in public."
With those words, Rick realized he had seen this man’s face before. Although it was very different. It was the eyes, those piercing blue eyes that gave Erik away.
Rick had left school in a good mood. Riding his bike home along with Matthew Dickinson who was in an overly talkative mood. His good humor had persisted until they decided to grab their after school snack from the convenience store. Rick went for the classic combination of Dr. Pepper and Snickers while Matt grabbed a slice of pizza from their bakery. After checking out with Lacey, the college student who always wore too much makeup and kept her hair in a ponytail, at the counter they had gone to collect their bikes out front. Only to find a homeless man in his mid-forties leaned up against the building not far from their wheels.
This was not unusual, there were many in this area on the streets in various states of mental and physical condition. This particular person was dirtier than most, with a beard that appeared to have been completely untended for half a decade. The bushy ratted hair covered his face and his head. His clothes were stained and in many layers, his hands browned from neglect but folded neatly in his lap.
In truth it was not his appearance or presence that spooked Matt. It was his eyes. His sunken eyes were a piercing blue with a shimmer that bored somewhere between intelligence and madness. A stare that was always focused on Rick when he was coming or going into the shop.
Unfortunately, Matt had chosen Rick’s birthday to throw an absolute fit about it. Not a building down from the bodega he had started in on his best friend.
"I'm just saying you should call the police." Matt Dickinson muttered, his blond brow dipped into a frown, eyes focused on the sidewalk beneath his bike.
“And report what? A homeless guy on the street?" Rick had to laugh, if that was grounds enough to call the cops there would always be a squad car in this neighborhood.
"Seriously, that dude stares at you every day we go to QuikTrip."
"He does not,” although Rick wasn’t sure, “and staring isn't a crime. He looks harmless enough."
"Harmless! He looks like he's gonna rip someone's backpack off and use it as a chew toy."
"Now you're just being mean." Sure he had heard about a homeless man attacking passersby, but the odds were more likely for the opposite to happen. Far too many an entitled drunkard loved to prey on the downtrodden.
“I’m not mean, just honest.” In truth, Rick pitied him rather than feared him. It had not been long since both he and his mother nearly escaped a similar fate. Not that his buddy Matt would know any of that. When it came to home and family matters, Rick tended to be a bit of a private person.
"Just don't get yourself hobo killed. Would reflect badly on me as your friend." Rick laughed away his concern. There was nothing malicious about the man outside the building. He just sat there, like the other homeless people, watching folks go in and out of the store probably hoping to grab some loose change for a bite to eat or a pint to drink. Still, he couldn't help but wonder why his friend thought Rick was such an interest to him.
"You're that homeless guy from outside the gas station by my house."
"A well-played ruse, for most do not pay attention to those who they deem beneath them. What better way to keep anonymity than to allow one's self to be naught but a backdrop to others perceived notions of superiority?"
“It can’t be true. No. This is freaking insane!”
“How many times have you moved Carrick? How many times have you had to start over? Making friends, learning the area? Did your mother always use the excuse of tough times? Woes of the harsh life trust upon her?”
“Don’t talk about my mother like that.”
“She had a doctorate in biology, surely you knew that. With that kind of background did you not wonder why she chose to take such low paying jobs?”
“Stop it.”
A smirk crossed his face as he continued. “How many times have you seen or felt something before it happened?”
Rick paled at the question, thinking back to the corner store with Liz at the beginning of the school year. Had this guy been following me back then?
She’d been there with her friends, he had been there with Matt. Well, he had been with Matt in physical form, mentally he was focused on Liz. She was the kind of girl he liked, long ash blond hair, almond shaped eyes in a bright almost unnatural blue that most believed to be contacts. A perpetual smile on her all American face that would have made Barbie proud.
He watched her buy an overpriced flavored water before walking out the door with her entourage. It may have been his imagination, but he could have sworn she even smiled at him. Him. Someone who was so beneath her league. He couldn’t help but stare, her hips swaying as she left, waiting, and hoping she’d look in his direction. As she passed a semi that was refueling-one with a large flatbed full of pipes-Rick had been struck with an overwhelming bad feeling. He watched in horror as the strap broke, heavy metal pipes pouring over the edge of the flatbed, crushing her body into a bloody distorted pulp.
He had a clear memory of running from t
he store in a panic, only when he pushed through the glass logo covered door she was just taking her first footstep in front of the semi. Without thinking he had dashed forward and grabbed her hand, pulling her back. She had just started to cuss at him when that strap broke, dropping a thousand of pounds of metal onto the asphalt.
He had saved her life.
When everyone had asked him how he had known...he mumbled something about seeing a rip in the strap. It was a lie, one that made him feel slimy every time someone brought it up, but it beat the alternative. He’d rather be a secret liar than crazy. A fluke, some strange premonition or observation he had made subconsciously, that had to have been all it was.
As time passed the event likewise faded into memory and Rick never brought it up to anyone and neither did Liz. She was the reserved type when it came to him, flashing him a smile from the throng of cheerleaders and football players she ran around with. She never asked him anywhere, but never turned him down when he wanted her company. Even went to homecoming with him rather than the star running back. Which had seemed wonderful until it turned into a disaster.
Mary had spotted Rick arm in arm with Liz then promptly burst into tears and fled for the bathroom, her own date abandoned and perplexed in the hallway. Liz had asked him quietly if ‘something was up’ between him and Mary, he had repeatedly reassured her that Mary’s feelings were one sided. All in all, it was an awkward night. Still they had hung out as friends from time to time since. Only friends.
“How often have you felt alone in a crowded room? Suffocated in the city?” Erik spoke, cutting through his internal musing. “How many nights do you lay in bed awake, feeling like you're missing the very essence of life that you are to lead?”
Erik smiled in that tender way one used in regard to small children. “I’m not lying to you my dear nephew. Your mother has lived the way she has for the sole purpose of avoiding attention because you are special. Attention, you unfortunately received today twice over.”