Unhinged

by Shelley R. Pickens

  Her eyes are vacant as they stare off into space. She begins to rock back and forth in her chair, both hands cradling her head. She begins to murmur to herself, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. The scene from the lunchroom today comes flooding back. I have never been more scared in my short life than I am right now. I have no idea what to do; helplessness consumes me. Then I remember what happened to Logan in Dejana’s basement and how my touch brought him out of his trance. I get up out of my seat and slowly approach her. I gently put my hand on her shoulder, hoping it comforts rather than startles her.

  “Mary,” I repeat in a soft whisper. “Please, tell me what’s wrong. What can I do to help you?” I ask, desperate to find a way to get through to her. I’m not sure if she feels my hand on her or not. She doesn’t try to remove my hand, but doesn’t acknowledge it either. Panic boils up inside me. Okay, enough of the careful approach; time for more desperate measures.

  “Dammit, Mary, stop it this instant!” I scream in the best scolding mom voice I can muster. I even stomp my foot on the floor for good measure. My voice must have gotten through to her because she stops rocking, removes her hands from her head, and begins to look around. Confusion marks every feature of her face. When her eyes land on me, her sweet smile returns as she pats my gloved hand still resting on her shoulder.

  “Aimee, dear, why are you up from your seat? You know you can’t be excused until you're finished with your food. Is everything alright? Do you need something else to drink, sweetie?” she asks, clearly unaware that five seconds ago she was murmuring to herself like a lunatic.

  “Sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I’m not very hungry right now. Can I be excused please?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t notice how my voice shakes.

  “Well, of course dear. I’m not feeling well myself, either. I think I may go ahead and go to bed. Do you mind cleaning up the kitchen for me?” she asks, her voice normal with no hint of confusion or idea that something was off.

  I nod, still confused by what just happened. Maybe I just imagined it. There’s that avoidance therapy again, rearing its ugly head.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” says Mary, giving my head its usual pat since she learned from the beginning I don’t like to be kissed, even if she’s never understood why.

  I watch her walk away, my heart heavy with worry for her. I have no clue what’s going on today with people acting so strangely. I am no fortuneteller but I have a bad feeling that something terrible is coming. And I have no idea how to stop it.

  Chapter Four

  ~ Grown in Darkness ~

  The air surrounding him is a thick and dense fog, as if the world senses he is in need of cover. In David’s mind, this is simply another way that the universe is showing him he is on the right path to his destiny. He hides behind a large willow tree, patiently waiting for his victim to settle down for the night. None of them are chosen at random. He is methodical and precise, which leaves no room for error. Mistakes are for the weak. Every detail of his carefully laid plan is worked and reworked until every possible outcome is realized and appropriate measures are taken. He leaves nothing to chance; no avenue that would hinder or alter the path that he knows fate has for him.

  David’s inner dialogue is interrupted by a sudden luminescence from above. He crouches further into the darkness forged by the tree, down into the blessed shadows full of gloom and promise. The light is his enemy; the light reveals. The darkness is where he keeps his secrets. It’s the one place where he can create his own reality and take comfort in its emptiness. It is his warm blanket, the only place he feels safe and in control. Through the gentle flowing arms of the willow tree, David sees his victim rummage around the room, completely oblivious to what lurks just below the window. David smiles and hugs his knees as he crouches at the very bottom of the willow tree, his back leaning against its strong trunk. Anticipation grows in his belly as he thinks of the pain and suffering he is about to bestow on his completely ignorant victim.

  Like a wave of fire, an invisible hand slams David to the ground. He holds his head in agony, fighting off the impending wave of desolation, willing his mind to hold together for just a few minutes more. He must act soon, lest he begins to lose himself. He removes the three-inch knife stowed in his boot and mentally prepares himself for Plan B. The urgency of the situation is not lost on him. But he is prepared. This scenario already worked over in his mind and any alternate ending formulated days ago.

  As David crawls from beneath his hideaway and slowly makes his way toward the house, he smiles through the pain and fog that has overtaken his brain. Nothing can stop him, for he is the Master of Destiny.

  Chapter Five

  ~ Outbreak ~

  No amount of makeup up in this world could help me look human this morning. The dark circles underneath my eyes shine like a beacon when I put on my normal wardrobe of all black. Despite my growing comfort with this thing called life, I can’t give up my wardrobe. I still feel like I need some protection from the awful secrets lurking beneath the skin of others. So long sleeves and gloves will never leave my side. But for Logan, who prefers me in V-necks, I have given up my normal turtle necks. One day, I might even try a different color... One never knows when hell might actually freeze over.

  After applying my third coat of concealer, I give up on looking good. The night I spent tossing and turning, dreaming of lunatics scraping against my window, has taken its toll. Never mind the waking up every hour on the hour to go into Mary’s room and make sure she was okay, watching her breathe and praying to any god that would hear me to please take care of her.

  I finish dressing in black skinny jeans and a thin long-sleeved t-shirt that shows my rather pathetic attempt at cleavage before heading down to the kitchen to get something to eat before leaving for school.

  Mary has already left for the University so the house was quiet. I pack up my stuff into my book bag, put it by the front door, and slip through the revolving door to my kitchen to scrape up some breakfast. While I wait for my Eggo to heat up, I hear a soft knock on the back door. I smile as I move to answer the door because I know who is waiting behind it.

  I open the door and lean against it, giving myself a minute to take in all that is my boyfriend. Logan stands there dressed in his usual get up of a fitted t-shirt with some logo on it and raggedy jeans with pristine Nike shoes. Today his shirt says My blood, my sweat, your tears. He’s twirling his keys on his right finger and smiling that lopsided smile at me—the one that makes my knees weak. Thank you door for holding me up.

  “Hey beautiful,” he says, his voice exuding sexiness even at seven in the morning. His hazel eyes look on me warmly as he moves into the kitchen and pulls me into a hug. His cheek touches mine and I am suddenly flooded with his most recent memories. The way I look to him as I opened the door a few seconds ago, the basketball practice he had the night before, and the shower he took in the locker room afterwards.

  Wait! Immediately I force the memory down, wish it away to any other part of my brain but the one connected to my eyes. For the first time ever, a memory listens to me. Funny, I’ve never been able to do that before. I guess the key to suppressing a memory is acute embarrassment. Or perhaps it was sheer willingness not to faint in front of my boyfriend from seeing his perfect butt naked. It is painfully obvious that I’m innocent in the ways of boys, but I’d at least like to keep some surprises in store, just in case I ever make it to second base.

  “What did you see?” asks Logan, curious as ever about my curse. He knew I absorbed his memories. They all know. The people I touch can feel their memories come off them in waves; like a harmless download. It doesn’t hurt them, but they always know.

  I look up at Logan from beneath his cloud of memories and see this mischievous look on his face. It’s almost as if he planned this, hoped I would see a memory of him without a stitch of clothing. I punch him playfully in the stomach. It doesn’t even phase his rock hard abs.

  “You ass,” I declare
, a bit miffed at him for knowingly sending me memories that would be embarrassing. But deep inside, I’m just grateful that they aren’t of blood, murder, rape, or betrayal. I’ve seen enough of those to last me a lifetime.

  I tell Logan to wait by the door as I go and grab my book bag. I shove the Eggo into my mouth, throw on my gloves, and walk with Logan to his car. As we round the corner and make our way to my front driveway, I see Logan’s red Nissan Rogue parked smack dab in the middle of it. Like most guys, he loves his car and only allows two stickers to adorn it: Go Hawks! after our school mascot and Mean People Suck for his life motto.

  Always a gentleman, Logan follows me around to my side of the car and opens the door for me. I slide in and watch as he closes the door behind me. As he makes his way back to his side of the car, his movements are manly but graceful, most likely from years of playing sports. In the past, when I’ve heard girls talk about guys they liked, they would mention how much they loved their legs or butt, or how beautiful their eyes were. Not me. My favorite part of Logan is his hands. Strong hands, capable of swinging a bat hard enough to hit a home run, or dunk a basketball for the winning shot.

  Or, like I saw firsthand months ago, hands that were sturdy enough to beat down a serial killer and save our lives. But none of that is why I like them so much. It is his gentleness, the way he uses his hands to tuck my hair behind my ear, or how his hand just seems to fit into mine. His hands are what mesmerize me, what remind me with every touch that he is mine.

  Logan deftly takes his seat behind the wheel and revs up the car. As we drive to school, I finish my Eggo, trying not to get too many crumbs on his seat. Keenly aware of his neat freak tendencies, I scoop what I can from my lap and throw them out the already cracked window. From the corner of my eye, I see Logan laugh at my pathetic attempt at making order from chaos.

  “You know you probably just sent half of those crumbs to my back seat,” he points out smirking.

  I look behind me and see that Logan had cracked the back windows as well as the front. It was the perfect temperature this morning: not too hot or too cold. Dammit, I hadn’t even noticed.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, embarrassed.

  “It’s okay,” he says as he strokes my knee. “You can dirty my car anytime, babe. Just as long as it’s you in the seat beside me, I don’t really care.”

  Blushing, I look at his perfect hand resting on my knee. I place my gloved hand over his and give it a squeeze. I look up into his face, see his lopsided smile as he watches the road, and wonder yet again at how lucky I am to have him in my life.

  Sadly, that feeling doesn’t last long. Suddenly, like a freight train crashing into my heart, an overwhelming feeling of dread consumes me. Confused, I jerk my hand away from Logan’s like it’s on fire. I should be happy right now, sitting next to the most wonderful boy in the world, but I can’t seem to shake this fear that has a death grip on my heart.

  Before I could go into full panic attack mode, we arrive at school. Logan pulls into his assigned parking space adjacent to the stadium. I grab my book bag, jump out of the car, and run to the staircase that leads to the school. Logan catches up to me, breathless, confusion written all over his face. I simply stare at him, unwilling to explain my unusual behavior and thankfully, he doesn’t ask.

  Dejana is waiting for us in her usual spot by the side entrance doors. As we approach, I see that she is talking to a few of her friends as she leans against the railing waiting for us, acting like she has all the time in the world.

  “Sorry we’re late again, Dejana,” says Logan reproachfully as we approach the group of girls. He doesn’t need to interrupt the discussion because all talking has already ceased. Whenever Logan walks into a room, the girls notice instantly, and the focus is automatically turned to him. He takes it in stride though and despite his good looks, Logan doesn’t have an ego about it. The girls instantly pull him into the conversation by asking him about the next baseball game. A girl named Emily even went so far as to put her arm through his, pulling him closer to their circle of conversation and further away from me.

  As usual, I am invisible, but that’s how I like it. Logan is purposefully ignoring me; I know this because I asked him to. He knows I am not comfortable around people still and he respects me enough not to pull me into a conversation where I would only feel awkward and unwanted. Besides, he’s popular and this kind of thing is just what popular people do. Not that I would know anyway.

  I watch Logan and Dejana as they deftly make light conversation with her friends. They're talking about things I would never understand or want to be a part of. I hang back a bit and wait for the conversation to end so we can go to first period. Dejana and the others laugh at a comment Logan makes, and I watch with no little amount of annoyance as Emily leans further into Logan, using every opportunity she can to touch him. Her perfectly manicured hand touches his face and I want to lunge and tackle her to the ground. Heat floods my cheeks as I try to contain my anger and annoyance. I see other girls flirt with Logan all the time, but Emily is taking it to a new level. I know it shouldn’t bother me that she can touch him with her bare hands, but it does. It’s a completely normal human response to touch when engaged with other people talking and laughing. Up until now, I haven’t cared. I was happy being invisible. But things have changed. I may still be invisible, but dammit, that doesn’t mean I don’t feel.

  Dejana’s laugh thankfully distracts me from Emily’s blatant displays of voyeurism. Another wave of jealousy hits me, but thankfully less than with Logan. Despite the fact that Dejana is my one and only friend, I’ve never expected her to reciprocate that. But I would be lying to myself if I didn’t acknowledge that it hurt sometimes. I would never want more friends; more people around me that I would have to avoid, thanks to my curse. But watching Dejana being so free with other friends, I am hit with a stab of jealousy; not of her so much as of her life. A life I wish I could have, a life I never even knew I wanted until lately.

  Seeing Dejana and Logan moving toward me snaps me out of my melancholy thoughts. I was so engrossed in my thoughts, I had no idea the conversation had even ended. The girls they were talking to have gone in the opposite direction, never even acknowledging that I was there. That happens a lot around me and I am used to it. In my other life, I welcomed being ignored. But this isn’t my other life anymore.

  Dejana pushes her book bag back up onto her shoulder as she and Logan make their way toward me. “Well, we now only have two minutes to get to first period. Anyone up for some running?” she asks me, not even apologizing for excluding me from the conversation. “Or would you rather lag behind like you prefer to do, and not make any more friends?” she asks as if she was reading my mind.

  I don’t take the bait because honestly, I'm not sure if I do in fact want more friends other than Dejana. She knows I prefer to live my life alone, but like a true popular person, she doesn’t understand why a person wouldn’t want friends. But I don’t see people as friends; all I see are walking time bombs of secrets.

  “If we run, we can make it,” I suggest, trying to gauge whether or not Dejana is mad that I am avoiding, once again, the talk of making friends. Why can’t she just leave well enough alone?

  “Well, then lose the hunk and let’s go,” she yells as she starts off at a jog towards the four outer doors that lead to the school.

  I turn and say goodbye to Logan quickly before taking off after Dejana.

  The halls are filled with kids rushing to get to class, and considering our school contains about 3,500 students, that’s saying something. We meander our way through the crowds and upstairs to Mrs. Primm’s French class. No one ever wants to be late for Primm’s class; she is a no-nonsense teacher when it comes to rules. For her, discipline is an art form and she is an artist. The class begins immediately at the bell and no one moves an inch or interrupts her until we hear that bell again 52 minutes later. She’s an awesome teacher and so much fun, but you don’t want to cross her or you’ll fe
el the wrath of the whole French nation come down upon you.

  We reach the door just as the tardy bell rings and fly through the portal and into our seats at the front of the class, hoping Primm won’t notice. What first hits us is the strange atmosphere of the class: everywhere kids are in groups chatting about what happened with the kid in the cafeteria yesterday, and even more remarkable, no one is in their seat. I look around just to make sure we dove into the right room. I see the usual French grammar posters adorning the walls, the oversized model of the Eiffel tower still sits awkwardly in the corner, and the board up front shows that our French test is tomorrow. Everything is in its place, but something isn’t right. And then, it dawns on me what’s missing: the French icon herself.

  “Dejana, where’s Madame Primm?” I ask, trepidation practically dripping from my voice. Madame is never late, never absent, and always smiling at us ready to say ‘Bonjour Classe’ when that bell rings. She would never just not show up to class. It isn’t in her nature to deviate from the rules. She is a dedicated teacher with no children. I see from Dejana’s enlightened look that she just caught onto what is happening.

  “I don’t know. This is so strange,” she agrees. “There isn’t even a substitute teacher here,” she points out.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to see if anyone has gone to look for her when a stout, short boy named Adam comes running into the room short of breath. He stops so quickly that his glasses almost fall off his round face.

  “I found her!” he screams to the class through his quick puffs of breaths. “She’s in the bathroom crying and screaming over and over again, ‘It wasn’t me! I’m innocent!’”

  After a moment of shock, the buzzing of voices in the class instantly becomes a loud roar. Everyone is postulating what could have made Madame Primm abandon her class to cry in the bathroom, and more importantly, who should go and rescue her from her makeshift, and not so sanitary, panic room. Dejana gets up to go and speak with a group of the louder boys and give her opinion as to what we should do, while I stay behind (as usual) and contemplate my thoughts alone. Maybe Madame has had a breakdown? Or perhaps the guy she's been seeing broke up with her and she kind of just lost it? More importantly, what did she do that was so bad that she feels she needs to repeat over and over that she’s innocent of doing it? None of this makes sense. Granted, few things ever have made much sense to me.