The Haunting of Secrets

by Shelley R. Pickens

  Finally, the images recede as his touch leaves my skin. I am so lost in the two worlds that I no longer know which one is real...the blood or the rubble, both an undesired hell. Slowly, I find my way back to the real world. I see the wall I so desperately reached for and lift myself up off the cold hard floor. The other survivors are gone; smartly, they fled without a second thought to the girl lying on the floor. Ignoring the grotesque memories running through my brain, I run to the light, fly through the hole where a door used to be, and take in the blessed sun and fresh air.

  As I walk in a daze, with people running amuck all around me, the light I so desperately sought with the others has brought momentary safety. I bask in the feeling for a bit, since it is so rare in my life. I breathe in deep the clean air, thankful that I’m alive. I try not to think of all the students who did not make it out, who would never make it out. With some effort, I try to push back the memories so viciously thrown at me by another’s touch, but they stubbornly come back. They always do.

  I can’t stay in this bubble of safety for long. The aftermath of the bomb will have consequences. The real question is - for whom? Who in the world would plant a bomb to go off during lunch in a crowded cafeteria? Are all the people in this world insane? If you asked me, I would say yes. And it would be the truth, born out of thousands of real memories each containing secrets. Secrets that were never meant to be shared. Granted, that’s why they’re secret, or supposed to be anyway. Personally, I hate secrets. I could go the rest of my life never knowing another juicy bit of gossip. But they always seem to find me. It is my curse. I wish upon star after star that I could see the future, not the past, or even nothing at all. But all of my wishes go unanswered. It would be so much cooler to see the future. There is no pleasure in seeing someone’s past, of seeing things that others try so desperately to hide. Believe me when I say that some secrets should never see the light of day.

  I’ve spent my life running from the evil that I have seen others commit through their memories. The ones that touch me know. It seems they can feel their memories rolling off them in waves. With my help, they relive the horrors that once dominated their lives. There is no benefit to reliving the past, no positive, except perhaps if one learns from it. Which, I’m sad to say, few ever do. In my experience, most people simply want to forget. I can never forget. Seeing the past has only ever given me enemies. Now, I must add one more to my ever-growing list, thanks to an asshole with an unhealthy attachment to knives and an affinity for causing pain.

  Chapter Three

  ~ Aftermath ~

  Right now is one of the few times where I wish I had more friends. In the aftermath of the bombing, as I sit on the side of an ambulance, being checked out by a paramedic, I look up and see concerned students and adults everywhere. I see students calling each other and texting in a desperate attempt to see if their friends made it out alive. No one is calling me. No parents will come and see if I am okay, because my parents are dead. They both died when I was very young, and I’ve been shuffled from foster home to foster home since I could remember. My strange ‘gift’ never endeared me to my foster parents. One touch and I saw everything they hid under their concerned, loving façades. I ran away more times than I could count. Finally, when I was twelve, I found Mary. She was truly everything she was on the surface. One touch showed me her sadness over never being able to have kids and her subsequent desire to help as many unfortunates as she could. Her past was filled with regret, but nothing sinister or mean. She was the real thing and she changed my life.

  After a short time, Mary realized the consequences of my curse I so desperately hid behind my clothes. It was when an old, batty friend of hers, Betty, came over for dinner. I was, as usual, required to attend. I did my best not to become part of the conversation but Mary, being the epitome of a good hostess, tried to draw me in. Betty asked me to pass the salt and she brushed my hand in the process. Waves and waves of disgusting, mean memories flooded me that night at the table, to the point that I could no longer stomach the poached salmon force fed to me by my loving foster mom. So many grotesque, abusive acts towards others were perpetrated by this so-called ‘wonderful’ friend that I leapt out of my chair, turning it over in the process. All I could think of was fleeing; I was no longer able to sit at the same table with her. To my utter surprise, Mary laughed it off to my quirks and continued to be the gracious hostess. I never saw Betty in our house again after that night. Since I had touched Mary before, she had felt her memories flow into me and realized what was happening, yet never treated me differently. She immediately accepted and believed in it and was willing to drop one of her closest friends simply based on my disgusted reaction to her. I never thought it was possible to love someone until that night. Six months later, Mary adopted me and we have been a dynamic duo ever since.

  The sound of the ceiling collapsing brings me back to the present. The paramedic was putting the final touches on the deep cut in my forehead when all hell broke loose for a second time. Screams erupt and white smoke envelops us as the ceiling gives way, effectively cutting off any chance of finding survivors in the rubble. I take the opportunity in the ensuing chaos to sneak around the ambulance and run toward the parking lot located adjacent to the stadium, just a short walk from what was once the cafeteria. Luckily, the destruction was contained within the commons area, which left the rest of the school out of power, but pretty much untouched.

  All around us, students and teachers are evacuating the building. All pretense of organization lost in the panic that gripped everyone once the ceiling fell. Quickly, I duck under the fence and run as hard and as fast as I can toward the student lot where my car is parked. It isn’t that I don’t care about what happened to the students in the cafeteria; I am not an unfeeling monster. It’s just that I have to get as far away from the killer that I know still lurks within the makeshift triage that was once the outside eating area. Worse still, he knows that I know his secrets. He might not have put two and two together yet, but experience has shown me that it won’t be long before he realizes his secrets aren’t safe. Seconds from freedom and the car within my sights, I hear someone calling to me from far away.

  “Hey, Aimee, wait up!” yells Logan, a junior and star of our baseball team who, coincidentally, was also very easy on the eyes. For some reason, he has seen me as his own pet project since I arrived at this school, so I’ve made it my purpose in life to dodge him daily. Though he really is a pretty nice guy, I don’t date. The reason is obvious; I can’t bear anyone’s touch.

  I try my best to bear down and run faster as I veer between the cars, but my injuries from the bomb must be extensive, because I immediately become dizzy. Vertigo hits me fiercely and I go down beside a red Honda, helpless within its grasp. Logan catches up with me quickly and falls to his knees beside my inert body. I see that his first instinct is to touch me, but he pulls his hands back, aware that I retreat from everyone’s touch. My heart is softened by his show of restraint. Whether he knows exactly what happens when I touch someone or not, he still seems to respect me enough not to do it. I can see that his face is speckled white from the collapse.

  “Please, you need to be in the hospital,” pleads Logan, concern apparent in his features.

  I want to reach out and touch his face, wipe away the stress I see so clearly in his features, but I don’t dare. I actually like Logan. He’s funny, caring, and nice to everyone at this school. He is one of the most popular boys, but he isn’t conceited or egotistical about it. He is simply Logan: a guy who happens to be really good at baseball and basketball, but doesn’t feel the need to let everyone bask in his glory. For some reason, he feels I am in need of his help. Someone he has to save. I wish he would see the truth; no one can save me.

  “I’m fine, Logan. Please, stop fretting,” I admonish as a fresh wave of vertigo hits. I lie on the cool asphalt of the parking lot, taking in deep breaths, willing my dizziness to pass so I can get out of here. Having Logan near me, helps ease
my panic, but only just. Still, I really do appreciate the effort. So, I decide to do what I can to ease his worry.

  “For once, I bet you’re glad we don’t have the same lunch,” I tease him, trying my best to buy time for my vertigo to pass so I can get the hell out of here and away from everyone.

  Laughing, Logan drops his head and shakes it in disbelief. “Please tell me you’re not trying to joke at a time like this, Aim.” The effect of his admonition is completely lost with the smile on his face.

  “I’m not. You didn’t want to be in there. Good thing you were in weightlifting and outside doing crawlers, otherwise it might have been your pretty face that got all bloodied and battered. Then who would all the popular girls in school fight over?” I finish, laughing a bit myself.

  “Are you ever serious?” asks Logan, smiling, knowing full well that I’m not. I could drown in all the seriousness my life brings me. I choose every day not to. And believe me when I say, some days, I want to give in to it. I want to drown in it and hope that I die, so I never have to experience it again.

  “Where’s the fun in that?” I say to Logan before, for the umpteenth time today, I get off the ground and drag my beaten body to a standing position using the bumper of the Honda next to me. Logan helps me this time, but is careful only to touch my covered arm and not to get too close. After experiencing all of the horrific memories I downloaded a short while ago, it’s shocking to see someone be so considerate.

  I take a quick look around for my car and am happy to see that I am close. I turn to Logan to thank him, but I’m stopped in mid-sentence by his expression. He looks sad. I want to comfort him; I want to hug him and show him exactly how much I care, but I can’t. I don’t want to know what is in Logan’s past. I want to remember the sweet, caring boy I see in front of me, un-ruined by the harsh mistakes of his past. I would like to think there’s nothing bad in his past, but given my extensive experience, I know better. Some may call that jaded; I call it realistic. Seeing the concern written all over Logan’s face touches me, but it doesn’t change anything. I still need to leave.

  “Look, I have to go home to Mary. She hates technology and probably has no idea what happened here today. I’m fine, I promise. I’ll go home and take care of myself, but I have to get out of here. I’ve just been through hell. I can’t be around all these people right now,” I plea, tears pooling in my eyes, threatening to fall down my face. “Please understand.”

  For a minute, Logan is silent as he carefully searches my face for something. For exactly what, I’m not sure. But Logan apparently finds what he’s looking for, because he smiles that devastating smile that melts all the girls’ hearts and simply says, “Ok, I’ll cover for you,” before turning and running back toward the chaos.

  My heart flutters a bit watching him run away, but I ignore it and turn to get my ass as fast as I can into my car. Fishing the keys out of my pocket, I climb in, shut the door, and hold onto the steering wheel for dear life. Luckily, I travel light, no purse, or effects that I can’t fit into my pocket. While most young girls think only of fashion, I think of practicality.

  For the first time since the bomb went off, I allow myself to feel. Sadly, the shock has worn off and I see again the destruction and blood the bomb created. I feel the fear that was masked by my need to survive. Silently, I sit and weep for those who lost their lives, for the students that will never find their friends. They were simply unlucky, guilty of nothing save eating lunch at the wrong time and sitting in the wrong place. Briefly, I wish I had touched the person that had planted the bomb, but just as quickly, I reject the notion. I do not want that kind of shit in my head.

  Slowly, still afraid in the light of day, I drive the five miles to our house in a cookie-cutter subdivision filled with small ranch houses. I pull into the driveway of a white one with red shutters, relieved to see Mary’s blue Saturn in the driveway. I turn off the car and sit there for a minute, unable to figure out my next move. So much has happened in such a short time; I can’t decipher the horror of the bomb from the vileness of the murderer. I know I need to go in and let Mary know I’m okay, but reliving the horrors of the bomb today is the last thing I want to do. She’ll be mad I didn’t go to the hospital, too. No matter which way I look at it, Mary will worry about me. There’s no hiding this horror from her. Besides, the truth is best when such big news travels so fast.

  I leave my car and head for the front door. I put my key into the lock and let the door swing open in front of me. Before I am able to step one foot into the house, another wave of dizziness hits me. But this time is different. Images flood my mind, but they aren’t from the bombing. These are the images of the killer: images that have crept back up into my consciousness in an effort to make sure I don’t ignore them.

  What should be the foyer of my house decked out with photos of me and Mary on deep crimson colored walls instead is a dark, damp room covered with grime and sporting a large four-poster bed smack dab in the middle of it. In the center of the bed lays a light haired girl, hands and feet tied to each post, blood covering the majority of her body. Her blue eyes are hollow and clearly scared. Though I am aware this is a memory, something that happened in the past that I can’t help or change, I still scream at the girl to run. I move forward, hands outstretched, my only thought and intention to save her. But suddenly, I see my hands are not empty. In my right hand is a knife. The girl clearly knows what I can do, because her movements become more desperate as she tries to fling herself off the bed. The knots are tight though and already her wrists and ankles are red from the rope burning into her skin. There is no escape. I am slow to realize I am him again: the killer. No matter how I want to change the inevitable ending of this nightmare, I can’t. This girl will die horribly and I can’t do one damn thing about it.

  My stomach heaves; I am desperate to leave this memory before I see what he did to her. Not just see, but also live what he did to her, through the bastard’s eyes. In my mind, I struggle against the memory, desperate for release. I feel myself tear free as the image darkens and know that soon I will free fall into welcome oblivion. In the distance, I hear someone scream. I have no idea if it is me or Mary before the darkness takes me.

  Chapter Four

  ~ Is This a Hospital or a Prison? ~

  Some people say you don’t dream in a coma. Others say they remember vivid images and dreams from people talking around them while they were under. I say they are both right. I know because I’m in one now. You feel heavy, like your arms and legs are weighted down with bricks preventing you from even scratching your nose if the need arises. I am conscious, aware of those coming and going around me, yet I am still unable to open my mouth and speak to them. Images bleed into my brain from all sorts of places. All types of people I have touched. Some memories are good ones, like the first time you fall in love or the exhilaration of your first kiss. Those are the ones that I want to grasp with both hands and never let go. Those memories make life worthwhile. Yet, all too soon, the good are mixed with the evil ones. I can’t decipher reality from memory; they all seem real to me. So, whenever anyone says that being in a coma is a period of time when they remember nothing, they’re lying to you. It is complete bullshit. You remember too much, so much that you begin to fear everything.

  One truth about a coma is that time has no meaning. The hours blend into days with no form of reference as to their passing. Mary comes and visits me. She brings me my favorite foods and clothes that cover, knowing that I will want something comfortable and sane when I wake up. The nurses come and go. I can hear them as they speculate as to how much longer I’ll be unconscious. According to them, it’s been three days since the bombing and though they can’t physically find much wrong with me, I still show no signs of imminent awakening. They don’t realize it’s my mind that is damaged, not my body. If a nurse touches me, I thankfully do not feel it. The coma must prevent me from absorbing memories since I see no others save the most recent ones I try my best to suppress
. They haunt me like no others have before. I know I am young, but I carry the weight of the world in my head. I have seen so much yet lived so little. Sometimes I wonder how much more my mind can take. If this coma is any indication, I don’t think much more.

  It’s night when I emerge from my stint in oblivion, groggy but alive. The doctor says it is a defense mechanism of the mind to help us handle horrific tragedies. What the doctor didn’t know was that I had two tragedies to deal with; two horrors my mind was scrambling to process. So for once, I agree with a doctor about my diagnosis. There is absolute truth in his words. My time of unconsciousness was definitely my mind’s way of dealing; to shut down and have a bit of peace as it tried to understand what I needed to do next.

  When I wake up, the room is dark. For the first time, I get a good look at the stark hospital room I’ve called home for the duration of my stay. It is small with only one bed. I’m hooked up to three different machines to monitor the activity of my mind and my heart rate. The walls are white, but there are pretty pictures of landscapes to give the room color and fresh flowers by my bed. I see there is a card and a big, goofy smile hits my face when I see that it’s from Logan.

  For the first time, I notice that I’m not in a hospital gown. Mary must have showed them her stubborn side, because I am in a long sleeved, white shirt and black pajama pants. My hands aren’t covered, but I guess that was as far as the doctors would go in regard to my state of dress. I’m glad that I was asleep for that conversation. Mary becomes a drill sergeant when she is on a mission. Nevertheless, if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be taken care of at all. She is a caring woman who took a chance on a freak and I’ll forever be grateful for it.