The Risen (Book 1): Dawning

by Marie F. Crow

  This is a Marie F Crow Book

  Published by Marie F Crow Publishing

  Copyright © 2013 by Marie F Crow

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, know or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Marie F Crow Publishing, 205 Saint James Avenue, STE 2 #333, Goose Creek, SC 29445, USA

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  ISBN-13: 978-0615795485 (Marie F Crow Publishing)

  ISBN-10: 061579548X

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013908435

  The following are exclusive trademark properties of Marie F Crow Publishing: The Risen™, The Risen: Dawning™, The Hawthorn Angels™, G.R.I.T.™. These trademarks may not be used for any purpose without the written consent of Marie F Crow Publishing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, images, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Book / E-book cover design: Darko Tomic

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Every journey begins with a first step.

  Thank you to those who were there for mine.

  Marie F Crow

  A world of fragile things. Isn’t that how they describe winter? It is a time when things slow down. It is a dark time when we isolate ourselves, seeking only the shelter of our families and the warmth they provide. When night comes sooner and dawn seems brighter. When dreams are sparked with the yearnings of miracles and stories are shared of times gone by. Yes, that is how I remember winter.

  I have a deep well of winters from which to drink. I hold memories of lighted trees and homes glimmering in the dark. I hold the smells of holidays and the sounds of love inside me. I can still hear melodies inspired for the only purpose of hope and goodwill. They are supposed to remind us of the magic of miracles that we forget during the year. I remember the rush of children’s joy at the first snowfall that covers the world in a virginal haze. I remember laughter. I miss that sound the most.

  Sound is a weapon now. It is something hidden and shrouded with fear and dread. There are no more lighted trees or glimmering dreams among us. Smells have become dank and smothered with loneliness. Our songs are now of silence and deaths. They inspire only regrets. It inspires the type of remorse that can only be found in the deep dark of your own memories.

  This is our winter now. This is our life. The nights are too dark. The dawn is too soon. Our nightmares walk among us and we are all wide-awake.

  CHAPTER 1

  We all have our own scars. People we have had to kill. People we have lost. Our own versions of how we first knew something was wrong. Each of us with our own brands of horror. Each of us with our own strands of hope. Those strands of hope bind us all together. Social lines are a long distant luxury of a world gone by. A comfort we can no longer indulge. The only line we have now is “them “or “us” and every day the line seems to shrink more for “us”.

  Perhaps it is just our hope that shrinks as if it is a worn out balloon wrinkled and discolored from being too full for too long. Every loss letting out more of the precious air used to keep us afloat. We are sinking fast in this new world. I fear for not only our safety but also for our humanity. When one must kill the ones they love to survive, what does that leave of the soul? Where does that darkness go? Where does the heart house such sorrow? How can hope even compete with such truths?

  My life was already well versed in the potential of mankind. I never had the “candyland” version of a home life. There were no brightly colored pictures to pin to a memory. I was one of my Father’s few regrets and my Mothers many dismissals. The only brunette in a sea of platinum. I was a shadow looming over pale perfections. My hostile green cat eyes instead of their blue calming seas. I was smart instead of athletic. I was loved instead of envied. Yes, I was everything he hated in life and I was there to remind him of it every day. For my fifteenth birthday I was gifted the loft over the shed as my new room. I knew the truth. His gift was not a present for me, but for him.

  As much as that truth hurts, it is unfair and untrue to place it all upon them. No, I grasped the truth long before fifteen and dealt with it in my own way. I made lists of new regrets for my parents. Regrets in forms of boyfriends I knew they would hate. Activities their perfect marriage of beauty and envy could not afford for them to acknowledge. It was a game for me. A game I played well. A game I enjoyed. One cannot throw gasoline to a flame and then complain about being burned. The fire burned everyone the same.

  Hindsight is the most powerful potion of regrets. Had I known what was ahead would I have tried so hard to spread the misery I felt to my core? Would I have lifted the siege and tried to rebuild not only mine, but their hearts as well? Could my academics have earned a spot on the bookcase with the many other frozen figurines of sporting victories that were so well crowded into the spaces? Does it even matter now? The dust-covered memorabilia has no value. It holds no comfort to give. Yet we still cling to the many “what ifs” as if some weight of self could be obtained from them. Perhaps we just would rather cling to what we have known versus facing the fears of unknown tomorrows. The last sparkling star of comfort before the dawn steals it away.

  For one moment of time, I had goals for myself. I had dreams, I suppose. However, hate destroys so much. It not only devours the love for others but at the same time, its double-edged blade cuts it from you, too. So much energy had been spent convincing my parents I was indeed their regret that I lost sight of that moment. I lost my goals. I lost my love for not only myself but for life. My sins not only tainted my family. Their taint discolored my world. What was before white-washed and bland had become dark and grey. It became shades of despair and mourning. I allowed myself to slink into a world where I never should have walked, much less dived deep.

  I never went to college. Why would I waste more time on schooling a life that held so little encouragement? Due to my own transgressions, I learned the in depth comfort of mixing drinks long before I should have. A simple shake with a dash of flirt and chill over deep green eyes and there was the perfect recipe for any problem that I may have discovered. At eighteen I was working “under the table” at Grit, the local bar formed around the motorcycle club G.R.I.T., as a bartender and a dancer. I went by the name of Hells as I slowly invented a new world for myself. A world where Helena Hawthorn was just a memory to be stored for hours at a time behind locked doors of thick, high walls. It was a world where I was desired. A world as wild as my broken self wanted it to be. It was a world where I could escape the truth of what waited for me when the sun rose. I guess I have always had a hate for the dawn.

  That was my new cycle. In bed with the sun and up with noon. I was self-sufficient in the manner of providing for my wants, yet I remained in that gift of a loft. By twenty, my parents and I no longer held vocal communication. Our conversations were post it notes left reminding me, or asking for my help, with my younger siblings who I mostly referred to as the “Hawthorn Angels” in my own refusal of an acknowledgement of them. My refusal to become emotionally invested in this new family that was so foreign to me.

  During the week, I was
there to get them ready for school so my parents could enjoy a few more hours of dreaming bliss. It was routine. It was almost mindless. It was empty of diversion. We held the same arguments over breakfast. The same arguments over clothing choices they wanted to wear. The same arguments over the need for coats in the mornings. Robotic. Hindsight.

  CHAPTER 2

  My keys make the metallic connection allowing me in through the back door as always. The smell of the house washes over me in its thick perfume of crisp lemons and soft, subtle vanilla. These early hours always make me feel as a trespasser. Today I am violating a sacred shrine with my smoke -infused hair and over done makeup. It had been a full night at the bar, and we closed later than normal. I am running behind, robbing me of the early morning shower I use to rid myself of the world I have left before stepping into the perfect plastic bliss of this world. Now standing on the too white carpet, my feet sinking in the plush fibers removing all sounds of my arrival, I am being required to wake up the Hawthorn Angels in what can only be thought of as bar wear. That should make for an extra fit of drama this morning I realize and sigh to myself.

  My black high-heeled boots softly clink their way up the stairs past the rows of grinning moments of time. Various seasons wrap around perfect photographic models in poses and smiles capturing memories of their days past. I never look. I never pause to glance and share the memories. There are none for me upon these walls. Twenty-three years later, and I still lack the strength to accept it.

  I am lost in my own denial when my body halts, leaving a few seconds for my brain to become aware. Something is different. Something that makes my heart speed up and my brain slow down. I can feel the shiver of something I should be aware of caress me.

  There is a sound where there should be no sounds. The silent embrace of sleep should still surround us, but there are sounds. There are horrible wet sounds filling the air around me. Sounds of someone walking through watery puddles mixed with the enjoyment of the heavy splashing of something thick. Something your mind knows should not be here. It is something that is misplaced and wrong, and yet shockingly real.

  Your mind knows when you should not be in certain places. It sends hints with the hairs of your body or the skip of your heart. It sends them with the immobilization of limbs or their pure weakness. Unfortunately, we seldom ever heed our minds. We force through all the biological clues of danger in some misguided sense of immortality. We degrade ourselves with insults to inspire self-hatred of leaving such places. We do all we can to throw our lives away with the morbid curiosity of things and moments our minds know to leave alone.

  This was one of those moments. Every inch of my skin seems to beg me to turn around. My heart beats with a pattern of warnings as my legs continue to climb each step. My palms glide along the railing as sweat gathers and yet I still inch forward, one slow silent stair a step in pure misguiding rebellion to my senses.

  My mother’s hem is visible for a moment before it slips from view at the landing. It is a sharp peek–a-boo of yellow nightgown in contrast to the surrounding of white carpet. I know this is wrong. My mind screams for me to realize this is wrong. Yet I cannot grasp the reasons for this to be dangerous. It is just my mother, or Carol, as I now call her and have for too many years to ever repair our bond. The only things that should be afraid of Carol are dust and weeds. She is the envy of her local club of sheltered women for her well to do life and time-defying looks. Yet here my body is recoiling with urges to run from just the smallest flash of her nightgown.

  Unfortunately, it is not just the nightgown. It is the sounds. The sounds she too should be hearing. Sounds she should be calling for answers to and yet she is silent. Carol is never silent.

  “Carol?” My voice sounds overly large in the narrow hallway, as if it should hold an echo. “Carol?”

  Her enduring silence seems to amplify in ways silence should not have the ability to do. It takes a life of its own becoming more than just an action but a thing that is also waiting in the room with us. The indecisiveness of turning the corner has my mind racing with fear. My body reacts to the knowledge that I must make a decision with breath-stealing terror.

  My mind knows that something is very wrong but my brain can find no real proof for it. They lock in an internal debate as one encourages me forward while the other pleads with me to go back. The last step seems to cause a civil war of my thoughts as if I should be staring at pure horror. I have climbed the same step every day for years of my life. It should be no more of a thought process than that of walking through a well lived in room at night. It should be a motion memory of meaningless detail. Yet here it looms before me causing a giant cliff of debate.

  It is not until my eyes grow blurry with unshed tears that I begin to notice details that my mind has been screaming for me not to see. I finally see the discoloration of the carpet. I see the sprinkle like patterns of red on the cream-colored walls. The landing itself slowly becomes a new place of sights from the one I have been standing so close to. The second hand from the clock below is ticking as loud as bullets marking the moments as they pass. A slow, wet, slick sliding of sounds are blending into their own stomach-clinching melody. My mind knew all along that the final clue was only one-step away and it wants no part of it, even as my legs climb the cliff.

  At first, the scene before me makes no sense. Too much seems impossible. Too much seems wrong. My mind refuses to accept the information my eyes are sending to it. It blurs the edges keeping the reality from focus as long as possible. One would think adding red to white would make a pretty, soft pink. I always have. My boots touch the proof that we are all wrong.

  My mind focuses on the why of the new color, avoiding the cause of it. Red to white should make pink. It should not be this thick dark crimson shading encircling my baby sister Lilly. What could she have spilled to make this much of a mess as it fans its damning proof around her still body? Her blonde hair has become stained and clumped from the substance. The ivory flesh of her legs and arms are spotted with patterns of it making a mockery of her natural freckles. Even her tee shirt with its cartoon-dancing bears is heavy from the weight of it.

  I should grab a rag and help Carol, who is bending over Lilly. I can see from behind as her arms slide back and forth over Lilly attempting to clean the mess. This is what my brain tells me. This is not what my mind is screaming. My mind is screaming this is wrong. Look closer. It is refusing to help me piece it together, like a child watching a movie and asking for clues because they are too afraid to stare at the screen themselves.

  “Carol?” I hear my own voice call out but it sounds strained. Not the cocky self-assuring flirt I hear all night long. Even my voice knows before myself what is going on and it is unsure why I am still here, much less using it.

  I can see Carol freeze in a fashion that sets my body tight with fear. My muscles tense as if expecting a blow but my brain can’t find the threat. Her yellow gown is soaked with its own tint of red from where she has been kneeling and I can see the two-toned details as she stands in an unnaturally slow pace. Her shoulders lift as if being pulled from strings above and the rest of her slowly follows the force. Her arms are coated in the same red substance, giving them the appearance of slipping into long, delicate gloves. The shine catches the morning light from the windows in an almost beautiful effect if it was not for the pure panic the sight causes. The second hand is back to shooting bullets as time slows before me.

  Lilly is in full view now as my vision wraps around my mother’s body. My mind makes one final attempt to block the horrors before me but the edges are in focus now. There is no choice but to see the truth, and I do.

  Lilly is lying on her back in the wide hallway. The many shades of crimson are almost a halo around her fallen body. Her blue eyes stare up, unblinking. She too wants to see anything but what is before us. One arm is outstretched, touching the wall and leaving a child size red print, mimicking an art project from long ago. Its pattern is screaming fragile. Its smear is s
creaming broken.

  The other arm is torn in irregular patterns of gore. Huge gaps of flesh melding with the perfection of ivory shading only a small child could possess. The red freckles dance in specks and smears oblivious to it all until the whole combination meets the sleeve of what was once a pastel blue tee shirt. The smiling bears upon her chest rebel in their scenic glee to the reality around them. All but one bear is able to escape the horror as his body has been torn in two, framing the ironic twist of revulsion. The missing bear’s stomach highlights the same fact for Lilly.

  What should be the soft velvet flesh of a five year old is torn and jagged. It seeps the answer to the “why not pink” question as what can only be assumed to be organs are shredded and missing, spilling their dark fluids out of her torn cavity. With reality finally upon me, my brain has no choice but to accept it and it releases the shield my senses were using to hide behind, keeping me safe. The smell collides into me, doubling me over in pure disgust. Sorrow and anger dance a duet upon my emotions, finally blocking fear for a moment’s peace. Lilly has been murdered, my brain finally screams, but my mind still clings to its refusal of answering the question of how.

  I again ask the only person standing before me. My voice is pleading with her for answers. “Carol?”

  Her gown sticks to her legs, adding an extra dash of stomach-dropping disgust at the sound of it sliding against her flesh. She turns, still in that slow, unnatural fashion of shoulder leading movement. My brain whispers through my senses that she is just in shock, as any mother would be. It attempts to calm my body that is tensing for an unseen fight as her face comes into view. The second hand has run out of ammo. There is only white noise as our eyes meet.

  Her once a week salon-styled locks now appear to belong to an angst filled teen with their coloration patterns and not to the leading socialite of town. The tips are a blending effect of reds and crimsons. Her natural curl is now taut with their weight as they attempt to spiral up into lighter hues. There are sparkles of colors that reflect the light resembling tiny stars adorning her, but my brain can no longer ignore the truth that my mind was attempting to shelter. What she is wearing is not sparkling stars. It is Lilly.