“Holy shit!”
“It looks worse than it feels,” I mutter, as Kari leans in closer to get a better look.
“Um, Naya?” Kari's tone is measured, her face filled with sudden concern.
“What? Is it bleeding?” I reach my hand up to feel my face, but she bats it away, continuing to stare at me with a look of what I could only describe as fear.
“Naya, don't you see it?”
“See how freakish I look? Ya, I caught that,” I hiss, pulling my hair back over my face.
“No. Not that. Your bruise. It looks exactly like Etash’s scar.” Even though I know that’s impossible, as soon as she says it, I realize she’s right. It runs down the left side of my face, from eye to jaw, just as his does. The odds of my face hitting the chair at that exact angle is inconceivable, but the facts are literally written all over my face. There is no way this could be just a coincidence, could it?
Afraid I may have another panic attack, I decide to bolt. Without looking back, I grab my bag and run out of class.
Etash
Even before I walk into Acting Class, I know she's not in there; I can't feel her. Flinging the door open, I scan the room--I'm right, she's not here. A friend of hers is there though. She was the one with Naya last night. She's leaning her head toward another girl and starts whispering the moment they see me. She knows something. As I march over to them, I'm assaulted by Naya's scent. So, she was here.
“Where is she?” I ask her. She looks up at me like I've got three heads.
“Who?” she asks, batting her eyelashes.
I'm coming off too aggressive, so I try and calm myself down.
“Naya,” I say, “Do you know where she is?”
“I'm not exactly sure why you care where she is.” She folds her arms across her chest, defensively.
Clenching my fists in frustration, I go for honesty.
“Look, I'm just worried about her. After last night, and all. Can you just tell me if she's okay?” My voice surprises me by shaking a bit at the end. Something in her expression shifts.
“She's okay,” she confides and my shoulders slump in relief.
“If she's okay, then why did she leave?”
She looks at me strange. Probably wondering how I could have possibly known Naya had been here. Then she looks at the other girl, and back at me, her resolve deflated.
“I think she might have left because of something I said.” Her eyebrows pinch together in frustration. “She ran out of class when I pointed out how the bruise on her face looks exactly like your scar.”
That's impossible. She's obviously just associating any mark on a face to be as freakish as my scar. Even still, I don't like that her comment upset Naya so much that she had to leave. I want to go and find her, but I don't. It's not my job to comfort her.
Naya
Back in my room I sit on my bed prepared to wait out the hour and twenty minutes until my Drama Lit class starts by filling my brain with recklessly loud music. But my head is pounding so much that I can’t tolerate it now.
Instead, I down some more aspirin and check my e-mail, needing to do something, anything, to distract me from thinking.
There are three messages in my in-box: one from Campus Security reminding girls to walk in pairs; safety first. Delete. There’s one from Seth, presumably checking up on me. I skip by this one for now. The last e-mail is a bit of a shock. It’s from Tina and Harold, my foster ‘adults’, for lack of a better term. I refuse to call them my parents, because they aren’t. Unable to conceive of any reason for them to want to e-mail me, I click on the message.
Naya,
We got a bill today from your college. Why? Please take care of this.
Regards, Tina and Harold.
Regards? How about ‘love’ guys? I delete the e-mail without replying. The bill is obviously an error in processing my trust fund, but I’d be damned if I was going to try and fix it right now. I frown at myself, realize I'm just being hateful. I want so much to be allowed to blame them for the pathetic job they did caring for me, but deep down, I know it’s not their fault. They were cheated, after all. What they had wanted from a foster child was someone to care for their poodle while they went away on business trips, clean their house and run their errands. What they got was a fifteen-year-old head case. I’d want a refund too.
Flicking off my computer, I sit for a few minutes and stew. I’m angry. Angry at Harold and Tina for not being my parents, angry at Seth for always being so controlling, and angry at myself for apparently needing to be controlled. But mostly I'm furious with God for leaving me so utterly alone and afraid.
Unable to sit in my room any longer wallowing in self-pity, I grab my bag and head out early for Drama Lit.
I take the longest route possible, making unnecessary detours, weaving around dorms just to pass the time. When I reach the building, there’s only about ten more minutes to kill. I breathe a sigh of relief. At least Drama Lit will give my mind something more productive to focus on.
After buying a bottle of Coke from the vending machine, I make my way to class, and for two hours, lose myself in Greek tragedy, taking page after page of therapeutic notes.
I’m almost giddy to head to my first costuming course, knowing I can count on another fifty minutes of distraction. When the professor passes out the syllabus, however, I am less jovial. Who would have thought there could be this much homework for costumes?
Although I grumble, I am invigorated by the challenge. That's what college is all about. This is my opportunity to define who I want to be; to prove to the world, and to myself, that I am strong enough to survive whatever life spits at me.
My phone is ringing off the hook when I walk in my room. I grab it and toss my bag on the bed.
“Where the hell have you been?” It’s Seth.
“Whoa, calm down, I just got back from class.”
“Why didn’t you answer your cell?”
I pull out my cell from my pocket and flip it open only to find that I must have turned it off.
“My battery must have died,” I lie. “I didn’t check it before I left. Sorry.”
“You’re sorry? Do you know how worried I’ve been? Why didn’t you call me when you woke up like I asked you.”
You didn’t ask, you ordered, I want to say but I bite my tongue. “I did call you. Josh said you were still sleeping,” I say in the calmest voice that I can muster, careful to leave out the bit about his hangover.
He mumbles profanities about Josh's message-taking skills before his tone softens a bit.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.”
“I’m coming over,” he’s gone before I can object.
I have about ten minutes before he’ll be at my door, so I plug my cell into its charger to cover my tracks, and I check my dorm phone for messages. The beeps on the line tell me I have a message. I punch in my code to reveal I have nine new messages! Eight are from Seth, frantic over nothing. I erase each message as soon as I hear his voice come on, already knowing the gist. I’m about to erase the last one until I hear Professor Campbell’s voice.
“Just wanted to let you know I’ve set the first rehearsal for tomorrow night at 6:00. It’s just going to be you, me and Etash. See you soon.”
Thinking about Etash brings an instant blush to my face. When Seth pounds on my door, I almost jump out of my skin. I rush to the door, scrambling with the lock, and open it.
“Hey there.” Seth’s leaning against the door frame, holding a wildflower in his hand that’s moist with rain, giving me his most apologetic smile. It’s a smile I’ve seen a thousand times before--it’s his signal that he’s come to beg forgiveness for being a jerk. Already, I know I’ll forgive him. I always do.
I return his smile, letting him off the hook, and he tucks the flower behind my left ear, brushing my hair away while he does. I flinch, waiting for his reaction.
“Holy shit, Naya!”
I push away from h
im, hurt, and yank the flower out of my hair. “Yeah, I know. Thanks a lot.”
He grabs my arm, spinning me back around. His fingers move across my face, tracing the outline of the shadow. I resist the urge to flinch at the throb his touch causes.
“Your beautiful face,” he whispers in my ear. “I don't like it.” He kisses the top of my head. “Guess we’ll order in,” he says.
“Good idea,” I say, squirming out of his arms and pulling my hair back over my face.
Seth orders a pizza and we curl up on my bed. He turns on the TV.
I don’t know if it’s the sound of the rain on the window or the humdrum drone of the sports show he’s watching that causes my eyes to droop, but all too soon they close, and I slip deep inside my worst nightmare; the night that changed everything.
The torment comes in pieces, fragmented and jagged, much like my memory of that night. It starts in the rain—it always starts in that damn cold and unforgiving rain. It hammers on the top of the car, effectively drowning out the hushed argument my parents are having in the front seat about the sudden wash-out conditions the rain has caused.
My stomach is twisted into knots, somehow sensing the worst is about to happen. The sheets of rain coming down have completely obscured the road ahead. Their argument continues. A bolt of lightning flashes, turning the night sky bright white, and a feeling of absolute panic fills me. I have to stop this car. I have to stop it, now, even if I have to turn the wheel myself.
With shaking fingers, I brush against the release button of my seatbelt, but I'm not permitted to push it, because that's when it happens. The blinding headlights, the angry crunch of metal, the agonized voices of my parents, and the blood. Dark and metallic smelling. Bits of my parents splattered across the smashed windshield.
That's when the screaming always begins.
“Naya! Wake up!” I'm shaken back to life by Seth. Gasping for breath, I shove that final image of my parents back into the vault, where it belongs.
“What the hell was that?”
“Bad dream,” I squeak.
“I'd say. Damn, you got a set a lungs on you!” He gives me a tight squeeze before he gets off the bed. “I’m gonna pick up the pizza.”
He plants a quick kiss on my cheek and then disappears.
I’m relieved to have a moment to myself to regroup. Time to pull myself back together; time to wrap my arms around my chest, swaying from side to side in the feeble attempt to rock myself sane. But it doesn't work. It never does. All I can see is my mother's head lodged into the windshield, my father's broken body hunched over the steering wheel. My stomach lurches. I grab my shower stuff and run to the bathroom, making it there just in time.
Showering off the smell of vomit, I hurry back surprised to find Seth isn't back yet. I slide into my pjs and towel off my hair, rubbing my lavender lotion into my arms, going through the motions of normalcy when the smell of pizza wafts inside. Its aroma brings me back to the present and allows me just enough time to put on my well-rehearsed 'happy face.'
“Yum,” I whisper as Seth shuts my door.
“I agree. You look good enough to eat,” he says coyly, tossing the pizza down on my desk before sauntering over to me. He scoops me up in his arms and carries me over to the bed.
“Sorry I took so long. I forgot my wallet back at the dorms, and when I got there, John had a few guys over, so I stayed for a few minutes to say hi,” he murmurs, planting a deep kiss on me. And a few drinks, I notice as the taste of stale beer registers on my lips. His hands start moving down my body, skillfully sneaking them under my shirt.
“The pizza will get cold,” I say, pushing away from him.
Seth groans, but slides his hand out of my shirt, crawls off the bed and grabs the pizza box. We eat in silence watching some stupid reality show.
An hour later, Seth leaves, saying he has homework to do, but I can’t help but think that he just wants another beer.
Chapter 6
Etash
By the time I get home from the grocery store, make dinner and call my folks, it’s late but not late enough for sleep to take me hostage. So I haul out my books and dig into my homework, starting with my Directing syllabus first: three chapters to read and then a 1500 word essay on the challenges new directors face and how to overcome them. Piece of cake.
It was the Public Speaking course that was going to do me in. There is absolutely no reason for a director to have to take public speaking classes. Sure, you have to talk to your casts, but it's hardly the same thing as standing up in front of a group of your peers mumbling your way through Robert Frost.
After about three hours of non-stop reading and typing, my eyes are killing me. Hopefully, I can now pass out from exhaustion and fall straight into oblivion.
But I don't. Instead, I get sucked into nightmares. The boyfriend, Mr. Macho Man, is in the dream with Naya beside him. He's got his thick, fat hands wrapped around her, practically smothering her with his lips. As his hands run down her arms, then under her shirt, a rage builds inside my helpless sleeping body.
Although I want to tear my eyes away from this torment, I am transfixed by her; her eyes are closed--peaceful. For a moment her face gets obscured as Seth tears off her shirt. Her body flops clumsily back to the bed as he pulls his shirt off and undoes his pants. I am disgusted. He rips off her pants and as he does she seems to flail around in his arms like a rag doll. Why hasn't she opened her eyes yet?
Seth mounts himself on top of her, thrusting himself into her limp body over and over again, causing her head to tip back and her eyelids to open just enough for me to see that they have rolled back into her head. Son of a bitch! She's not conscious.
“Get off of her!” I scream, frothing with rage into the early morning light of my very empty bedroom.
An intense and irrational urge to protect her washes over me. But what, exactly, am I supposed to protect her from? My bad dreams?
Throwing off my covers, I storm into the bathroom to try and let the hot water rinse away the images of her with him. When that doesn't work, I decide I just have to chill out, and the only way I can effectively do that is in the dance studio.
Because it’s early Friday morning all of the studios, save the first one, are deserted. The largest studio has a small group of dancers that are all upperclassmen. None of them take any notice of me as I slip past them and head over to the smallest studio upstairs. It was once used exclusively by the dance instructors, then later abandoned altogether after the newer studios were added a few years ago.
Perfectly content within the solitude of this room, I put a CD into the sound system and attempt to dance myself numb.
The minutes fly by and my muscles plead with me to stop; to catch my breath, but I ignore them. Dancing has been the only thing that has successfully succeeded so far in taking my mind off Naya; off Seth's hands manhandling her. With my nostrils flared in fury, I push off the floor, spinning until my mind is swimming, until my body finally collapses onto the floor.
As I lie there panting, the room still spinning, I see a faint flicker of gold light dancing just above me. Whoa. Time to eat.
Peeling my limp body off the floor, I trudge off to the showers, cursing at my sore muscles with each painful step.
After downing two trays of food at the cafeteria, I have just enough time to hobble across campus to buy the book for my next class: Mythology.
All theatre majors are required to take four years of mythology because of the close connection myth has with theatre. Freshman year it was Greek Mythology. This year it's Ancient Mythology.
At the book store, I flip open the text book and leaf through the pages, trying to get an idea of what specific myths the class will cover. The book is broken down by culture: Native American, Chinese, and a slew of others, but it's the Hindu myths that have piqued my interest.
I turn to the page listed, instantly recognizing some of the popular names of Hindu’s many gods.
I'm ashamed to admit that
I don't know as much about the myths as I should, being half-Hindu. Up until this very moment, I'd never cared about my American father's insistence on my Catholic upbringing. Now, I wish he hadn't forbidden my mother from teaching me anything about her faith. He wouldn't be at all pleased by the bits I've picked from Grams' scattered memory since she's been in the states.
That's when I remember something Grams used to tease me about in high school. I wonder if there's anything about that in here?
Looking at the book again, there's the obvious stuff: the common Hindu gods, their wives and children, but what I’m searching for is something different.
I’m about to shut the book in frustration when an illustration of a naked man and woman embracing catches my eye. It's not their nudity that has me holding my breath. The pair are clearly enraptured by each other, but neither seem to notice that their hands and feet have melded together to form a brilliant, golden flame. The caption beneath the photo says simply: Twin Flames. A shiver runs up my spine. My eyes scan urgently to the definition.
“Twin Flames-often confused with Soul Mates, which are believed to be souls we have met and lived with for many lifetimes as lovers, mothers, fathers, friends and other close people in one's lives. Twin Flames or Twin Rays, however, are believed to be the other half of your soul. It is thought, by some, that when your soul enters the 'physical world,' it divides in half: one part male, one part female. Each half of the soul can then spend an eternity searching for its other half. Neither half feeling whole until its flame is found.”
My blood goes cold. That is what Grams used to tease me about! She always said I was waiting for my Twin. I never really believed her, until now.
Skipping class, I head straight for the library, looking up everything I can about Twin Flames. My Google search brings up 493,000 hits. This may take some time.
After about an hour of sifting through the hits, much of what I find is along the same lines of what my mythology book described. Over half of the sites are advertisements for books on the subject. A few sites are so hokey that I can’t lower myself to read them. I finally give up in frustration.
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