Liquid Death (The Edinön Trilogy Book 1)

by C, Mitzi

  But I spoke anyway. “Need some aspirin?”

  “Yes.” She sighed and closed her eyes. I nodded and rose to my feet.

  On my way back to my mother with a glass of water and a few pills, my father appeared in the entryway, his mouth set in a firm line and his eyebrows deeply furrowed. He looked at my mother. “Got anything to eat?”

  My mom shook her head and sniffed.

  He turned to me. “What's that you got there, son?”

  “Water and aspirin for Mom. She's got a headache.”

  “Oh, a headache, huh?” He stepped in further from the entryway to the couch where my mom rested, expressing disapproval. “I just came back from the office of the doc who's treating one of my men, who just got his leg blown off, and you're complaining 'bout a headache?” He leaned closer to my mother so his nose was in her face. “Perra patético!” My mom flinched. He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back so she was looking at him. “You're lucky to be alive! My career is collapsing, and all you can think about is a stupid headache.” He forced my mom to her feet by her scraggly brown hair and pulled her closer to him. Mom whimpered, and her eyes watered.

  In the past, I would have cowered in the corner for fear of punishment if I intervened. But at this moment, rebellion coursed hotly in my veins. I didn't want to watch him beat my mother again. She was struggling to live as it was; I had it easy. Why should she take the blame for my father's failure?

  I set the glass of water and aspirin down. My father smacked my mother twice in the face, which spurred my resolve. I was going to help my mother.

  For the first time in my life, I stood between them and pleaded with my father to stop, tears stinging my eyes and rolling down my flushed face. My father, more infuriated than I had ever seen him, flexed his fist and aimed it right at my jaw. I felt the impact a moment later while I was on the floor. He hammered me in the stomach, in the chest, in the face, and then he picked me back up and repeated the beating.

  After he’d finished, I was broken. My chest had collapsed, so I couldn’t breathe. Both arms were fractured, my face was swollen, and my legs were terribly bruised.

  My mother called an ambulance as soon as my father left, claiming I was in an “accident.”

  ***

  “I’m home.”

  “In the kitchen, dear!”

  I set my books on the mudroom bench and rub my nose. Holy crap, I smell cookies!

  “Gran?” I walk to the kitchen and almost keel over at the sight of freshly baked cookies. Gran is scraping them off the cookie sheets and arranging them on a large plate. She looks up at me and smiles.

  “How was school, Juan?”

  Gran is probably in her mid-fifties, with graying brown hair and the sweetest voice in the world. If she did not look so much like my mom, I wouldn’t have believed we were related. I can’t take my eyes off the plate. “Good.”

  She hands me a separate paper plate with four mouth-watering goods and a glass of milk. Geez, I haven’t been living here more than a week, and she’s already treating me like royalty. “Tell me about your day.”

  This must be a dream. “It was… uh…” I scratch my head and stuff a cookie into my mouth. “An experience,” I say while chewing.

  “Did you make any new friends?”

  I grab another. “No. I didn’t really talk to anyone. It’s hard when I’m constantly being followed.”

  “Well, give it time and I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

  “Gran?”

  She looks up at me. “Yes, dear?”

  How much do you know about Blue Skys? I want to ask. “Why can’t I go to a normal school?” I ask instead.

  Her demeanor droops. “This is part of your sentence, Juan. You understand that, don’t you?”

  My sentence? “I thought my sentence was two years in Blue Skys. Those two years are over.”

  “Yes, but…” She presses her lips together. “They can’t allow you around normal children. This is the way it must be.”

  I gulp down the entire glass of milk in one breath. “I’m not a child. And I’m not… abnormal. Am I?”

  Gran gives me a queer look.

  I wipe milk from my upper lip and think. “What makes me so different from everyone else?”

  “You really don’t know?” She leans against the oven and folds her arms over her apron.

  I think for a moment. “Am I more different physically, or… mentally?”

  “Dear, you just spent two years in a mental hospital. What kind of things did you learn there if not what was different about you?”

  “I... All I remember is…. There was this redheaded chica who would come into my room with food and pills. No one spoke to me but the other patients. I was never punished for misbehavior. Every week they would sedate me for the ‘tests’… but I never knew what those tests were, or why they were necessary.”

  “And you never asked?”

  I shake my head. Huh. That does seem odd that I never thought to ask questions. I’m usually a very inquisitive person. Panic swells in my chest. “What did they do to me?”

  “Why don’t you go talk to the school counselor tomorrow? I hear she works for Blue Skys.”

  I nod, brushing the suggestion aside. “I’m going to be in my room for a while. Thanks for the cookies.” I swallow hard and walk to my room, Grandpa’s former office. I shut the door behind me and plop on my bed, running my hands through my hair. Two years of my life I spent in an asylum, and I can’t even remember why I was there. I recall the shot I received in the neck earlier today and the way it made me feel… that drug must have been the reason I was so cooperative.

  And why is a Blue Skys employee daylighting as a high school counselor? That doesn’t make sense.

  At five, Grandpa drives me to the Blue Skys offices where I am to dump my feelings on a shrink twice a week so they can track my “progress” outside of the asylum and school.

  “Something bothering you, Juan?” he queries on the way over.

  I sigh and shake my head. “I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t need therapy. I don’t need to be placed in a school with ‘special kids.’”

  “You killed your father, Juan. Do you want to talk about that?”

  “It was self-defense! Everybody knows that! And I defeated a major drug lord. The government should have applauded me for it. Instead they imprison me with the insane and inject me with mind-altering chemicals. Something isn’t right.”

  “You brought more people to justice than your father. Remember Destiny?”

  My psyche crawls under a boulder and shudders. I look out the window at the dreary streets and empty buildings. This place is like a ghost town. I think of my mom, and how she hasn’t answered my calls since my release. I hope rehab has helped her while I have been gone. I hope she hasn’t given up.

  “We’re here,” Grandpa announces, patting my knee. “I’ll pick you up at six thirty.”

  I unbuckle my seatbelt and exit the car.

  The redheaded chica who brought my daily meals in Blue Skys happens to be my therapist. She is hotter than I remember, I suppose due to an abrupt alteration in outfit and hairstyle. Her fiery hair is loose and curled, and she is wearing a white blouse under a dark blue suitcoat and matching skirt. A pearl necklace drapes over her prominent clavicle, and she has left one too many buttons loose on her shirt, making it difficult to concentrate. She welcomes me into her office and asks me to get comfortable on the flower-embroidered sofa under the window. I lie on the couch with one arm behind my head and close my eyes, prioritizing questions in my mind.

  “So, Juan, how has your first week with your grandparents fared for you?” she inquires as she sits demurely in a chair very close to my face. She has a clipboard on her lap and a black pen in her hand on the off chance I have something interesting to say.

  “It’s been great.”

  “I see you have put on a little weight since your release. Gran must be feeding you well.”

  I nod
once. I have gained a total of one pound this week. It must be all in my face because apparently it’s quite noticeable.

  “How did you feel about your first day at school?”

  “I’m confused why I have been enrolled as a senior when I don’t have enough credits. Couldn’t I just take the GED and put my high school education behind me?”

  “You earned the credits required during your sophomore and junior years while in Blue Skys,” Doctor Eddington replies. My sight is glued to her red lipstick. “And we thought it would be ideal for you to finish your education in a social setting so we can monitor how you interact with people before you are granted total freedom.”

  Ah. Now everything makes sense. “Who is ‘we’?”

  “Doctor Hendricks, your social workers, and I. We are highly invested in your full recovery.” When I open my mouth, she raises a hand to stop me. “Let me ask the questions for a moment, Juan. Tell me more about your day. Did you meet anyone at school?”

  I massage my eyeballs. “No.”

  “How were your classes?”

  “Estoy tomando una clase de español.”

  She jots something down. What could she possibly be writing? I crane my head to peek, but she lifts her clipboard against her chest and orders me with a stern expression to lie back down. I reluctantly obey. “Are you thinking of joining any clubs or activities outside of school?”

  “Nope.”

  “What do you plan to do in your spare time, then?”

  “Read, watch TV, play video games. Maybe loot a store or two.” I shrug.

  Doctor Eddington chuckles. “What career paths are you considering?”

  “I’m considering taking after my dad. Maybe starting my own meth-cooking business and migrating to Mexico.”

  She cocks a thin eyebrow. “Would you like to talk about your father?”

  I exhale. “No.” I squint at the far wall. “How about we talk about a girl I saw today at school.”

  My therapist leans forward intently. “Yes?”

  “She was with this surfer dude, dressed in the kind of rags I used to wear. And she had this bruise along her jaw,” I indicate the spot with my finger on my own face. “Looked like she had been punched pretty hard.”

  Eddington purses her red-stained lips and asks, “Surfer dude?”

  “Yeah. I grew up in San Diego. I saw his type every day. Sun-bleached, wavy hair, orange tan year round…”

  “Ah, I see.” She smiles and writes something else down. “What about this girl drew your attention? Was it the bruise, or something she did?”

  “Well, I almost ran into the surfer before I noticed her. The bruise is what initially drew my attention. But as I was walking down the hall I heard her crying, and when I turned, she was sobbing in a fetal position on the floor. The guy with her didn’t seem to know what to do. I heard him talk to someone on the phone about ‘medication’ and a ‘breakdown,’ or something, before my aides dragged me away.”

  “How did you feel when you saw this? Angry? Sympathetic? Confused?”

  “I felt anger for whoever traumatized her. I still want to do… unspeakable things to the man responsible.” Why did I admit that out loud?

  “Why is that? You don’t even know the girl. The bruise could have resulted from an accident. She could have been crying about something completely unrelated.”

  I roll my eyes. “No, no, no. I saw the bruise up close. I saw the knuckle marks. No way was that an accident. Her home life probably isn’t perfect. Her dad likely gave her that bruise.” Just the thought of someone hurting that poor girl, stranger or not, is making my blood boil.

  “Juan, you’re projecting your past situation onto a girl you know nothing about.”

  I glower at the therapist. “Right. Ignore the evidence. This is all about me, now.”

  She clucks her tongue. “During these sessions, everything is about you.” She glances at her wristwatch. “How are you feeling physically? Any back pain? Joint pain? Headaches? Nausea?”

  “No.” I sit up and slide off the couch. “We’re done here.”

  ***

  CHAPTER 3 – Kandi

  The Gift

  Dec. 23, 2016

  Cleaning is one of the most effective methods I use to keep my mind occupied. When I am scrubbing every nook and cranny in the kitchen, all I think about is what type of chemical to use in the particular spot I am scouring. It's nice – therapeutic. I wish I was able to do this more often without interruptions.

  The dishes are clean and put away, the walls no longer stink of burnt tar and sweat, and the floor is swept and mopped. Despite its inevitably dumpy appearance, at least it looks like I put some effort into making it look nice. There is nothing I can do about the peeling wallpaper and the cracked, yellowed tiles on the floor and counter top.

  My uncle is stressed because a man from Youth Services is doing his semiannual visit to our house this afternoon to make sure I am being treated well, that I'm taking my medication, and that Jim is at least trying to find a job. And, yes, technically I am not a minor, but Leyla believes it is necessary to check up on me as often as possible in whatever form possible. So that means I am responsible for cleaning the entire residence while Jim is out getting a haircut. Not that he needs one of course – he hardly has any hair to trim. He just doesn't want to be around me, that's all.

  Now the living room. I scoop up all the beer cans and other trash scattered on the floor around the couch and toss them in the giant garbage sack I placed in the center of the room. I also empty the ash tray, wash it, and hide it under the sofa. I vacuum, scrub the stench from the walls, dust the coffee table and television, and plug in some air freshener.

  I finish vacuuming the rest of the house, switch the load of laundry from the washer to the dryer, and then proceed with the bedrooms. Of course, this is the only time of year besides that day in June when the Youth Services guy visits that I can enter my uncle's bedroom. It's a disaster, and my heart sinks.

  When I'm finally done with everything else, including the bedrooms, I decide it's about time I get myself cleaned up as well. I take a nice long shower, use the rest of the fruit-scented body lotion, put on a clean t-shirt, jacket, and pair of jeans, and then take the time to put my hair into a neat bun.

  By the end of all this, I'm positively drained. I fold and put away all the laundry and crumble onto my bed.

  “Kandi! I need you in the kitchen!”

  That voice has never failed to wake me up. I groggily roll out of bed and pad into the kitchen to find my uncle pulling out all the pots and pans, creating a huge mess. My jaw drops.

  “Kandi, he is going to be here any minute! Where is the teapot?”

  Teapot? Since when did any of us drink tea?

  I begin to pick up after him without saying a word. Uncle Jim eventually gives up looking for it and pulls me to my feet by my hood. That's why I often put my hair up – I'm surprised I haven't gone bald given how much he pulls it when I leave it down. “You had better get some refreshments ready,” he hisses menacingly, his breath reeking of tobacco. He doesn't even bother threatening me. The threat is all in his maniacal eyes.

  When he releases me, I realize I hadn't been breathing for nearly a full minute and quickly exhale.

  Glancing up at the clock, my eyes expand with surprise. Doctor Boon is going to be here in fifteen minutes. How am I going to get something prepared by then when we have no food in the fridge and nothing but a bag of potato chips in the pantry?

  The sound of the buzzer startles me. He is five minutes early. Perfect timing. I've just gotten a pitcher of water together. Yay. I hear my uncle respond to the voice on the intercom by the front door, and the next thing I know my uncle is speaking right in my ear, “Where are the refreshments?”

  I pick up the pitcher of water and take it to the living area.

  “That's it?” he shouts. “That's all you got?”

  I feel horrible.

  “Hey, don't cry, Kandi. No! He's comin
g! You can't let him see you cry!”

  I wipe the tears away and look at the floor. Someone knocks, and I feel the noose tighten around my neck.

  “Hey, Kandi,” greets Doctor Boon, a cheery, older man with hazel eyes and hair as white and wispy as cirrus clouds. He knows better than to touch me by now. Instead of shaking my hand and patting my shoulder, he simply smiles and offers me a beautifully-wrapped box. Oh, my gosh. He gave me a present. The last time I received a present for Christmas was... so long ago. My throat tightens, and tears threaten to spill. But I won't let them.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor Boon,” Jim says, shaking the old man's hand.

  “You can call me Alan,” Doctor Boon assures my uncle kindly. His voice is so deep it makes the room quake.

  “All right, Alan, why don't we all sit down in the kitchen?” My uncle has turned into a different person. It's very disconcerting. I rub my hands together as I follow them into the kitchen where we take our seats around the tiny, square folding table. I stare at the peeling mustard-colored plastic covering its surface.

  From the corner of my right eye, I watch Alan flip through documents on his transparent clipboard with his big, callused fingers. “Doctor Eddington reports that Kanidie has shown little to no improvement in the past six months and will likely never improve with her current treatment,” he says sadly, scanning the pages. “The school counselor wrote a similar report, stating that Kanidie refuses to communicate... and she has reported bruises on her neck and wrists. Do you have anything to say about that, Mr. Levinson?”

  My uncle taps his fingers on the table and nods. “Kandi has... lately been harming herself. I don't know why. I've done all I can to get her to stop.”