Awethology Light
Page 26
CK Dawn
Copyright 2015 C K Dawn
All Rights Reserved
Dedication
To all the lost souls out there. May you find shelter,
kindness, and your way home.
A Neophyte’s Tale –
Prologue ~ Ships Passing
New York ~ 2000
The nine year old was trying to match her father’s long stride as they walked down the street to the movie theater. It was a warm sunny day and her father had finally relented to leave his desk, piled high with countless gadgets, and spend it with his daughter doing whatever she wanted. A new movie called Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon was playing and the young girl wanted to check out the new fighting styles. As they walked she practiced some combat techniques of her own and tried to open her senses to her surroundings. Birds were chirping in the trees that lined the sidewalk. The scents of freshly baked lemon biscotti and French roast coffee from the bakery three blocks down mingled with the smells of hot tires on asphalt and three day old dumpster trash. And, there was a baby crying in the alley.
A baby? she thought suspiciously. The young girl could have sworn the cries had come from deep within a nearby alley and not from an open apartment window.
As she and her father neared the alley the young girl slowed, stopped, and bit her bottom lip. Only silence greeted her now, but something still felt wrong. The darkest crevices of the alley seemed almost too quiet, as though they were hiding something or someone. She slowed her heart rate, steadied her breath, and concentrated. Her mouth watered in anticipation.
“Practicing your hunting skills?” her father whispered proudly.
The young girl nodded. “I think there’s something down there,” she whispered back remembering her parents’ lessons to avoid panicking dociles.
Her father nodded, not questioning his daughter’s uncanny pre-gloamer senses. “Hmm, I better report it then,” he said taking his phone from his pocket as he resumed walking down the street.
The young girl didn’t follow. Instead, she looked deeper into the alley trying to pierce the darkness with hunter eyes she did not yet have. Again, only blackness and silence greeted her.
Up the street, her father stopped as he ended his call, “Come on, Lourdiebug, we’re going to be late.”
“Okay, Daddy!” As the young girl ran to catch up, she could have sworn she felt the flux shift followed by an almost imperceptible fading laughter, gloating and self-satisfied, echoing from the alley.
Urban Surviving
New York ~ 2012
The word was back, soft and sweet, strumming in her ears with its gentle caress of hope and promise. It was just an ordinary word, but it felt so tactile, so kind and pure, it had to mean something. With the word always came the pull, a yearning, an unexplainable desire, to be part of a something bigger. Pulling her towards... something, but towards what, she couldn’t say exactly. She only knew what direction called to her. South, always south, toward Manhattan. Maybe someday she would be brave enough and go, just leave everything behind and seek out the simple little word that sang so profoundly in her mind and haunted her so lovingly.
But, not today. Today, they were on the move again, and moving further away from the direction of the call. Her mom didn’t like to stay in one place for too long, not since she and her stepdad had lost the house and parted ways. “‘Too many shadows,’ he tells me. ‘Take her, she’s yours’.” Her mom, Jennifer Thorne, would mumble in her sleep after she had drunk too much. Her mom always tried to hide the bottles along with her staggering and slurring, but Abigail Thorne knew. Kids, especially smart inquisitive twelve year olds left to their own devices for days on end like Abbey, always knew what their parents try to hide.
Abbey put the black trash bag containing what few belongings she had under her pillow and sat on the latest bare mattress. Home, she thought, shuddering as she stared at the big yellowish-brown stain covering half her mattress. The room had little in the way of furniture. There was an old mirror that had been permanently glued to the closet door with a fading “Welcome to the Jungle” sticker in its upper corner. Abbey caught a glimpse of herself, but quickly turned away. Her rounded cheeks were sunken and her wavy blonde hair was dirty and unkempt. The sights around her were cruel, full of a grim despair that never seemed to end. She closed her eyes on this dreary world and listened to her other senses instead.
With her eyes closed, smells seemed richer and sounds became symphonic. From across the alley, she heard a mother singing to her crying baby. Someone else was cooking with their apartment window wide open. The smells of curry were heavenly. Abbey ignored the grumbling in her stomach and focused on the joyous sounds from below. It was dusk and cold, but a few kids were still playing ball in the alley. Abbey wondered if she knew any of them. She and her mom hadn’t moved too far from old haunts, yet.
As she wiped a tear from her cheek, she made a silent vow to stay in school or find a nearby library. She would keep reading and studying no matter how far they ran this time. Learning and normalcy with the few friends she had was what she wanted and desperately needed. But, she also craved something darker. She craved something that made her bleak reality fade away, if only for a little while. Something she knew was in her mother’s bathroom under the sink, far left hand side, behind the roach spray and forty-grit toilet paper.
Abbey waited until she heard her mother’s breathing slow as she fell into a deep intoxicated sleep on the sofa. Silently she retrieved her mother’s hidden vodka bottle and headed back to her own room. Her mom wouldn’t notice the missing bottle, she never did. Jennifer would simply think she had finished it herself and get another, and then maybe one more.
Bottle in one hand, Abbey ripped the mocking sticker from her mirror. She placed an old wooden chair beside the small window in her bedroom and propped the broken window-sill open with a large stick she had found on the fire exit stoop. She sat in the dark, cracked open the bottle, and gazed out into the night searching for the origins of the homey dinner she had smelled earlier. Her stomach growled again, thinking of the meal. She clenched her eyes shut. When was the last time I ate?
Abbey’s eyes popped open when she heard a faraway doorbell chime. With her senses heightened she followed the sound and heard a fading conversation “…thanks for the tip, Bernie. See you next Friday.” A door shut then Abbey noticed the lovely smells of buttered popcorn mingling with the arrival of pizza. She decided to peek out of her own window to investigate.
The man’s window was wide open and he had his bare feet propped up on a worn wooden coffee table enjoying a large bowl of buttery kernels. She quirked her head, Bernie, huh? Nice to meet ya. Abbey’s attention was drawn to the windowsill and giggled when she noticed a smaller bowl of popcorn. He had placed it right outside his window, obviously waiting for someone. The man, Bernie, seemed warm and kind. When his TV screen lit up with the familiar blue words, “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...,” Abbey knew she had found a kindred spirit.
But for how long? she thought. Her mom would undoubtedly have them on the move again, and soon. Just when Abbey found a little happiness and settled in to a place, her mother would pack them both up and leave.
Abbey looked down at the bottle in her hand and instead of taking a drink, put the cap back on and placed it on the floor. She wanted to enjoy the moment with all her senses intact, not dulled by alcohol. Abbey gave a contented sigh as she listened to the symphonic explosion of the movie’s theme song fade into a galactic battle.
Suddenly a tiny black kitten jumped down from the fire escape and landed on Bernie’s windowsill, purring so loud Abbey swore she could hear it from across the alley. The scrappy little thing meowed happily before eating from the small bowl of popcorn. Wait, Abbey quirked her head again, Do kittens eat popcorn? Is that a thing?
Then the kindest voice in the warmest southern accent Abbey had ever heard pierced through the darkness. His voice resonated wi
th the same tangible prospect of hope that her simple little word always had as it rang in her head. Abbey couldn’t help but weep as if Bernie had spoken directly to her instead of welcoming the scraggly kitten in, “Hiya, hon. Welcome home.”