by Keary Taylor
CHAPTER TWO
I woke the same way I always did. Screaming in terror. I was sitting straight up, clutching a hand to the back of my neck. The other arm was extended across my body, under my other arm, my fingers stretching toward my shoulder blade, searching for wings.
I looked at the clock and noted I had slept for two and a half hours. It had been a short trial. It was still only five in the morning.
Working hard to slow my breathing, I rolled out of the bed and staggered to the bathroom. I flipped on the switch and squinted through the blinding light. The bathroom was generic. White walls, white baseboards. A sink, toilet, and shower/tub.
I stripped down and turned the water in the shower on. Knowing what I was about to see, I stood before the mirror and turned my back to it, peaking over my shoulder back at my reflection.
My parents had always insisted that nightmares weren’t real. They couldn’t be real. The scars that covered my neck and back suggested otherwise. A beautiful and detailed X was branded into the back of my neck and an intricate, rather realistic pattern of wings spread itself from the lower portion of my back, up to the top of my shoulders. Both were a fresh, scarlet red. The color wouldn’t last long. After a day or so both would fade to a flesh color, no longer swollen but just a raised scar. I compared the wings to the African tribes I had seen who would cut their flesh to make the beautiful patterns that covered their bodies. I believed it was called scarification. Mine looked just like this but in the right light you could see a strange metallic silver in the wings, just like the angels from my nightmares. The X was a beautiful and terrifying scar, as if a red hot iron had indeed been pressed into my neck.
I stepped into the shower and relished in the hot water. If only it could burn the marks from my skin. Some would say my scars were beautiful, but I hated them. They were sore reminders of just exactly how abnormal my life was. I could never have a normal existence because of all this. I was a freak.
Shivering, I dressed quickly, pulling on a thick knitted sweater, a pair of thermals and my most comfortable jeans. As the shaking stopped I returned to the bathroom. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Growing up I had been told I was a beautiful child, but I didn’t see it. I had always thought I was fairly plain looking, ordinary in every way. My eyes were slightly larger than they should have been, a dark hazel color. The dark bags under them never faded. I wished my nose were just a little narrower, it wasn’t big, it just wasn’t perfect in my eyes. My lips were absolutely average, not luscious, and not thin. I suppose I did have good skin though. I had been lucky, now twenty-years-old, acne had never seemed to catch up with me.
Grabbing a brush, I tried to drag it through my hair. It fell around my face in a thick mane of curls that refused to be completely tamed. They seemed to have a mind of their own most of the time. It was time to get my hair cut; it hung nearly to my waist now. After a few minutes I threw the brush back into its drawer in frustration. It was useless.
I went to the tiny kitchen that occupied one corner of my apartment and eyed a box of cereal warily. Further proof of how much of a freak I was. I didn’t need to eat often and never felt the need to do so. I never really got hungry and only ate maybe once a day, if that. The same went for sleep. I knew it was impossible for normal people to survive on as little sleep as I did. There was something wrong with me that made it so I required less sleep than the average person. For that I supposed I should have been grateful.
Reluctantly, I poured a bowl of cereal, drowning it with milk that would expire the next day. I sat at the card table I used for a kitchen table and flipped my laptop open. It took only a second for the screen to start to glow. I pulled up the internet browser.
“Jasper Wood.” I typed the words into the search engine deliberately. It was likely too soon for anything to show up.
I hit search and quickly scanned through the hits. There was a musician by this name but nothing that looked promising. The obituary probably wouldn’t be out for a few days. That was the way it usually worked anyway.
I was thirteen when I first realized the names I stood trial for weren’t just random names my subconscious was making up. I stood trial for an Eliza Booth one night. She was a good woman; she had not been branded and was granted blue irises. A few days later I had glanced at my father’s newspaper and saw Eliza Booth’s obituary. She was eighty-five and had died in her sleep. I checked every name after that.
The most horrible experience had been when I stood trial for a boy at my high school. I had never liked the kid. He wasn’t the kind of person your parents would want you hanging around with. He had committed suicide when he got into some drug problems. He been branded. Luckily, that was a singular incidence; standing trial for someone I had actually known. I didn’t want to relive that again.
Nearly every name I stood trial for popped up in an obituary somewhere. Those I couldn’t find I just figured never had one published in the papers.
I finished eating quickly. After I had brushed my teeth, I pulled my shoes on, grabbed my purse and keys and opened the door that led to the rest of the house. The remainder of the basement contained a large family room, each of the corners and closets containing a wide variety of toys and games, the room dominated by a pool table, a slightly outdated big screen TV, and every other form of entertainment one could think of. There was also another bedroom and from its contents I guessed it must have belonged to a teenage boy who was long gone. There was also a bathroom, similar to my own, completely generic. I made my rounds, checking that everything was in its order and headed upstairs.
The top floor consisted of a large open area, containing the kitchen, dining area, and a living area. The only slight separation in the room was the stone fireplace that stretched from the floor into the vaulted ceiling. Huge beam rafters spider-webbed across the ceiling, giving it the slight feel of a lodge. On the south side was a very large master bedroom and attached to it was a bathroom that was bigger than the bedroom. Once I was sure that everything was as it should be I walked out the door that led to the road.
It only took me a minute to walk to the next door neighbor’s home, just ninety-one steps. I didn’t knock, she would still be asleep. I simply removed the list that had been taped to the door. There was not a whole lot listed there, just things for Sal’s basic needs.
I quickly returned home and looked at my watch as I slid into my car. Seven a.m. The stores should be opening soon.
I put the key in the ignition and smiled as the engine roared to life. Last year I had crumpled my Toyota like a soda can when I crashed it into a ravine, trying stupidly to stretch myself to the 120 hour mark. Of course I had fallen asleep. Considering I did not make much money housekeeping, my budget for a new car was limited. Ironically enough, I found one of the neighbors had died and his wife, not knowing or caring how much it was worth, sold me my 1967 Pontiac GTO for what I had on me. The outside was nothing pretty to look at but it had been rebuilt to mechanical perfection and the interior looked flawless. I wasn’t sure how I felt about driving a dead man’s car, no matter how much I loved it.
I threw it into reverse and carefully backed out of the garage. The road curved around the houses built along the water’s edge. Once free of the homes, the evergreens towered along the side of the narrow road that led to the freeway, giving the effect of driving through a tunnel of evergreens.
It always seemed like it took longer than it should to reach the heart of Bellingham, considering I technically lived in Bellingham. Lake Samish was about as far south as you could go and still be within the city boundaries. Between the well-populated lake and the heart of town there was not much but towering trees and low mountains.
As I pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store, I closed my eyes and counted backward from ten. I could do thi
s. In four days it would all be over and I could go out without being tormented. Until December anyway.
I had tried to avoid having to venture into town at all costs but my food supply was getting dangerously low and I knew Sal was going to be needing things as well. If I didn’t take care of her who was going to?
As soon as I walked through the door I was confronted with what I had been trying so hard to avoid. All the Valentines’ candy and gifts were set up right at the entrances, red and pink streaked throughout the building. I had nothing against Valentine’s Day itself. It was the chubby-cheeked, pink little cherubs that smiled up at me from the heart shaped cardboard boxes of chocolates I hated. Each of them stared up at me like some cruel joke and I certainly did not think it was funny. I heard the sounds of mocking and demented laughter building up from inside of me, a reminder that I could never escape the angels of judgment.
“Please mom, can we just go home?” I begged. My nine-year-old hands trembled.
“We just got here,” she said as she grabbed a shopping cart. It was frigid in the February Idaho air. “What’s the matter?” she asked, turning her irritated eyes on me.
I shrunk under her gaze as we stood on the frozen concrete before the store. I looked at the entrance of the grocery store and saw the pink and red hearts with arrows through them on the windows. “Please, can we go home?”
My mom just shook her head and walked into the store. I had no choice to follow her.
I started hyperventilating as the doors opened automatically, a blast of warm air hitting my face. My mother veered to the right, heading toward the produce. I stepped forward to follow her. I only got half way there when I saw it, choking with fear.
A life-sized cardboard cutout of a cupid with a bow and arrow was propped up next to a display. Its cartoonish wings sprouted out of its back, making the angel looked suspended in the air.
As my eyes grew wide, taking its ludicrousness in, the mark on the back of my neck blazed. A choked gasp rose in my throat. I stopped breathing, unable to take my eyes from it.
A harsh hand on my arm brought me out of my state of frozen fear.
“What are you doing?” my mother demanded. “Come on!”
“Please,” I begged again. As I looked around, I saw that dozens of smaller versions of the same cupid had been suspended from the ceiling. They all seemed to be watching me, laughing at my fear. I could never escape them. “Mom, please! I can’t be in here!”
I broke away from her grasp, sprinting for the door.
Without even making sure no one was looking, I grabbed all the boxes that were placed standing up and stacked them one on top of another, face down.
Christmas was worse. Angels were everywhere in December, on top of trees, on ornaments, costumes in nativity skits, even in songs. If only people knew what angels were really like. They wouldn’t be so quick to place them everywhere in their homes.
I quickly purchased everything I needed and made extra sure I had everything on Sal’s list. There were always a few items on her lists I wanted to question her about but with Sal it usually seemed better not to ask too much.
The next stop was the independent bookstore down the street. Without a doubt it was my favorite store. It felt like a safe place where everything should be able to be rationally explained. There was so much wisdom and knowledge in one place, thousands of volumes of thousands of people’s life’s work. I often daydreamed that one day I would stumble across the answer for forever curing my nightmares in these walls. Surely the answer had to be out there somewhere.
I immediately went to the table containing the bestseller books and picked out three new ones for Sal. The woman read more than anyone I knew. I sometimes doubted how much she actually got out of the books but I was glad she had a passion in her disturbed life.
Next, I automatically headed toward the science section of the store. If I was going to find an answer here among so much wisdom, surely it would be there. The last few months I had been going through the psychology shelves, skimming for anything to do with dreams or even hallucinations.
I picked up book after book, skimming through their pages to see if there might be anything helpful. Each one frustratingly yielded nothing. I didn’t know what I expected though. Why would anyone know anything about the anomaly that was my life? What I experienced should be impossible.
The sound of spiteful chuckling pricked at the back of my mind. If angels were supposed to be such wonderful and perfect beings, why were they tormenting me so?
Trying to ignore the sounds in my head, I put the book in my hand back on the crowded shelf and moved to the fiction section. I picked up the bestseller of the week, scanning over the synopsis on the back. It promised suspense and romance and I couldn’t help but want to jump on the bandwagon and read it. After a moment of consideration however, I placed it back on the shelf. Reading about someone else’s happy ending would only leave me feeling depressed and sorry for myself. Being just days away from the official lover’s day of the year wasn’t going to help either.
Before I could work up too much emotion over the fact that I was doomed to be alone, I purchased Sal’s books and headed back out to my car.
The clouds sat low as I made the quiet drive home, resting near the top of the towering evergreens that lined the road leading into the lake. True to the nature of living in the Pacific Northwest, it was sprinkling. This was the part I despised about winter in Washington, the almost total absence of the sun. I didn’t mind the rain but I tended to get a bit depressed when I didn’t get to see the sun for more than a week.
The ever silent walls greeted me as I arrived home and I quickly put my things away. It felt good being stocked up and knowing I wouldn’t have to venture out for at least a week. By then all remnants of this misrepresented holiday would be cleared.
I grabbed the two brown paper bags and the books and walked the distance to Sal’s house. It was still sprinkling slightly but by this point it was no more than a mist. I didn’t mind going out in the wet, it wasn’t like it could damage my hair. It was bad enough all on its own.
I gave two hard knocks on the door before I let myself in. Sal never answered but she was always home. And she never kept her door locked despite what I advised her time and time again.
Sal’s home was beautiful inside. It was newer than the house I lived in, only seven or so years old. It had at one time been decorated lavishly. The walls were painted a nearly blinding white and windows were everywhere. Strong accent walls were spread throughout the house, red, purple, even black. But now its former glory was dampened, buried under the clutter that was everywhere. The house was kept immaculately clean but Sal never threw anything away. She always said she might need it later, no matter how insignificant or how much it looked like garbage to me. The walls would have been lined with garbage as well if not for the housekeeper that came every few days.
“Sal?” I called as I set the bags down on the black granite countertop. “Sal?” I called again as I finished loading things into the fridge.
I would have started to get worried but it was not uncommon for me to have to search for Sal. She often fell asleep in odd places, the strangest being in the rafters in the dining room once. How she got up there I never found out.
I peeled my jacket off and laid it on the back of a chair and set out on my search. The kitchen and main living room were connected, the view looking over the lake. Just off from the big room was the dining room.
Stairs descended from the living room into the basement level. On this floor there was only a large office and an even bigger master suite.
“Sal?” I called at the door as I knocked. After waiting a few seconds I let myself into her bedroom.
The furniture in Sal’s room was elegant and grand, looking fit to be in a
king’s quarters. There were beautiful, elegant curtains that hung from the windows that looked over the lake. A large painting of Sal in her younger days hung above the bed. A sheet had been pinned over the picture though but I noticed it had been drawn back, as if she was trying to peek at it. But all this was marred by the things that littered the room. There were heaps of clothes, waiting for the housekeeper to come, most of them probably still clean. Piles of books, though neatly stacked, were everywhere.
“Sal?” I whispered as I listened for any signs of life. After a moment I heard what I was listening for and followed it to the grand master bathroom. The bathroom matched the rest of the house, elegant in every detail. And there she was, sleeping in the claw foot tub, a towel under her head for a pillow.
She looked so peaceful, her face so much more relaxed than it was when she was awake. Her hair was blonde and even though she was only thirty-five it was starting to grey slightly. Her skin at one time had been perfect and beautiful but now was in sad need of some TLC. Wrinkles were already spreading on her forehead, but this was more from the concerned look that crossed her face constantly than from age.
“Sal,” I said softly as I put a hand on her shoulder. “Wake up, Sal.”
She immediately opened her eyes and a confused expression crossed her face. She looked around her and the expression of confusion deepened at her surroundings. When her eyes landed back on my face she relaxed just a bit.
“Is it done?” she asked.
“Is what done?” I asked as I helped her out of the tub.
Without answering me, she walked back into the bedroom and I followed her up the stairs. She went directly to the oven and opened the door. As I followed her, I could hear her sniffing at something, her head halfway inside the oven.
“I don’t understand,” she said with a confused voice as she shut the door. “I put it in hours ago.”
Without asking what in the world she was talking about, I opened the oven door and saw what was on the rack. There was a frozen lasagna sitting on the top rack but the oven was stone cold.
“Did you turn the oven on?” I asked her as I searched around for the box it came in.
“Oh,” she said, dragging the word out. “I forgot about that part I guess.”
I found the box in the cupboard that contained the dinnerware, shoved on the highest shelf. She was trying to hide it from the housekeeper so it wouldn’t be thrown out. After reading the instructions, I pulled the lasagna out and set the oven to pre-heat, not even thinking twice about why Sal wanted to have lasagna at ten-thirty in the morning.
“I got you some new books today,” I said as I picked them up off the counter and handed them to her.
Sal’s eyes grew wide and excited as she grabbed them from my hands and walked to the couch in the living room. I followed her in and took my own seat.
Sally Thomas had once been a beautiful, perfectly normal woman. She married her husband when she was twenty-four and the marriage had been fairly happy for a few years. As her husband began making more and more money he became a very selfish and unkind person. He also took to drinking, a lot of drinking. And when he was drunk he became violent.
Sal happened to come home one day to find her husband in a drunken rage and she got in his way. He beat her silly. She should have left him then but like so many other women she was in denial that he truly had a problem each time he promised that it would never happen again. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to make promises.
The beatings came several times a week for years.
About six years ago, a friend came over to check on Sal when she couldn’t get a hold of her. She found Sal unconscious on the floor, in a pool of blood. She called an ambulance and Sal was lucky to have survived. The doctors said she was never going to fully recover and they thought there would probably be some brain damage.
Sal’s husband had fled that night but guilt eventually caught up to him and he turned himself in two days later. He was arrested and sentenced to jail for a very long time. All his money and assets were turned over to Sal.
I couldn’t understand how Sal had managed to take care of herself before I moved to Lake Samish. While she had her lucid times where she seemed absolutely normal, these occurrences were rare.
“Do you need anything, Sal?” I asked as I watched her flip through one of the books.
She shook her head furiously but after a second snapped her head up to look at me.
“Money,” she said before she sprang to her feet.
“Oh,” I said with a sigh. I knew what was coming. It was always the same.
Sal disappeared down the stairs and I heard her banging around loudly in the office below. After a few moments she reemerged with a broad grin on her face.
“Here you go,” she said as she shoved a few bills into my hands. “Thank you, Jessica.”
I looked at what she gave me and noted there was two-hundred dollars there. This was nearly twice what I had spent getting things for her. But I knew better than to refuse. I had done that twice and it had thrown her into a screaming fit. It had taken me hours to calm her down. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“Alright,” I said as I stood, tucking the bills into my back pocket. “I’m going to get going.”
Sal didn’t say anything back as she settled into the couch and flipped another book open, turning to a page three-quarters of the way into it.
“Call me if you need anything,” I said as I opened the door. Still nothing. “See ya, Sal.”
Getting no response, I closed the door behind me and started the walk back to my apartment.
I was ashamed to admit it, but being around Sal made me feel just slightly better about myself. I certainly felt terrible for what had happened to her. I had no doubts as to what would happen to her ex-husband come his judgment time. But I could usually hide my oddities. Occasionally numbers slipped between my lips but I knew I wasn’t the only one who counted my steps; it was something plenty of people did. I felt pretty normal when I was around Sal. I was the sane, rational one.
Ninety-one steps later I was back in my apartment. It was simple but cozy. The living area, kitchen and non-existent dining area were all combined. The kitchen contained one row of upper and lower cabinets. The stove was one of those old units that were remarkably smaller and narrower than the modern appliances. There was a sink with a single basin. There was no dishwasher. The fridge sat at the end of the row and a microwave perched atop it. I didn’t exactly like this arrangement, it made it difficult to use, but there was nowhere else to put it.
The card table I used for dining upon was against the wall, floating oddly between the carpet of the living area and the outdated tile of the kitchen. Again, there was not quite enough room. The living area was small but because I only had a small loveseat and a television that sat on top of a milk crate it didn’t feel too cramped. My bedroom was set off from all this and oddly, it was as large as the other room, if not larger. There wasn’t much int here either, just my full size bed, a dresser and my guitar, leaned in the corner. A walk-in closet led off the bedroom, as did the bathroom.
It wasn’t much, but it was home, my own little haven where no one bothered me and no one could call me crazy.
The days passed slowly in the winter. There was nothing to distract me during the day as there was no yard work to be done and the garden had retired for the cold season. The rest of the house remained immaculately cleaned and would stay so considering I was the only one here. At least the days were slowly getting longer. One other major disadvantage Washington had is that in winter it starts to get dark at four-thirty. When one is trying to avoid sleep, darkness is the enemy.