by Sarah Black
“Resting.” In my voice, I hear that scared, twelve-year-old girl even though a decade has since passed.
“What do you see?”
Not are you okay? I’m not. He knows that. He doesn’t have that morbid curiosity etched across his face. Just that manner to right every single wrong this world has to offer. But he doesn’t hold that need to fix me, as broken as I am, lying on a city street in filth.
I lick my dry lips, the sun having sucked the last of my hydration from my skin. “Them.” I swallow hard, my parents. I can’t even say their names.
His bottom lip pushes out a hair, his soft brown eyes hardening for just a second. “Alright. What do you feel?”
For ten years I held my secret buried so deep that I shut it off with a flick of a switch. Shutting down Poppy in the process. She got the better end of the deal. She didn’t want to kill anyone. Least of all our parents.
But I did, and that shame burns my gut.
So why admit to it now? Why voice the words that I’ve held in for so long? I can’t say, but looking into Joe’s eyes as my own swim with tears, I voice that truth for the first time in my life.
“I wanted to kill them, end their pain.” The words drag from my throat, holding onto the tissues and tearing through me like a sharp blade. Tears spill from my eyes as they drift closed, like that would shut the ducts down. It doesn’t.
“I know, kid.”
Shock rips through me, my eyes blinking open as a wave of dizziness washes over me. “How?”
“You hungry?”
Why that makes me smile is beyond me, but with it comes a dose of relief so exquisite it douses the flames of my insecurities. “I could eat.”
“Alright.” He reaches his hand down for me to take. Slightly weathered and calloused, reminding me of another man who meant the world to me as I slid my hand in his. And like my father, he squeezes a few times before dragging me to my feet. “Still like pie?”
A strained, bubbled laugh explodes from my throat. “Yeah, I still like pie.” I swallow repeatedly, willing my emotions to settle.
“Good, I know a place.” Don’t we all? “I’ll even let you ride shotgun.”
Wordlessly, he heads to his unmarked black sedan, sliding into the driver’s seat. I blindly follow to the passenger side and slide in, shutting the door with a soundless click. Cool air blows from the register, swirling the strands of my purple tipped hair around my face. Silence reigns as Joe pulls away, navigating traffic like a pro.
By pro I mean people see the license plate and let him pass. Or he’s just that good at city driving. The city itself doesn’t offer much in the way of diners, since the scene exploded with eccentric cafes and gourmet burger shops with purple lettuce. In order to find a good diner, an old-school diner, Joe drives out past the city limits where the trees become more frequent and deer peek their noses out along the expressway.
The sky is dotted with moving white lights, travelers coming and going from the city. Landing at the nearby airport. Possibly looking down on the little spots of cars driving home from work. Or out to the bar. The dash reads the time, it’s almost nine, the sky confirming the end of the long summer day.
I roll my head back onto the hard, cushioned seat, my heart feeling as though a snake is trying to squeeze the life from it. Yet Joe sits there. Allowing the silence to stretch between us, making me fidgety.
Thankfully the car pulls off onto an old road and then another. The strength of the shocks tested on the Pennsylvania streets. Before long, Joe drives into an old-time diner. Complete with aluminum siding and set back from the road. Almost hidden. All around it, trees swallow the structure in shadow, while an old neon sign doesn’t even bother to flicker to life.
A few people sit inside, mostly alone while a lone waitress delivers plates of food. My stomach grumbles at the olfactory response to the scents. I haven’t eaten in hours, even though it feels like minutes. My mind had shut down and with it the need to thrive.
“Doris makes the best pies in the state.” Joe climbs out, not bothering to wait on me. Our relationship is odd at its best and worst. I climb out, following on his heels, shutting the door softly. “Watch the cook, though, sometimes the eggs are runny. But we’re here for pie, not eggs.”
I could eat some eggs, but if he’s buying then I’ll be eating pie and saying thank you. “How long did it take you to find this place?”
Not long after our parents were murdered, Joe would check up on us. Traveling the state for the best pie. It took us years to open up to him. But he was never once bothered. Just kept showing up every other week like it was his day to see his kids. Maybe Mama Davis needed time away from us, either way eventually Poppy and I looked forward to his visits. The exploration. Just the time spent on the hunt for pie.
“A while,” he states simply, while opening the greasy diner door. Once we step across the threshold, the scent of bacon, grease, and biscuits taunts me with flavors that my senses automatically react to while a sense of safety blankets me from the inside out.
My shoulders ease up and my muscles relax. Joe sits at a table in the back corner, taking off the flat cap he’d put on in the car. Even though the temperature dropped with the sun setting, it isn’t cold enough for the quirky little hat. But then again, it reminds me of my grandfather and a time before death haunted me at every turn. I suspect it is his comfort cap.
“Ah, Doris.” Joe’s smile for the waitress holds a keen interest, his eyes taking in everything about her. From her messy blonde hair showing she worked a long shift, to her stained yellow uniform. Her mascara sits smudged below blue eyes hidden behind cat eye glasses that fit her perfectly.
I instantly like her. Her return smile holds so much warmth for Joe that I bet they are both smitten. Playing a game of cat and mouse. Though from the looks of it, they are both currently married to their jobs. And judging by the shadow of where a ring once sat on her slender fingers, I’d say a recent divorce too.
“Joe.” Her voice wraps around me like warm honey, her eyes sliding to mine without a hint of hesitation in them. “Who’s this?” She doesn’t ask in a jealous sort of way, but with complete curiosity.
“Doris, this is Penny Piór.”
Her eyes light up, knowing exactly who I am. Surprise pinches my brows as I dart a glance at Joe. He spoke to a human being. More than a few words as well. Color me surprised. Still, I can’t help the smile that stretches across my face. A smug smile I give full wattage to and one Joe doesn’t miss.
“Doris, how about some apple pie, cherry for my girl here. Coffee while you’re at it.” Though he rushes the words out to dismiss Doris, my heart squeezes as he remembers my favorite pie.
“Sure thing, be right back.” She turns and Joe’s head dips to her hips.
My tension fully breaks with that as laughter slips out of me in short bursts.
“Oh, hush, I ain’t dead.” A blush creeps up his cheeks.
Adorable.
I allow the laughter to die slowly before replying, “You know what, Joe, you deserve happiness.”
“So, do you, kid, so do you.” He sits back in the corner of the booth, one leg stretching out on the seat. His entire demeanor is relaxed, as if he has all the time in the world.
I, on the other hand, don’t relax any further, but tense up just a hair with his words. “So, you know?” It’s a simple question, but with so much hidden meaning wrapped around my trembling voice.
“Your sister and I have been working to find who murdered your parents since she turned eighteen.” His voice is calm, too calm. His eyes flicker just a bit as his hand strays to the napkin holding our utensils. He rolls little pieces of the napkin off into tiny little balls.
“Four years.” I nod, feeling my gut twist, but he didn’t answer my question. “Do you know?” I push.
His eyes glance to Doris who’s returning with coffee and pie. She sets each down with no rush as her eyes keep dancing toward Joe. She takes her time, and I struggle with my
patience as they flirt with their eyes. Finally, with a blush and a smile, she backs away.
I don’t even touch my food, nor does Joe. My heart flutters in my throat and sweat beads on my neck.
“I know what you are, Penny.” He chuckles a bit before sipping his coffee and digging into his pie.
I wait, because interrupting Joe during his pie eating is a crime. One he’s arrested us for. Jokingly of course. But he made a point to put cuffs on us and sit us in the cruiser until he was done with his pie. The memory floods my system with a small dose of happiness Pop and I struggled to find back then.
Unwrapping my fork, I taste the cherry pie. The explosion of almond and cheery drifts over my tongue with the sweet crumble topping. “Oh.”
“Told you.”
I dig in, my restraint breaking as the best cherry pie I’ve ever had dances across my taste buds. I’m forever broken from any other cherry pie in this universe. It’s good. Too good. I glance back, wondering if Doris is a witch.
There it is. The admittance. Of what I am, who I am. Last bite forgotten, my fork clatters to the table. My body sinking into the red vinyl. Long moments pass and I don’t think I even breathe. Joe sits, patiently waiting.
“I’m a witch.”
“You are.”
“What now?” What do I do with that information? “My parents?”
“That’s something you need to talk to your sister about.”
“And Poppy?”
“A witch.”
My mind blanks, no thoughts drift into my consciousness. All around me silent chatter continues, while my world breaks apart. That one word spoken out loud gives a finality to the oddity of Poppy and me.
“Wh—” I sip my coffee, wetting my tongue. “What killed them?”
“There are a few theories.” He sips his own coffee, watching me. Observing me for a meltdown, I’m sure. “You’ll—”
“Have to talk to my sister.” I groan. “Why can’t you tell me?”
“Not my place.”
“How is it not your place, you’re like a father to us.” Another revelation. My shoulders sink and I look at Joe’s aging face, still young and handsome, and I wonder when I realized he was like a father to me. Mama Davis never married, even though she frequently dated.
“Then why did you cut me out?” The hurt in his voice surprises me.
I shrug, not having a real answer yet finding words anyway. “My grandparents died not long before Mom and Dad. I guess I just always thought you’d leave too.”
He nods, his sorrow lifting a bit as he understands my every word. “Logical, I appreciate that.”
“I had some good teachers.”
“You need to talk to your sister about your grandparents as well. Both sets.” He says it like there’s an underlying meaning there.
“Why can’t you tell me?”
“Like I said, not my place, kiddo.”
“What is your place, Joe?”
“Ah.” He points a finger at me. “Now that is the right question.”
I wait several long moments, a bell dings in the kitchen. A snotty man calls to Doris and a phone rings somewhere in the background. All while utensils clack.
“Well?” I prompt.
He smiles at me. “Still no patience. Sometimes you have to stop and enjoy the slow moments. No matter if they are bad or good. All the moments that make you feel. Those are the ones you’ll remember. Maybe like this moment. Maybe not. Right now, you’re probably feeling lost, out of place. But that, kiddo, is when you will finally start to figure out where you belong.”
This is Joe. This is what he does. Holding onto his words for big moments like this that leave me speechless. That throw me off center. Though his tone remained calm, his words sink into me, pressing against my mind and imprinting there for me to mull over again later on while I’m lying in bed. Wondering where my life is going.
“You think too much. Just relax for a moment.”
So, I did. I sat back, sipping my coffee and eating another slice of pie without any regret. After all, comfort food doesn’t have calories. Joe said it, so it must be true.
9
Cold pebbles my skin and I burrow deeper into my covers. The heavy blanket wrapping me in its cotton embrace. Yet the cool won’t be deterred. It seeps to my toes, inching up my calf to twirl around a leg.
I curl my body into a ball, warding off the odd feeling.
“Meow.”
“Not now, Prince.” Sleep tugs at me. Dragging me back toward the depths where reality can no longer find me. Where I can no longer remember that I’m something other.
But Prince’s hiss yanks me from that forgetful peace. My body freezes as that cool glide touches my toes once more.
My thoughts scatter and fear takes the reins. My blanket lifts, my eyes bugging out as my heart races far too fast, thumping loudly in my ears and creating a roar that drowns out Prince’s hiss.
I need to move. Yet I can’t find it in me, not even as my tongue goes numb from the flood of adrenaline.
Prince’s body lands on me, his little claws digging into my back through the feathers of the down comforter. Beside me, I feel the cushion of the futon rising where I didn’t let it down as I stumbled through the door in exhaustion. I got as far as grabbing the blanket before the sweet relief of sleep overtook my senses.
I locked the door, right?
It’s far too warm for that cool breeze to be drifting over me. Unless we are experiencing one of those weird seasonal fluctuations.
I desperately cling to reason. To find an excuse as to why my blanket is being lifted.
Dropped.
I stifle the gasp that threatens to escape my lips. Prince’s body and claws move as whoever is in the room with me moves.
I swallow past my fear. Reaching for those long-lost senses. Struggling to grasp them and yank them toward me.
Yet fear is a tricky emotion. It removes all sense of logic, forcing my hand into stupidity. And by stupidity, I mean acting like a victim. I close my eyes as the threat of playing victim wars with my fear. I don’t want either of them, but my hindbrain has taken over.
I’m not safe. Of that I’m certain.
My ears pop with the pressure rising inside me. Not that magic I so desperately need right now, but fear.
I can’t move past it.
I force my eyes open, blanking my mind and trying to trick my emotions. This is everyone’s worst nightmare. I don’t care who you are. To wake in the middle of the night to someone unknown who could kill you at any moment.
And now that the Band-Aid has been yanked off, I don’t know what else exists in this world. If witches exist, then anything could.
I can feel the eyes on me. Watching. A shadow passes by my kitchen counter. My hand reaches under my pillow, gripping the old wooden baton Joe gifted me when I first moved out on my own.
I’m a single woman living in Philadelphia. I’m surprised I haven’t upgraded to a switchblade.
But the blood. I shudder.
The shadow moves.
Pushing all of my fear aside, I allow my body to move and do what it needs to. I roll off the futon, my hand clamping around the baton as I swing outwardly. The hit reverberates up my arm, my wrist straining with the strike.
Relax the wrist, let it flow.
I try to disentangle myself from the blanket, the shadow cursing in the dim light. Darkness weighs down on me, blinding me and forcing me to use every other sense in my arsenal.
Relax and listen.
I roll out of the blanket, listening to the harsh breathing of my intruder. My body hits the coffee table and I moved to the center of the room, when I had every intention of dropping my futon. I wiggle to the bottom as hands clasp over my ankles.
I sit up too fast, too fluid, and crack my baton over a body part.
“Bitch.” A man then, his grunt echoes around the room.
Prince hisses and launches himself onto his back.
Inside my mind
tears in to. Fight or flight? What do I do? What do I do?
My eyes flicker to the open window. Dammit, I never locked it after Aja came over last night. I scramble to the fire escape, throwing my body through the window, my grip tight on the baton. Safety is my only thought. I can come back and get Prince when it’s safe.
I stall. My eyes on the shadow batting at my cat. Green eyes peer at me in the dark, hissing once at me.
Fine. I’ll take that as he’ll be safe. My cat is buying me time. That’s not weird at all.
My bare feet slap on the grate, the small, sharp points of the metal digging into my feet as I scramble down the fire escape.
I mentally calculate the distance to the police station. It isn’t the best neighborhood. But most of us protect our own. But this? This isn’t just a human problem anymore. My blood sings that whatever snuck into my apartment isn’t human but other. Some kind of other.
Flashes of blood pooling in an alleyway threaten to buckle my legs.
My body sways as I lose my grip on the rungs and slide, my hand scraping against metal, the other struggling to hold onto my baton.
Get away. I need to get away.
Poppy, I need to get to Poppy.
My feet hit the pavement, and I push aside everything that my feet could be stepping onto. I spin in the dark night. Overhead, the moon hangs in the sky as stars twinkle all around. It can’t be any later than midnight, and yet the dark night closes in on me. Too dark. My feet slap across the alley to the sidewalk as the quiet of the night pierces me.
No lampposts flicker.
No electricity buzzes from the lines crisscrossing the tight buildings.
No dogs bark.
No cars drive down my street.
No lights shine save for the moon.
I spin, glancing up at my apartment window where the slight flicker of shadows pass by until a hiss sounds from the window and Prince flings himself free.
It’s all it takes for me to move. To run. Sweat beads on my back as my spine itches. Whatever is after me is more than any threat I’ve ever faced in my entire life. All except one night.