Mere Phantasy Copyright© 2016 by Lauren Ashley. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.
First Edition
First Printing, 2016
ISBN: 978-0-9984572-7-7
Cover design by mark Soderwall; Cover layout/design by Lindsey Andrews
Edited by Cassie McCown of Gathering Leaves Editing
Interior formatting by Sharon Kay of Amber Leaf Publishing
Table of Contents
Contents:
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Authors Note
Dedicated to the One who made this possible.
One
BEFORE SHE DIED, MOM USED TO TELL ME SHE believed art was the simplest way to release all the insanity swirling around in our minds, letting it bleed out onto the canvas with no limits or rules, your hands the host of measureless thoughts and specters.
So I tried to hold on to that excuse every time I vandalized another public wall.
My dad, though he loved my mother with all his heart, didn’t agree with this explanation. And shockingly, neither did the local fire department, police force, or school district. In fact, it was actually quite frowned upon to spray-paint revolting, bizarre murals on the bellies of city bridges or the garage of your neighbor’s house two blocks down. They thought it was a major headache that I wasn’t picky enough where I unleashed the torment in my head.
But it was the only way I could truly escape.
I started a few years after the dreams came. Before then, Dad had to take me out of school when I would continually whimper to my classmates about incoherent stories, finger-paint sketches of horrible monsters, and decorate all of my assignments with bloody men. I couldn’t count the number of times social workers were sent to our house to check up on me after my teachers turned my schoolwork over to them. Of course, there was that one time they actually took me away from Dad for a night after he didn’t pay the electricity one month and we were forced to live in darkness. And it probably hadn’t helped the situation that I kept screaming every time I turned a corner in the dark house.
But in my defense, whenever the darkness was present, that was when the nightmares took their seats in my mind. So I screamed, and the cops took me away to a foster house for one night. When my dad paid the electricity bill the next day, I was able to go home. No biggie, really.
I mean, I’d experienced far worse battles before. They were all just in my head.
The morbid masterpieces I created were my only solace. Before, I had no way to release the horrors without letting them get ahold of me. Thankfully, I had now mastered how to pinpoint and execute them perfectly. It just sometimes involved a bigger canvas and possibly the fence of a multimillion-dollar home in the next town over—all depending on the nightmare, of course. I just painted what I saw, and once it was out, I was free for that week—or sometimes, on very big, expansive murals, that entire month. Those were the best ones, in my opinion.
The paintings were easier to create than functioning in any other aspect of my life, including relationships. My obsession with figuring out how to release the pressures in my head started in first grade, after my tenth nightmarish art piece was handed in and the teacher had to call my dad for, interestingly enough, the tenth time that school year. It was the day the rumors began and I was dubbed “Halloween girl.” This was the kids’ only way of getting back at the girl that scared them to death, so I understood why it was fitting. I painted death and beasts, and they were terrified.
Little did they realize, so was I.
The sound of a restless dog barking echoed in the back of my mind as I gritted my teeth and stepped through more grass. The moon was full and bright tonight, lighting my path through the field behind my house. The long stretch of land between my destination and me was the only real natural habitat within a five-mile radius, gated to keep out passersby.
Readjusting my bag on my shoulder, I tried not to make a sound, though I wanted to scream. Hundreds of images and sceneries danced in my head, and they were especially bad this time. I hadn’t been able to paint in over two weeks, and the expiration date had most definitely passed. I was in dire need of another dream exorcism, and the images were so consuming that it was hard to focus on anything else but putting one foot in front of the other at this point.
When I reached the main gate to the nature preserve, I plopped onto my stomach, shoving my bag through the small opening in the chain link first, then slid in after it, like I had many times before. The stars twinkled hazily above me as I wiped the dirt from my chest and squeezed my fingers into fists so tight my nails cut into my palms. If I didn’t get rid of this scene soon, I knew I’d start the screaming. And we really didn’t want or need that.
On this side of town, the amount of houses dropped exponentially compared to where my house sat. Our neighborhood, though still surely more extravagant than most places in Chicago, was crowded with matching suburban-style homes and middle-class families. My dad had spent his entire life getting us to this point, and my constant psych evaluations and counselor bills had never made it any easier on him. But now that he’d gotten promoted, and with it, health insurance, we’d found a way to live comfortably in a place the social workers didn’t visit often. It was a relief that was enough to ease his mind for a little while.
But these homes I passed on a sidewalk-less road were something my little family could never dream of. Each one was handcrafted by wealthy owners, many stories high, and they sat on exclusive plots of acreage that blatantly warned others to keep out and away.
I flashed my eyes to the no trespassing sign as I passed—a sort of “screw you” to those who thought they could trap me outside their little worlds. There were no boundaries when it came to my murals, really, but defacing these rich SOB’s houses was also too good of an opportunity to pass up. Even if I were in my right mind.
When traveling to paint, I became a sort of zombie, prey to the images eating away at my brain. It was easy to stumble into a trashcan or over my own feet when all I could focus on was the nightmares I’d been storing away anxiously for days. It was too hard to go out every night to relieve myself, so the dreams built up on top of each other over and over until my mind was practically bursting with them. So to keep myself alert and aware, I stayed directly on the path to my dump location and didn’t stray. Straying could end up putting me behind bars again, and they didn’t let me paint in juvie. So I could not stray.
They had, since my last project on their back wall, painted over all the graffiti with an exhilarating white that stretched at least twent
y feet in both directions. It used to be covered with ivy and other decorative plants, but when I painted over them about two years ago, most died or withered to dust, so the owners of the property had to remove them. It was fine by me—more white space available just meant more room for me to vomit the nightmares onto.
It was the perfect place to paint, one I’d been saving for a dark time like the one I’d been consumed with for a few weeks. Smirking at the blank canvas before me, I inhaled briskly before leaning over to riffle through my things and get started. The sooner I let it out, the better this month would be. I could actually feel the absence of the dreams itching my fingertips as I pulled out my black spray can and covered my nose with the collar of my shirt before adding my first splash of paint to the white before me.
What I envisioned, and what hadn’t left my mind since it entered, wasn’t just one particular scene. It was complex and feverously churning around so it wasn’t coherent to even me. Looking back at any of the murals I’d completed, you could instantly tell they weren’t understandable. Most contained macabre images with no connection to the one before or after. Some, earlier on, depicted at least some aspects of things like death, lies, or lost children. Though, as I’d gotten older and my painting ability had as well, the scenes were more complex and warped than ever before. They were so indescribable sometimes it was difficult to put the image out there onto the canvas. But I had to try anyway, or I knew I’d go insane.
If I wasn’t there already, that was.
Long strokes, short and sweet flicks, cardboard lines, and even sporadic frenzies—they all morphed together to a void silence as I let the dreams guide my hands and work without ceasing as the night’s minutes ticked by. Around the time the sun started to come up, I added one of my last trickles of dripping red paint onto the eyes of the man who most recently haunted my subconscious and then stepped back to gaze at my finished product.
It was terrifying, the man and then the many abstract, gluttonous depictions of fiends surrounding him. His face was unclear as well as most everything about him, I knew, but the depth of his glare and the crimson color of his irises was what really made me shiver. I’d never seen him before, but when I heard his distant laughter in the back of my head, I realized it didn’t matter if I’d seen him or not—I just needed to finish the job I started. Adding one last spurt of black to the smiling beast to his right, the laughter ceased, and I could only hear the crickets and breeze around me. Finally. Finished.
As usual, the only consistent part of my murals, which I guessed had become my “signature” of sorts, was the young boy adorning the corner of the mosaic. His face was never clear, but his frame and stance was. No matter what color I portrayed him in, the boy seemed to be seeking something. That’s why everyone called me the Lost Boy Vandal, I presumed. The Lost Boy showed up in every single dream, the same exact way: searching. Though he was lost, the boy had always been my most favorite creation, and if he continued to show up while I slept, he might always stay that way. Like a beacon of hope, the Lost Boy ensure me I wasn’t completely made of darkness—as long as there was something to look forward to down the road. He signified hope, and it made my ridiculous behavior a little easier to accept.
Thinking this, I delicately traced the jittering outline of his face with my fingertips before turning my back on him to get going.
Eyes drooping, I gathered all my things, trying not to look at what horrors I’d just created on the wall of the snobby-rich family who lived in the house a hundred feet from where I stood. They would wake in a few hours, prepare their expensive espressos, and unfold the morning paper, and then when they wished to sit on their back porch and take in the nice sunrise to read and drink, they’d experience a rather unpleasant awakening instead. And I decided, shouldering my bag silently, that I kind of really liked the idea of that happening.
With one last glance behind me at the abomination I birthed within the span of one entire night, I made my way back around the edge of the wall to head home before Dad got up for work.
But as I turned the corner, a bright light flashed in my face, and I had to hold up my hand to block its rays. When the light didn’t go away, I felt my throat fall into my stomach and then completely shatter when a deep megaphone-like voice barked out, “Stop right where you are and put your hands up where I can see them.”
The Lost Boy Vandal had strayed once again.
Within ten minutes of getting into the cop car and being taken to the nearby station, I’d already thought of every possible way to get out of this one. Which wasn’t too difficult, either, because there wasn’t any. I was caught right in the act, and there was no way of wiggling free of the consequences this time. They’d already contacted my probation officer and father, and it wasn’t long until one of them arrived to decide what to do with the delinquent on their hands.
But I wasn’t sorry.
Burt, the sheriff I’d met more times than I should have, sat across from me behind his desk with a grumpy expression on his face. He was a nice man, just doing his job. A job that consisted of busting the Lost Boy Vandal for the third time in the last year.
“Not this again, Miss Rose.” He sighed, running his meaty hands over his buzz-cut hair. The room was dusty, and the only noise besides Burt clearing his throat was the distant hum of the air-conditioner. I focused on a small piece of lint floating lazily off the lip of a nearby vent above us instead of acknowledging him.
When I looked back at Burt, he was eying me skeptically. “Why do you continually do this to yourself, kid? You’ve got talent, real talent. You just use it poorly is all.” He shook his head before shuffling through some more papers on his desk.
Even if I wanted to respond to Burt and his accusing words, I knew he’d never understand. And worse, possibly think I was crazy. I mean, if I thought I was bananas for having the dreams, then what would everyone else believe?
So many times in my life, I’d talked myself out of telling someone. Anyone. Dad, my shrink, the nice neighbor behind our house who always said good morning to me. But every time I worked up the courage to let them know, I always talked myself out of it. I saw the way they were frightened of me, and I knew their judgments even before they really met me. No matter how much they reassured me I was normal or just going through a “phase,” I swallowed the inevitable facts. I was different, freakish, and would always be just that: a freak.
I frowned to myself as I heard my father’s tired voice through the wall. “Where is she?” After another officer directed him into Sherriff Burt’s office, Dad stepped through the door and turned his half-lidded eyes onto me. There was a general sigh around him, not so much anger, which I would have preferred over his disappointment. He clenched his jaw before stepping forward to shake Burt’s hand.
“Real sorry to have to call you so early, Mr. Rose,” Burt mumbled and motioned for Dad to sit next to me. They didn’t handcuff me, thankfully, so it was easier to nervously wring my fingers together in my lap. I didn’t look at him, but I could feel his eyes bore into the side of my face like a searing iron.
“No need for apologies, Burt.” Dad assures him, turning to me again with a sigh. “What did you do this time, kid?”
Swallowing, I felt the hot tears in the back of my throat, despite trying to force myself into indifference. I’d gotten in trouble before, many times, so why was I upset it happened again? Well, for one thing, the condescending tone my father cast down at me. And then there was the fact I knew he didn’t, wouldn’t, ever understand. None of them did. They never knew why I did what I did, and worse, they’d always think of me as a bad person because of it. But I wasn’t the bad guy. I was just a freak, and trust me; there was a big difference between the two.
My throat felt swollen shut. So when I didn’t respond, Burt let out a breath. “She got caught doodlin’ on the McClains’ back wall. Again.”
Dad frowned, leaning forward to rub his hands over his face in exhaustion. “Of course she did.”
&
nbsp; “Thankfully, the McClains’ didn’t press charges since they didn’t see the connection between the last two trespasses. But it’s obvious it was done by the same artist,” Burt said, pulling out a file and throwing laminated pictures of numerous portraits done on the same wall I finished working on only an hour ago.
Dad didn’t need to pick them up to recognize them, turning to me again. “What do you have to say for yourself? Huh? Did you ever think for just a second”—his fists clenched in his lap—“that maybe, just maybe, you were breaking the law again? Or do you just have no sense of morality anymore whatsoever?”
“Dad—” My voice sounded pathetically squeaky, throat raw with unshed tears.
“What do I have to do to get you to stay put for once, Lace? Do I have to send you to a boarding school? But, I mean, if juvie didn’t whip you into shape, I highly doubt that would work, either.” Exasperated, he threw up his hands, looking to Burt for backup.
Burt laced his fingers together on top of the horrendous pictures, helping me breathe a bit better when their terrible reminders weren’t boring into my head. He sighed. “Not really my place to decide, George, but this’s my town and I’m in charge of protecting it. If none of those things work in gettin’ the kids back on the right track, the next step is usually…” He looked guilty for even suggesting it, cringing at his own words with another cough to clear his throat. “Well, it’s usually the hospital.”
Dad sat up straighter in his chair as my heart skipped a beat. “What kind of hospital are you suggesting, sheriff?”
Burt raised his hands in surrender, falling back into his desk chair while I glared angrily at his stupid, stupid fat head. Maybe Burt wasn’t such a nice guy after all. “I’m not implying anything, George. I just think with all our options stressed to the max…” He scratched his stubbly chin. “Look, there’s a nice rehabilitation center not too far outside of town. They can help cases like… this particular one. They take great care of the kids, and they have a ninety-nine percent success rate, from what I’ve heard.”
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