Hurt: A Novel (Solitary Tales Series) (14 page)

42. Lost for the Moment

“Stop it, Chris.”

The three words slap me over the face and yank me off Kelsey.

I suddenly feel awful and wonder what’s wrong.

I sit next to her feeling like a complete jerk.

She takes my hand and holds it.

“Listen—I’m sorry—it’s just …” Kelsey’s eyes are big and bright and sad. “This just doesn’t feel right.”

“I didn’t mean to do anything—”

“You didn’t. It’s fine. This is fine. I just—I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of where this is headed.”

Obviously she knows that the cabin is empty. I told her that my mom wasn’t coming home tonight, and Kelsey accepted my lame reason why. Visiting some relatives down south. Oh, okay.

“It’s not that I—Chris, you know how I feel.”

I nod. But I already know what she’s going to say, and I realize that I’ve been pushing it.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I’m just—this—I don’t feel comfortable.”

I hate hearing this.

“If there’s anybody—anybody—I want to feel comfortable around me, it’s you,” I tell her.

“I’m not talking about being around you.” Kelsey seems to be closing up like a folding table. “It’s here—now. I just—I can’t.”

I shake my head. “No—I know. I wasn’t asking. Or wanting. I’m sorry—I just for a minute—I’m sorry.”

She sighs.

“What?” I ask.

She’s wondering what she’s doing with a jerk like me.

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

Her hands cover her knees as if she’s trying to hide the fact that she’s wearing a skirt.

Oh I’m such a moron. A typical guy jerk.

“You’re going to think I’m such a prude,” she says with tears in her eyes.

“What?”

She looks down but doesn’t say anything.

Kelsey is crying.

I take her hands. “Kelsey—please—I am so sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“I shouldn’t have—I should have thought a little more.”

“It’s me.”

“No, it’s not,” I tell her, forcing her to look at me.

“Yes, it is.”

“No. No, look—I’m not going to make you do anything and I knew that I probably shouldn’t but I swear you showed up at my door looking like this and all night long that’s all I’ve been thinking and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. I’m really sorry.”

Her eyes meet mine, and she gives off a beautiful little shy smile. “Nobody has ever made me feel like that.”

“Like what?”

“Pretty.”

“Kelsey, you’re more than pretty.”

“Stop.”

“I mean it.”

“Jocelyn was more than pretty.”

To hear the name now hurts all of the sudden.

It seems to slap me again on the face.

“I just—I just don’t think it’s right.”

“I know,” I blurt out. “And that’s fine. I wasn’t going to—I just—I was just kinda lost. For the moment. I’m sorry.”

“I like being lost,” she says. “With you.”

I still feel like a complete jerk.

“Look, Kelsey—I don’t want you thinking that I’m just another guy.”

“You’re probably not going to talk to me tomorrow.”

“What? Why?”

“I just—the whole thing about saving myself. I don’t even want to bring up the M-word. It sounds just so …”

“Okay?” I add.

“I was going to say Amish.”

We both laugh, and it’s a nice break.

“I think you’d look pretty hot in a bonnet,” I tell her.

“Stop it.”

“No, I’m serious. Forget wearing a skirt. You put on a bonnet and watch out.”

She laughs. I put my arm around her and hold her close for a minute.

I admire this girl.

I know the reasons why she feels the way she does. She doesn’t tell me them. Instead, she apologizes to me. And I know—I could feel it—how she feels toward me. It’s there in her eyes and her face and in everything she says and does.

She believes that going too far is wrong.

Yet she’s not trying to prove her point; she’s just living it out.

“I wish I could stay here,” Kelsey tells me with her head leaning on my chest.

“Yeah.”

Pretty soon after that, I walk her out to her car. The pitch black doesn’t seem as dreadfully lonely, not with Kelsey here.

I hug her before she gets in the car.

“Are you angry?”

“No,” I tell her.

“Promise me.”

“I’m not. I swear.”

She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me.

“I had a great time tonight,” I tell her.

She still doesn’t believe me.

I kiss her and hope to try to convince her.

But as she gets in her car and closes the door, I wonder if that kiss was the wrong kind of way to convince her.

I don’t know.

When it comes to stuff like this, I really don’t know much of anything.

43. Drum Song

I hear the drums beating and banging. Restless and impatient beats rolling over in my head.

It’s like they’re sped-up minutes, except the minutes are passing so slowly.

All I can do around here is wait, and I don’t want to wait. I hate waiting. Waiting to grow up. Waiting to get a girl. Waiting to have a girl, a woman. Waiting to get out of here. Waiting for whatever’s going to happen next. Waiting to hear from my mom again.

Waiting.

It’s a Sunday where I’ve done nothing, and I finally remember to check the mail. There’s a postcard from my father.

The image on the front is of a bicycle stuck in a snowdrift. The back says
Don’t worry, spring is almost here.

Then underneath is my father’s handwriting.

“If we look forward to something we don’t yet have, we must wait patiently and confidently.” (Romans 8:25)

I’m still waiting, Chris. Waiting to start over and be a family again.

Love you.
Dad

I look at the card again and wonder if this is a message for how I feel about Kelsey. Or how I feel about life in general.

It makes me think. A lot. But I can’t say it necessarily helps.

44. Head Over Heels

It’s obvious how I feel.

I put it out there, and Kelsey knows.

But Monday morning arrives and I don’t see her and don’t end up seeing her until lunchtime where she’s with Georgia and doesn’t say much.

As we eat lunch, not really saying anything, I wonder if she told Georgia anything.

Next time I see her, she’s with Georgia again.

Next time she’s with another girl.

Then she’s heading home, and I tell her to call me tonight.

But she doesn’t.

And despite everything going on I suddenly start thinking about her and second-guessing myself and wondering if she’s angry or if she now thinks I’m a jerk, and the questions keep coming.

Another day doesn’t change anything.

Neither does another.

I text her asking if everything is okay and she texts back saying everything is fine, but something’s wrong.

Near the end of the week I know that something is very wrong, so I finally manage to get her alone by her locker.

“Are you still angry at me?” I ask.

She looks embarrassed to talk about this. Her face is red, and her eyes don’t meet mine.

“Kelsey—I’m sorry—I really—I messed up big time. Okay?”

“No. It’s not you.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know.”

She looks around, and I move my head to try and get her attention.

“Kelsey, what’s wrong?”

She still won’t look me in the eye.

“Please—just say something.”

But then Georgia shows up and I realize that this isn’t just accidental. It’s a girl conspiracy.

“Can we get a minute?” I ask Georgia.

“It’s fine,” Kelsey tells me.

I look at her.

This time she looks at me, as if having Georgia around gives her a little more strength and courage.

I’m sorry and I’ve told you half a dozen times and you wanted it as much as I did so what did I do wrong?

I nod and walk away.

45. Broken

I want to punch out and break something.

It’s Friday afternoon, and I know that last conversation I had with Kelsey means I’m going to have wait another few days before seeing her again. She no longer answers my texts or wants to talk on the phone.

She’s making it pretty clear how she feels. She just doesn’t have the guts to tell me to leave her alone.

I get on my bike and start it up and drive off.

I’ve got a full tank of gas, so instead of heading to an empty cabin I decide to stay on the roads. I just ride around thinking and wondering but mostly just riding.

When I get older I want to take this bike across the country. I want to see the Grand Canyon and drive through the desert and through the Rocky Mountains. I want to feel dirt and dust and heat and cold and feel something I’m not able or allowed to feel around Solitary.

I want to ride alone because that’s what I do. That’s what I’m destined to do, for some reason.

What did I do wrong?

I went too far, and I knew it even when it was happening.

No, I didn’t. I wasn’t thinking about anything except Kelsey.

Maybe I wasn’t thinking about her at all.

Maybe it was something that had been building for a while. Ever since Jocelyn and Lily and everything else that happened.

And maybe I’m just a regular guy doing what regular guys do.

I take a corner a little too fast and feel the bike buckling underneath me as I grip the handlebars.

But I kind of like the out-of-control feeling.

I wish I could be just a regular teenager. Just a normal guy dating a normal girl doing normal guy-girl things without thinking too hard.

I don’t want to see any more freaking spaces in between.

I don’t want to drive up to the inn or find the hidden bed-and-breakfast or go down to see the creatures by the bridge.

Maybe you don’t have a choice.

The chilling wind wakes me up, and I keep driving.

I know that later tonight I’ll be on my own. This guy who’s bruised and broken and not sure what’s going to happen next.

I can’t let Kelsey leave me. Not now.

Yet I also know that maybe it’s the best thing that could happen.

At least to her.

46. 1820

Pastor Marsh is waiting in his car in my driveway as I get off my bike. He gets out of the car and bundles up his jacket against the cold.

“Have a nice little ride?”

I can barely make him out, and part of me wants to beat him up the same way Staunch laid into me.

“What do you want?”

“Let’s go inside,” Marsh says. “I’m cold.”

My Friday night just went from bad to miserable in a matter of seconds.

After I drop my backpack onto the floor and turn some lights on, I hear Marsh close the door behind us.

“Do you ever get lonely being here by yourself?” he asks.

I turn and look at him to see if he’s joking. He doesn’t seem to be, but I’m not exactly sure. I don’t answer him.

“So I’ve come to give you an assignment,” he says.

“I already have enough schoolwork. But thanks.”

“Funny. This isn’t exactly a school assignment. Remember the card you picked at the party?”

I nod. I still have it. The number 1820.

“You’re going to do something for me.”

I don’t want to hear this. Really.

I knew I shouldn’t have picked that card.

“Tell me, Chris. Do you believe numbers have significance?”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me they do.”

Marsh laughs. He picks up the heavy poker for the fireplace and then jabs at the remaining chunks of wood in the fire that didn’t burn.

“You know—I remember being the jaded teen. The cynical teen. Do you know that I had quite a few problems as a teenager?”

I don’t say anything. Nothing about this guy surprises me.

“I had some episodes. My parents died. Tragic deaths, too. But those are the only kind, at least around here, right? I was bitter. And angry. But as I’ve shared, I’ve been able to take that anger to do something with it.”

Whoop-de-do. Good for you.

“You can do the same thing. Even the hate that I know you have for me. You can do something with it. Just remember that.”

He puts the poker down, and that makes me feel a little better.

“So this is what you’re going to do. You had the number 1820, right? I could tell you what it means and why, but I have a feeling you’ll just be bored. But since I don’t want you to be alone on a Friday night, you’re going to do something. Tonight. At midnight.”

“What?”

“You’re going to visit the Adahy Bridge tonight. You probably know it as Indian Bridge. One of the many haunted places in Solitary.”

Why couldn’t I have gotten another number? Or does the number really matter?

“And do what?”

Marsh just smiles. “I want you take a walk on the bridge. Then go down below.”

“Are you going to be there?”

“Uh, no,” he says quickly.

“Will anybody?”

“If you’re wondering how I will know whether you’re there, I will. There’s something that I want you to bring me.”

“What?”

“Whatever you find at the bottom of the bridge.”

“What am I looking for?”

Again the sick, slick smile comes over his face. “It’s different for every person.”

“What do I do with it?”

“Bring it to me tomorrow. But make sure you go tonight at midnight.”

I don’t say anything.

I just stare at him. Or make that glare at him.

“And Chris, remember. You do what I say when I say it. That way your mother will make it home sooner. And safer. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not Staunch or Kinner. Soon you’ll learn that. Okay?”

He leaves me in the empty cabin. I stare at the poker that he held in his hands. Maybe I’ll bring it with me for protection.

Not that I think it will do any good.

47. A Light Blue Nightmare

It’s raining. A cold rain that should be snow but that feels colder somehow. I’m wearing a coat and hat and gloves, but pretty much everything that could be soaked is completely drenched. I get off my bike and then look at my watch. It’s a little before midnight.

The area is the same as it was last time I was here. Really dark. Like underground dark, or deep in a cave dark, the kind where every step makes you a bit worried.

I wait for a couple of minutes, hearing the sound of the rain hitting the trees and dripping onto the forest floor. The wind blows the rain sideways and rustles around leaves just to make sure it’s really truly creepy out here.

Why can’t I just be playing a video game like any other guy my age?

I take out my flashlight and find the trail leading toward the bridge. It’s muddy, and I’m careful not to slip.

It takes me a few minutes to make it across the bridge. I walk slowly, so as not to make any noise and to make sure I hear anything or anyone. But there’s nothing.

Heavy stones line the sides of the bridge. The beam of my flashlight moves across their wet surface.

When I get to the middle of the bridge, which isn’t that far away, I just stand. I can feel my heart beating like it’s in the back of my throat. I wait and listen, wondering if someone’s going to come out of the trees or rush across the bridge to attack.

But through the howling wind I hear something faint.

Faint but terrifying.

Okay, that’s it. Get back on the bike and get out of here.

The sound starts to intensify, but I refuse to believe what I’m hearing.

Yet the desperate screaming sounds just like a baby’s cry.

I feel a terrible burning feeling crawl over my skin.

The baby’s cries get louder. And they’re coming from below.

Underneath the bridge.

So that’s what I’m looking for? The thing that’s different for everybody?

I scan both edges of the bridge, and then I look over one of the stone walls to see down. I see a small stream but nothing else.

The baby sounds real and terrified and wailing.

I don’t think about it any longer. I rush to one end of the bridge and then head down the sloping hill next to it. I make sure I don’t slip and slide the rest of the way. It’s not far to the bottom. It’s not a huge bridge. Just big enough to do its job back when it had one to do.

The half-oval opening underneath is black, and raindrops are dripping from it. The baby must be nearby, but I can’t find it. I jerk my flashlight back and forth and can’t see anything.

Then I spy something underneath the bridge.

Along one of the dark walls.

Something light blue.

A blanket.

This is not happening. Maybe I’ll wake up any minute.

I rush to the blue blanket and pick it up, and the first thing I think is how light this baby feels. It wiggles and moves and continues to scream.

“Shhhh—it’s okay. It’s okay, I’m right here.”

I don’t know what to say to a screaming baby found underneath a dark, desolate bridge at night. The few times I’ve held a baby in my life, I haven’t known quite what to do.

For a minute I gently rock the baby as I look into the darkness underneath the stone structure.

There are at least half a dozen figures standing on the opposite side of the bridge, near the opening.

At first I just see their legs, then their bodies. Some are wearing overcoats, others are in heavy gray or black coats. All of them look wet with rain. Some wear hats while others have long hair, like a pack of bikers or hunters or something.

Yet even as I shine the flashlight on their faces, I can’t make out any expressions.

All I see are eyes.

Not shining or red, but just holes that are darker than this night.

They all face me, just standing there, maybe twenty yards away.

Then I see something behind them, something flickering, kind of like the way a fire gives off floating embers that drift off into the night. These floating orange and red things hover behind them.

I feel not only cold but sick, like I might pass out or throw up or throw up while passing out. All the while the baby continues to wail.

Do I sprint back up the hill, or do I stay here until the figures leave?

I think this for about two seconds. Then I rush out of there, being careful because now I have a life in my hands.

My body is shivering, but I’m not worried about me.

How’d this baby get down there?

I start up the hill, then slip and regain my footing, then carefully walk up the bank.

I hear breathing sounds behind me. Somehow amidst these screams that could wake the dead, I hear breathing, sucking sounds behind me.

Maybe the screams did actually wake the dead.

Then I hear something else. A moaning sound. Like the sickly breathing is turning to a bunch of moans.

I wipe my doused face with a wet arm, since my other arm has the baby. The rain is coming down harder, the baby’s screams getting louder.

When I get up by the road, I see another figure. No, several.

Across the street.

They’re everywhere.

If I’m supposed to die, then I die. If they want the baby, they’ll have to take it from me. If I’m not meant to leave, then that’s that. Shaking and shivering and soaked, I climb up on my bike and try to start it with this baby in one arm.

I get the bike started, then slowly begin to ride away from the side of the road.

A figure in a leather overcoat is walking toward me.

I see holes for eyes and that’s it. Somehow the face is missing everything else.

Of course that could just be an illusion. A mask or a bandana or something.

It holds out a hand, and I look to see what it’s holding. A weapon? Some weird occult thing?

But no.

It’s a baby’s rattle.

And I swear—it’s just—

Red and covered with blood, and did I ever look to see what baby I’m holding?

With one arm locked as tight as possible around the screaming baby, the other arm locked on the handle of the bike, I get away from this hellhole.

The sound of the motorcycle engine isn’t enough to cover up the wailing on the ride home.