Like Gravity
Authors: Julie Johnson
Like Gravity
Julie Johnson
Text Copyright © 2013 Julie Johnson
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever
, including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names, or named features are only used for reference, and are assumed to be property of their respective owners.
Cover Image Photographed by Martina Dankova (Tia Danko)
Cover Art
by Julie Johnson
Chapter Four: Great Expectations
Chapter Eight: Worthwhile Fears
Chapter Eleven: Narcissistic Asshole
Chapter Thirteen: Free Falling
Chapter Fourteen: Fight or Flight
Chapter Fifteen: Mission Accomplished
Chapter Seventeen: Breaking Point
This novel is dedicated to everyone
who has ever struggled against the weight of gravity, in hopes that one day they
will reach the stars.
“I was never one to patiently pick up broken fragments and glue them together again and tell myself that the mended whole was as good as new. What is broken is broken – and I’d rather remember it as it was at its best than mend it and see the broken places as long as I lived.”
Margaret Mitchell
14 years ago
“Mommy, can I have the pink bubblegum? Please?”
I held up the roll, offering her a glimpse of the round
BubbleTape container clasped in my small hand. BubbleTape was the best kind of gum; every first grader knew that. Mommy didn’t answer. She was humming, a small smile rounding her lips as she handed packages of food from our cart to the grocery lady.
I turned my attention back to the bubblegum, crossing my toothpick-like arms in front of my chest as I eyed the other options. The checkout line, with all the
brightly packaged candy, was always my favorite part of food shopping.
“Mommy!” I said, louder this time, determined to get her attention.
“Mmmm, what sweetheart?” she murmured distractedly.
“Can I please get the pink gum tape? All the girls in my class eat it after lunch.”
“Sure, Bee. Here, hand it up to the nice lady so we can pay for it, okay?”
I stretched my hand above my head to pass the gum to the grocery lady; even on my tiptoes it was hard to see her face. She leaned forward to pluck the container from my grasp and smiled down at me. Her teeth were streaked with pink from her lipstick and her face was wrinkled like an apple, but she seemed nice.
“And how old might you be?” she asked.
“I’ll be
seven in a few months,” I boasted. “I’m in the first grade.”
“Oh! How wonderful,” she beamed. “You must be so proud,” she added to Mommy.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Mommy smiled, handing the last package to the lady.
While Mommy paid, I wandered down towards our packed cart, peeking into the clear plastic shopping bags and hoping to spot the telltale fuchsia gum container.
“Come on, Brooklyn,” Mommy said, steering the cart one handed towards the parking lot. She held out the other hand for me to grab, pulling me close by her side as we walked through the automatic doors and out to our car. I slipped my hand into hers, squeezing tight. Smiling down at me, she gently swung our interlaced fingers back and forth.
The air was thick with August humidity, and my pink Hello Kitty t-shirt seemed to fuse to my skin as we walked through the parking lot. The wheels on
our cart weren’t working right – they squealed loudly in protest as Mommy wrestled them back onto a straight path.
I giggled at her efforts.
Her fingers remained tight on mine until we reached the SUV. Leaving the cart by the trunk, she scooped me into her arms, tickling my sides relentlessly. I screeched and squirmed in her grasp, loving every bit of her attention.
“So you think it’s nice to laugh at Mommy when she struggles with the cart, huh?” she laughed. “Not so funny now, is it Bee?”
“I’m sorry!” I squealed breathlessly, giggling even as the tickle-torture came to an end. She carried me around to the back door and deposited me into my booster seat.
“
Oof! You’re getting too heavy for me to carry you around,” she complained. “Pretty soon you won’t have to use the booster at all. You’re getting so big.” She snapped my seatbelt into place, giving it an extra tug to check that it was safe, and dropped a quick kiss on my forehead.
“I’ve got to put the food bags in the trunk real quick, but then how ‘bout we get some ice cream on the way home, Bumblebee?” Mommy asked, using her favorite nickname for me.
“Yes!” I exclaimed, my mind already busy picturing a chocolate sundae topped with a mountain of whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles.
“Okay, I’ll be right back, love.” She smiled, ruffling my dark hair one last time before closing the door. She walked back around to the cart and I could hear her humming as she loaded the groceries into the SUV. Suddenly remembering my gum, I twisted around in my seat to face the open trunk.
“Mommy, can I have my bubblegum now?” I called, easing the tight seatbelt away from my throat so I could breathe easier.
When she didn’t answer I unbuckled, turned fully around in my booster, and peered through the trunk space to where she stood. She’d stopped putting away the bags and instead stood frozen,
with her hands held out in the air front of her. It seemed too still, too quiet without her cheerful humming. She looked scared – and Mommy never looked scared, not even when I told her there were monsters in my closet or under my bed.
Something wasn’t right.
I’d just opened my mouth to ask what was wrong when I spotted the man. He stood a few feet away from Mommy, the food-filled cart abandoned in the space between them.
“Give me the keys,” he sneered at Mommy, his voice muffled by the black hood covering his
mouth. His eyes, the only part of his face not hidden by the mask, glared darkly.
He sounded mean, like one of the villains in my Saturday morning cartoons. I didn’t like him, and I could tell Mommy didn’t either. Clutching a black duffle bag tightly in one hand, he shifted
back and forth from one foot to the other. His eyes kept darting to the liquor store behind him, the one where Mommy sometimes got the bottles of wine she drank with dinner. I wasn’t allowed to have it; she said it was a grown-up drink.
Mommy’s eyes flicke
red over to the backseat, and locked on my wide-eyed gaze for a short second. Her head shook slightly back and forth in the tiniest of movements, and I knew she was trying to tell me to keep still and quiet. I wanted to ask what was happening and who that angry man was, but I did as she asked.
“Are you fucking deaf? I said give me the keys! Do I look like I’m
fuckin’ around lady?” The man was yelling now, striding closer to Mommy and looking angrier than ever. Her eyes broke away from mine as she straightened her shoulders and faced the man once more.
“No,” she said,
her voice sad.
Why was she so sad?
“Your choice, then,” he said, raising a hand up from his side and pointing a gun at Mommy’s face. Before I could make a sound, he fired a single bullet into her forehead and watched silently as she crumpled to the cement.
“Stupid bitch,” he muttered.
I sat frozen in place, unable to look away from Mommy bleeding in the parking lot, watching with wide eyes as he pried the keys from her hand and slammed the trunk hatch closed.
Racing around the SUV, he
hopped into the driver’s seat, Mommy’s seat, and quickly started the engine. He peeled out of the parking lot without a backward glance at the bloodstained pavement. I turned slowly back around in my booster, trembling with fear and disbelief, and watched as he tossed the gun on the front passenger seat, followed by a duffle bag that was overflowing with crumpled money. Tears blurred my vision and tracked slowly down my face, but I remembered Mommy shaking her head at me and somehow managed to stay quiet.
For her.
Never once did the man look behind him and notice the small girl whose world had just ended, crying in the backseat.
The Barren Moon
The panicked scream that burst from my throat was a tribu
te to a long-remembered terror – one undimmed by the passage of time. The six year old within me cried out in desperation as I was ripped from the nightmare. The dream had been my nightly companion for fourteen years, a constant reminder of the day everything in my life changed.
As if I could have forgotten.
There was no doubt that the events would remain etched permanently into my memory, an unwanted tattoo I hadn’t requested and could never remove, even if the nightmares had stopped. Somehow, though, I knew they wouldn't. If anything, they were getting worse, becoming more vivid and frequent with each passing year.
I wiped the gathering beads of perspiration from my brow, pulled my damp hair up into a loose ponytail, and untangled the twisted sheets from my legs. The small glow from the nightlight beside my bed warded away shadows that otherwise threatened to consume me. Focusing on the warm mellow light, I tried to push the memories from my mind. Although I was well practiced in driving away the nightly terrors, it took more effort than I liked to admit for my mind to settle and my heart rate to stop thundering in my chest like a goddamn
ed cavalry charge.
Dragging a shaky breath into my lungs, I swung my legs to the floor and padded out of my small room. The kitchen’s icy linoleum tiles were uncomfortable under my bare feet, and I hurried to pour myself some water from the tap before tiptoeing back to the warmth of my bed.
I sipped my water after slipping back beneath the covers, searching for the book I always kept within reach on my nightstand. Any hopes of more rest tonight were futile; after the nightmare inevitably hit I could never relax my mind enough to sleep. Sometimes I’d get lucky and the dream wouldn’t rear its ugly head until near dawn, allowing me a few solid hours of rest. Other nights, like tonight, I wasn’t so lucky.
A glance at my cellphone informed me that it was only 2:37 AM, leaving me with almost six hours until my first class of the semester began.
Great way to start sophomore year, Brooklyn
, I thought bitterly.
Overtired and grumpy. Oh, and dark under-eye circles are
so
in this year.
The near constant bruise-like circles that lined my eyes were usually manageable with the help of some quality foundation.
Most people would never notice them at all, and those who did would never discover their origin. Holding people at arm’s length was easier and, in the long run, saved everyone a lot of unnecessary hurt and heartache.
I’d never been one to reach out to others for companionship or comfort. Those who gravitated in my social orbit were either blissfully self-involved or simply uninterested in my past. Anyone who pushed me for more
was dropped like a bad habit.
I wouldn’t really say that I had
friends
– acquaintances, maybe, but not friends. Friends usually wanted to know personal information; they liked to ask questions. And that made friends something I really couldn't afford to keep.
There was one exception to this rule, and that was Lexi. Then again, Lexi didn’t follow any of the rules she made for her own life, so I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when she broke
all mine as well. She’d spun into my life like a tornado, uprooting everything in her path and creating chaos from the fragile illusion of normalcy I’d tried to reconstruct after my mother’s murder. In the second grade, on my first day at a new school, Lexi had declared she liked my blue sparkly backpack, and that we would be friends.
And so we were.
It’s rare that Lex doesn’t get her way. People are drawn to her as if she exudes some invisible magnetic force, pulling them in and making it impossible to deny her anything. She’s tall, with fiery red hair and light blue eyes that constantly glint with mischief. In many ways, she’s my opposite.
While she towers at 5’10,” I barely hit 5’5” in my tallest pair of stilettos. Her bright copper mane bobs around her shoulders like a halo of light; my dark brown-black loose waves tumble almost to my waist. Her freckled skin glows with pale luminescence; my natural olive tones leave me looking slightly tan even in the heart of winter.
The biggest difference between us, though, isn’t detectable if you look only skin deep. Because below the surface, where no one can see, something is broken inside me. Or maybe not broken, but definitely missing.
Hell, maybe I never possessed it at all.
Because its indisputable that Lexi is warm, glowing and vivacious; her eyes dance with that indelible spark of life. Instead, I am cold; empty of that inner glow and utterly unable to make my emerald eyes appear anything but lifeless and guarded. Comparing Lexi to myself was like comparing the sun to the moon: her, a warm life-producing star around which everyone orbits, and me, a solitary, barren moon, brightened only by others’ reflected light and riddled with craters.
With a sigh of resignation, I pulled back from the spiral of depressive thoughts I swirl
ed into whenever I compared myself to Lexi. She’d been best my friend – my only friend – from age eight on. We’d even applied to college together and, after a miserable freshman year of on-campus housing and randomly assigned roommates, we were about to be sophomores with our very own hole-in-the-wall apartment.
Our two bedroom, double bath suite took up the entire second floor of an ancient, dilapidated Victorian-style home, which had been roughly chopped up to accommodate student renters. Yes, it was a dump, and yes, the h
ot water rarely worked properly; but it was ours, and the rent was only $450 a month – far more affordable than some of the swankier new properties littering the student housing neighborhood.
The downstairs neighbors kept to themselves
; we’d yet to meet them, and we’d moved in a month ago. Conveniently, we didn’t have to cut through their apartment to reach the stairs, as our landlord had constructed a rickety, steep outdoor stairway, leading up to our second floor balcony. Cobbled together with plywood, it probably wasn’t the safest entryway, but it served its purpose.
State universities generally draw in all types
– jocks, preps, nerds, princesses. With nearly 20,000 undergrad on campus, I’m sure some people felt lost, overwhelmed by the crush of academia. Where others may have felt alone, I reveled in the anonymity. Here, I had no past. No one knew my story. If I felt the urge to vanish into the crowd, faceless and disconnected, no one would even glance up from their own lives long enough to notice. It was the exact opposite of my high school experience, and it was everything I had hoped for when I’d applied.
Crawling down to the foot of my bed, I pushed open the window to let some of the humid Virginia air creep in. The late August night was dark and quiet; the bars had let out hours ago and no one loitered on the street. Most people would be getting up early tomorrow, eager to start the new semester. After about a week of attending every class and taking copious notes, what I called the “good student syndrome” would quickly wear off most undergrads. The end of early-semester diligence generally marked the launch of party season and, consequently, the end of quiet nights on my bar-riddled street.
Taking advantage of the undisturbed night, I scooted slowly off the foot of my bed and out onto the slate roof stretching directly below my open window. The rooftop was nearly flat, wide enough for me to lie with my – albeit short –legs fully extended. Technically, it served to shelter the wraparound porch below from the unrelenting Virginia elements, but in my mind, the roof was created especially for me. It was my special spot, my private nook – the one place where I could block out the rest of the world and feel safe.
Safe.
I guess it shouldn't seem like such an unattainable state. I’m sure it isn’t for normal people. But I had accepted long ago that I was not, nor would I ever be, a normal girl. After the incident fourteen years ago, I’d been taken into state custody until my biological father could be notified. My mother had never wanted anything to do with him and, as he was long gone by the time she’d discovered she was carrying me, she’d never tracked hi
m down. I spent the first six years of life believing that it would always be just the two of us – that we didn’t need a man to make us a family. And in the years after, I’d started to believe that I didn’t need a family at all.
Since she’d never informed him of his fatherly duties, after my mother’s death there was some confusion about what to do with me. It took Child Protective Services nearly six months to find the man whose name was listed on my birth certificate. The delay, apparently due to his extended business trip to Beijing, left me stranded
for months without a guardian. So, as my mother had no living relatives, I was placed into a group foster home until my father could be bothered to collect me.
Most of my memories from that time are inaccessible to me. I’m not sure whether I forcibly blocked them out or involuntarily repressed them, but whatever the case,
that time in my life remains a blur.
Some images are clearer than others; I can almost still hear the sympathetic voices of
the social workers and doctors as they explained to me that life as I knew it was over. The all-consuming despair I’d felt at the loss of my mother had never really gone away.
After the incident, I
know I didn’t speak to anyone for several months. The foster mother I’d been placed with made sure that I ate and dressed each day. A psychologist stopped by several times each week to chart my progress in her small state-issued notebook, assuring me that everything would be okay. But really, what else could she say?
Nothing
was okay. I was a six year old ward of the state who’d witnessed the violent murder of the only source of love I’d ever known. I would never be “okay” again, despite the shrink’s reassurances.
Throughout the years, I’d seen a never-ending parade of therapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists, all equally eager to get a gl
impse inside my twisted adolescent mind. These consultations invariably proceeded the same way – with them prompting me to speak about my “childhood trauma,” and me sitting on a slightly uncomfortable leather chair, staring at the clock in brooding silence. After the first few sessions of unrelenting taciturnity, my shrink-of-the-week would inevitably become frustrated, accuse me of burying my feelings, and claim that I would remain “spiritually lost” or “damaged” until I battled some bullshit inner emotional war.
What I
didn’t
say, during all those weeks of silence, was that no amount of soul searching would fix my past. There was no magical Band-Aid I could stick on my heart, no special glue I could use to make myself whole again. I had shattered to pieces like a fragile vase on concrete; some fragments could be roughly cobbled back together, but many of my vital parts had simply turned to dust, pulverized and scattered by the first gust of wind.
Leaning back on my hands, I closed my eyes and pulled a deep breath in through my nose. The summer night air smelled of fresh-cut grass and a faint hint of the coming autumn. There was a slight chill in the breeze, rustling the leaves of the maple tree nearest the house and sending
goosebumps skittering up my arms. I rubbed them absentmindedly, my eyes scanning from the maple’s graceful sloping branches down to the quiet street below.
Shit! What the
hell is that? Correction -
who
the hell is that?
My pulse immediately began to pound in my veins as my eyes confirmed that there was, in fact, someone standing in the dimly lit street.
Watching me.
My muscles tensed up and I f
roze like a deer in headlights – a naive prey trapped neatly in a predator’s lair.
It was definitely a man. Though I could only make out a silhouette, as the nearest working street lamp was a half block away, the shoulders were too broad, the build too tall, to be anything but male.
Or, it was possibly one of the steroid-abusing female swimmers from China’s Olympic team,
I thought to myself, nearly snorting aloud at the thought.
Yeah, Brooklyn, that’s totally probable.
My brief moment of levity died and an irrational sense of dread commandeered
my senses. I remained frozen, unsure whether I should move back inside. Could he see me? Was he
watching
me? Surely it was too dark for the stranger to notice a relatively small girl perched on a rooftop in the dark.
I could see the small glowing cherry of his cigarette flare brighter whenever he brought it up to take a drag. The rest of the street remained empty yet the man continued to lean against his motorcycle, a Harley from the looks of it, seemingly waiting for someone or something.
Clearly, he was not waiting for
me
or watching
me
, I reasoned. I’d never seen him before in my life. Though I couldn't see his face in the darkness, I knew simply by his build, his choice of transportation, and the smoke billowing in his lungs that we didn’t exactly run in the same social circles.
