Out of the Dark (Light & Dark #1) (14 page)

She looks up at me with a smile. The red grazes on her cheek are stark against her pale skin. She takes my hand once more and we begin to walk again, the cow hands clapping with each step she takes.

Chapter Seventeen.

#17. Fill those hungry holes.

We walk for several miles in total silence, nothing but the breeze in the trees to occupy the hush, until abruptly Lilly stubbornly refuses to walk anymore. She stares at the ground at her feet, unwilling to look up at me. I give her arm a small tug, but she still doesn’t move. I get down on my knees and try to look into her face, but still she stares at her shoes, her eyes unwilling to meet mine. I remove the flapping cow cap from her head and she finally looks up at me, her expression defiant as she snatches the cap back and puts it firmly back on her head with a small pout.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her softly.

She waits a beat before replying. “I’m hungry, Mama,” she whispers back. And then she begins to cry.

“I know you are,” I whisper, as I pick her up and she wraps her arms around my neck.

I carry her, singing to her softly as I walk, the sound of my voice floating in the slight breeze. I make the song up as I go—the tune, the words, are all spur-of-the-moment fiction from my own mind. I can’t remember music and how it once sounded. Not the sound of guitars or drums, or any of the lyrics from songs. It is all gone, blanked out from my memory as if it were too painful for me to remember. Yet I somehow string some words together that have some semblance of a tune, and I sing a song that she likes. My voice carries an unknown tune that eventually calms her, and she stops crying.

In time we come to a children’s park, and I point to it and whisper to her to look. After much persuasion, she lifts her head from my shoulder to see what I am talking about. She doesn’t smile, but she’s interested, and that’s good enough for me.

I push open the little green gate and we go inside. There are two swings, which are both broken, and the merry-go-round squeaks loudly when I push it around, so I tell her she can’t go on that as it could draw attention to us. But the slide still seems good and strong—safe—so I tell her that she can go and play on it. I begin to gather stones and twigs to build a fire, and she climbs the steps, her footsteps sounding loud yet hollow on the metal stairs. She slides down without even smiling, and I wonder if she likes it at all, but then she goes back around to the stairs and climbs them again before going back down the slide once more. She’s here, and yet not. Her body is on a continuous loop, going up and down that slide, yet her mind is unaware, blissfully or perhaps ignorantly somewhere else. I don’t blame her; I want to be somewhere else too.

The park is only small, enclosed by what was once a green metal fence, and I search all around for twigs and stones. I find a child’s backpack near the picnic benches. It has a small brown stain near the zipper that I think could be blood. Inside the backpack is a well-loved brown teddy bear with only one eye, a piece of paper and a pen, some loose change and a small knife that doesn’t look very sharp. I take the backpack, feeling annoyed that there wasn’t any food in it but knowing that Lilly will love the teddy bear, and then I keep on searching the park. I rummage through the green trash can by the entrance and find an old polystyrene container that probably once held a Starbucks coffee in it. I dig a little deeper and find a shattered coffee thermos. The silver reflective material that was once on the inside of it, is broken and it tumbles out, the sunlight reflecting off the shards when I tip it up. The sound is actually quite sweet—like tiny sparkling stars falling to earth. I bang the side of it to make sure all the glass is out, but still worry just that some remains inside, so I drop it back in the trash can. I find an old Pepsi can and I take that instead.

I watch Lilly as I walk across the park. She’s stopped sliding now and is staring off into the distance as if transfixed by something. I look to where she stares, but see nothing. There are houses across the field, but they are very far away, too far for her to be able to see anything in them—but still she stares like she knows something that I don’t, some secret that she is being whispered to by the wind, that I am not privy to.

I cut the Pepsi can in half using the dressmakers’ scissors, and then I sit down on the grass and begin to build my fire with stones and twigs. I use my lighter and watch the twigs and leaves begin to burn, and then I open the can of pinto beans and pour half of them into the Pepsi can. I tear apart the dandelions—the heads, roots and leaves are all edible, even though they are bitter—and I put them in the tin can and then add some of our precious water. I set the can on top of another circle of rocks in the center of the fire, so as not to smother the flames of the fire, and then I wait while the food slowly cooks.

Lilly is still staring into the distance when I hear a gunshot somewhere. The sound makes me flinch even though it is far away, and Lilly breaks her trance and scampers over to me. She sits down, looking at me with those soulful eyes of hers that see everything.

“It’s okay,” I say. “It was far away. Sound travels in the open like this, especially when the world is so quiet.”

She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she looks at the food bubbling away and licks her lips. I give her knee a squeeze as a sign of reassurance.

When the broth and beans are good and boiling I distribute them between the Starbucks cup and the can, handing Lilly the largest portion.

“It’s hot,” I say, and she nods as she takes it.

Lilly blows on it before she tries to drink some of it. She winces as it burns her tongue, and I offer her the bottle of water.

“I told you it was hot,” I say.

She takes a small swig of the water and then gives it back to me. When she picks up her cup of broth again, she blows it a lot more before trying to drink any this time. We eat in silence, each of us staring off into the distance as we slowly sip the bitter broth. It doesn’t taste very good at all, but it should make us feel better, because any food is good food right now, and there are plenty of nutrients in the dandelions. I think we’re both feeling numb and empty—hungry to the point of exhaustion. I hope that after we’ve eaten we’ll both be feeling a little better. I’d like to keep on walking today, put some more distance between us and that strange small town that sold only dairy products and the monsters hiding in its depths like dark family secrets.

I slurp the last of the broth down and then stare into the empty can longingly. It’s not enough, but then, it will never be enough because nothing ever is anymore.

I watch Lilly drinking the last of hers. She doesn’t eat without restraint, but with care, as if every last drop of the broth is some amazing, life-giving force that needs every flavor to be experienced and enjoyed. And maybe it does. But other times it’s just bitter dandelions and out of date pinto beans in boiled water, and it is nothing more than there to fill the hollow hole where our tummies are.

Lilly finishes the food and sighs, looking satisfied, and that makes me happy—to know that she is full, that I have done a good job today of feeding her, especially since I could have gotten her killed back at the collapsed store. Her eyes meet mine, a small spark of something within those beautiful brown orbs, and she tentatively smiles at me. Not a full-mouthed, toothy grin, but a shy, contemplative smile. I reach behind me and get the child’s backpack, and I hand it to her. She looks at it like it’s possibly the greatest gift she’s ever received. Her small fingers clasp the smaller zipper, and she slowly opens the bag up before looking inside. Her face tilts up to look at me, and there it is: the smile that fills me with such joy.

“Can I keep it, Mama?” she whispers, one of her little hands reaching in and grasping the teddy bear. She pulls it out of the bag, showing it to me, even though she must be aware that I have already seen it. “Won’t someone miss it?”

“You can keep it,” I nod, “I don’t think there is anyone to miss it anymore.” She looks into the face of the bear with only one eye before promptly bursting into tears.

I scoot over to her and place an arm around her shoulders. I know that she’s thinking of Mr. Bear and how much she misses him. He had been with her since the start of everything. He was her longest memory, and like a fallen family member, she has lost him to the monsters. In the rush to escape the house, he was left behind in the bedroom. And I hate Sarah even more for making us lose that teddy. I kiss the top of Lilly’s head and hum to her until she calms down.

“Hush, Lilly, hush. It’s all okay,” I murmur, though this life is anything but okay.

“He smells different from Mr. Bear,” she says, pulling out of the hug. She holds him up for me to sniff, and I do, taking a deep lungful of him in.

“He does, doesn’t he.”

She nods.

“Different isn’t always bad though, Lilly. Sometimes different can be good.”

She blinks twice and then looks down at the teddy. Her mouth quirks in a very tiny smile and then falls away, but then she hugs him to her chest. I wonder if she feels like she’s betraying Mr. Bear by keeping this one. The way she clings to him is both angry and happy.

“It’s okay to love him, Mr. Bear would want you to be happy.” I say and she wipes at her damp eyes and nods. “We need to keep walking,” I say with a heavy heart. “We need to put some more distance between us and that place.”

“From the monsters?” she asks.

I nod and she bites her lip to stop herself from crying again.

I pack away our things, noticing how my headache has eased now that I have eaten. Lilly places the backpack clumsily over her shoulders, and I adjust the straps so that it fits her more snugly. The previous child must have been older than Lilly, I realize with sad indifference.

We begin to walk again, Lilly’s hand once more slipping into mine. The silence is heavy and oppressive around us, like thick smoke, until Lilly’s voice cuts through it.

“Will you sing to me?” she asks.

I look down at her with a small frown. “Sing?” I say, and she nods.

“The song you sang before,” she explains.

I huff out a breath because I really don’t want to, but I nod as I try to recall the words to my made-up song from earlier today. Parts of it come to me, but I’m still struggling to remember exactly what I had sung. It was just a jumble of words that made no sense, and then I realize that it isn’t the words, but the sound of my voice that she likes. It’s the sound that soothes her when she has nightmares, or when she is feeling sad and missing her real family. So I nod again, just to confirm that yes, I will sing for her. And then I open my dry lips and I sing in the same tune, but with different words from earlier:

I never knew
—
how could I know?

That you and I would see the world.

We walk the roads, so very long,

We walk the roads, and they pass us by,

Because they do not know
—
how could they know?

They don’t see us as we sneak on by.

My love for you is what sets me free.

It gives me breath, and it gives me wings,

To lift me high, above the roads.

I never knew
—
how could I know?

That the world would end tonight.

I stare up at the clouds, watching the twirling white tails of their innocence drift lazily across the sky, oblivious to our pitiful existence, and I picture a world that I once loved so much. I blink past the faces of the people I have met, both old and new, and I feel my soul scorching, set on fire with the memories that beat down on me. The world is hollow and empty, but not as empty as me right now. My emptiness echoes for all the world to hear. I think it would have been so much easier if I would have died when all of this began. If I would have ended at the start.

Lilly tugs on my arm and I blink sluggishly, still staring up into the distance. My lips are moving, but barely a wisp of voice leaves them. She tugs on my arm again and I look down at her, realizing that I have stopped walking altogether. I realize that it was a selfish thought, because if I would have died, Lilly would be all alone now. Or perhaps not even here at all.

“I’m sorry,” I say, cupping one of her small cheeks in my dirty palm. “I’m sorry,” I say again.

She still looks uncertain, and I force a smile—which is possibly more frightening.

“Did I scare you?” I ask.

Lilly nods, and I drop to my knees in front of her, cupping both of her cheeks now as I stare into her face and get lost in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Honeybee. I was thinking of the past,” I say sadly. And I was, sort of. I was thinking about death and how sometimes I wished that I had never lived. That I hadn’t hidden so well. Because if I hadn’t hidden so well, then I wouldn’t be here now, starving, dying of this disease, being chased by monsters every night.

“You shouldn’t do that,” she whispers back.

I nod, and tear my gaze away from hers. “I know. It doesn’t help. It’s just hard sometimes.”

We stay there in silence for several minutes, me on my knees in front of her, and her staring down at my pitiful form.

I finally take a breath and stand back up. I take her hand in mine. “I won’t do that again,” I say, and we begin to walk. And I know that I won’t do that again, because I was supposed to live. If I hadn’t lived, then Lilly wouldn’t have, either. My life gives her life.