The Girl With Aquamarine Eyes (13 page)

The pair burst into laughter when Maria realized Bonita had
left her face print on one of the windows. Maria laughed at her friend, which
caused the remnants of her tepid coffee to topple over and slosh onto her
sequined dress. The pair fell into each other’s arms, attempting to hold one
another up during their out of control laughter. They’d finally managed to trot
away in wheezing fits, back into the anonymity of the darkness.

Bonita smiled as she strolled down the long corridor toward
her room. The walking had done her feet no good. They ached so much, she was
tempted to kick her shoes off and leave them behind.

When she’d first come to work in the great house, Harmon had
given her the pick of any suite in the expansive mansion. If she’d taken a
fancy to the elaborate suite next to his, he would have graciously bowed and
escorted her to it.

But alas, she was not one for the finer things in life. She
was a simple housekeeper, with a simple life. The simpler, the better. Instead,
she’d chosen a very nice but mediocre suite, only a door from the kitchen.
After all, that is where she spent most of her time.

And indeed, Harmon had escorted her to it and confirmed
everything inside was to her liking. She adored him.

She peeled off her gloves and tossed them on the buffet
table in the dim hallway. She would not worry that the majordomo would rap
harshly on her door at dawn, holding them out to her with a grimace the moment
she opened the door.

She already knew Harmon would scoop them up, tap her door
lightly and hand them to her with a smile. He was a fine man indeed. In the
dimness before her, a figure appeared in front of the kitchen doors. Harmon was
usually a night owl, as all musicians seemed to be.

“Harmon, is that you?” She called into the darkness.

“No, it’s me, Bice.”

She quickly caught up to him. He too, was a fine man. As she
gazed into his deep auburn eyes, she suddenly longed to be twenty years
younger. Why he was single, she’d never know. What she did know was the longer
he worked for Harmon, the less chance he would ever have getting a woman long
term.

Women flocked to Harmon like magnets, while Bice stood in
the shadows seemingly waiting his turn. But, his turn had never come.

“You’re up late.” She smiled.

“Going to grab a juice. Want to join me?”

“No thanks, Mr. Bice.” She called over her shoulder. “I’m
exhausted. Good night.”

“Hold on a minute, Bonita.”

She stopped and slowly turned back to him, watching him
curiously as he caught up to her. Suddenly, he whirled on his heel, until his
backside was facing her.

“Do you think I have a nice ass?” He asked, glancing at her
over his shoulder.

* * *

Heaven opened her eyes and gazed around the darkened room.

The vague outline of a tiffany lamp rested in the far corner
of the room near the window. The colored glass glowed in the moonlight,
reminding her of the majestic window in her suite. She shuddered away the
thought of the magnificent window. She’d be sure to stay far away from the
colorful lamp.

Above it, gold records lined the walls. The moonlight
glinted off each of them, transforming them into lunar discs behind their
transparent casings. On the far side of the room, leather-bound books lined a
bookcase, which stretched from wall to wall.

She must be in the study. How she got here, she didn’t want
to know.

She sat up and spat the carpet from her parched mouth. It’d
become a strangely familiar taste lately. Back at the orphanage, she didn’t
recall waking up on the floor as much, if at all.

She gazed once again at the books. She shuddered,
remembering the books at the children’s prison. Glittering, lovely covers on
the outside, but on the inside it was quite the opposite tale.

Nuns roamed the stark halls, ruler in hand. Always ready to
strike the palms of a child who might dare even breathe without asking.

She’d had her palms struck on more than one occasion. Once,
for talking to Dreams during class. The Sister had warned her, but she had not
taken heed.

The grumpy woman had stomped to her desk, her gargoyle robes
twisting grotesquely around her ankles. She had demanded Heaven relinquish her
palms to her.

She’d hesitated, knowing full well it would be much easier
to do as instructed, rather than face the wrath of the headmistress.

The blows came in a succession of three. Stinging, burning
pain overwhelmed her as she fought back the tears for what seemed an eternity.
Stifled chuckles drifted from students in the distance.

Dreams was the only one who didn’t laugh at her friend’s
predicament. Her friend had contorted her face behind the nun’s back, and made
a few impolite gestures. The students burst into another round of laughter. The
nun whirled around to see what the snickering was about. But her robes once
again snared her ankles. She was suddenly a forest creature caught in a
leaf-riddled trap, and crashed to the floor.

Her head struck the desk behind her.

Heaven could only stare at the dead nun. There was no urge
to rush to her aid, to put her hands on her head, to make her better. But the
woman was a fellow human being, she knew she had no choice, and resigned
herself to help. She cautiously moved toward the fallen nun.

She gasped in horror as a black wall burst from the dirty
floor, slowly rising until it hit the grimy ceiling. When it came to a rest, it
had effectively separated her from the grisly scene of death in the room. It
was impenetrable. She couldn’t help the nun now, even if she’d really wanted
to.

She gazed in terror at the students. No one could see the
opaque wall but her. She suddenly understood. The nun would never go on to do
great things. As a matter of fact, after her death it was discovered the nun
was actually a man.

A man who sported a long track record of preying on small,
helpless children forgotten by society. He’d found the perfect place to take a
job. He’d fooled the entire staff, and all of the children.

That was the day she decided to make her escape. And it was
an escape well made, once she broke the lock on her door and found Dreams. The
pair had run for the distant hills, and had never looked back.

But she was suddenly confused. Her palms still stung from
the rapping by the man-nun.

She gazed at her hands in the moonlight, almost afraid to
bring them to her face. Inhaling deeply, she studied her palm. Not
surprisingly, it was blistered yet again. Maybe she’d ask Harmon for a pair of
gloves. That way, she might stay out of trouble.

She couldn’t be sure if they’d work. Trouble seemed to
follow her no matter where she went. She’d only remove them at bath time. At
least that would be a start to finding normalcy. Harmon would never know the
difference. She’d simply tell him her hands were often cold.

The familiar, searing pain was now slowly sweeping up her
wrist. Tiny bubbles formed beneath the skin, threatening to break open and
spill forth their poison. She fought back tears, as she slowly turned over her
other hand.

It too was blistered. But something was different. She
crawled toward the window, and positioned her hand under a beam of moonlight
weakly filtering through.

She was holding the photo of a beautiful, young girl. She
wore what appeared to be a school uniform from long ago, her long golden curls
floated gently down her neck. The photo was in pristine condition for its age.
She rolled her fingers along the corrugated sides. The paper was crisp and
seemingly new. She could almost smell the darkroom chemicals on the snapshot.

Harmon must have dropped it. She’d be sure to lay it back on
the desk as she quietly made her exit. She’d caused enough trouble for the day.
Actually, since she had stepped foot into his expansive castle. She wasn’t
about to let him know she’d been in his private study without permission.

She slowly pulled herself up and leaned against the desk.
She was tired. Very, very tired. But she knew she’d have to make it back
upstairs, somehow. Harmon mustn’t know she’d been in the study alone. All hell
would certainly break loose.

She tossed the photo onto the desk and quietly slipped out
the door.

* * *

Bice strolled into the kitchen.

He certainly hoped he hadn’t insulted Bonita. The poor maid
had gasped when he flexed his buttocks at her, and rushed to her room. The slam
of her door had echoed down the darkened corridor.

He hadn’t meant his question as a sexual innuendo, he merely
wanted her opinion. He always respected her opinions. She was a quiet woman,
but an honest woman. He sighed as he walked across the kitchen. His lips were
parched, and his tongue was plastered to the roof of his mouth.

He stuck his head into the fridge, and pushed aside the many
fine imported beers and ales. The Philly Monster was dead and buried, where it
would stay. He was much too strong to let it creep silently back into his life.
He would resist the urge.

He decided on a jar of juice. He flipped off the cap and
took a long drink. He turned and gazed at the lovely vases across the kitchen,
sitting proudly under the dim lights as the cool liquid nourished his lips.

Bonita had truly done a fine job polishing them. He
sincerely hoped she wouldn’t go to Harmon in the morning, accusing him of
sexual harassment. Perhaps, he’d visit her first thing in the morning and offer
his apologies.

Suddenly, reality came crashing down on him. He blinked his
eyes in astonishment at the glittering keepsakes, which spontaneously caused
him to swallow the beverage too late.

The liquid took a wrong turn. It filled his lungs until it
threatened to smother out his very existence. The jar crashed to the floor and
burst into an exotic orange rainbow across Thornton’s perfectly manicured tile.
He never felt it leave his hand.

He dropped to his knees as he struggled to breathe. He
gasped repeatedly as the searing amber liquid spewed from his nose. Salted
brine streamed from his eyes, his body jerked and flopped on the hard tile as a
fish might when suddenly pulled from the murky depths of a lost lagoon. Wheals
of moving flesh prickled along his arms as he once again fought for his life.

An eternity later, his breathing returned to normal. His
hands shook as he brushed the sticky hair from his face.

Now he was bleeding. Blood covered his palms and arms. He
grasped the kitchen island and heaved himself onto the chair. Still gasping, he
gazed at his arms and his legs. But he had no mortal wounds. There were no
wounds at all.

An overwhelming nausea overtook him as he studied the vases
once more. His head swam, wave after wave crashed against his skull. Damned
that hurricane. Damn it to hell. It was the reason Heaven was here. The blasted
storm was the reason the house had turned into a cathedral of the damned.

He must be in a movie, that was it. Any moment now someone
would certainly come into the kitchen, even at this late hour, and unplug the
projector. It would click and jump and grind in protest to a stop. The vases
would fall back into a million glittering pieces, like they were before. He’d
finish his juice and head upstairs to his waiting bed.

But his instincts told him things were far from normal.

The Philly Monster was slowly crawling up his legs. He could
feel its grimy tentacles as they wove and crisscrossed along his skin. Burning
freeways of slithery movement threatened to overtake him. He’d wake up in a pile
of sawdust if he relented. No, he’d be the sawdust.

Harmon would come into his suite in the morning, or in the
afternoon, or whenever the hell big Hollywood stars decided to climb out of bed
and find a pile of shriveled wood castings under the sheets.

Nothing would be left of him but an empty bottle of very,
very fine ale. And perhaps the imprint of his manly buttocks. Harmon would then
pour plaster-of-Paris into the crevices and have yet another conversation piece
for his future parties.

He already knew what he was looking at, as he gazed through
the vases to the floor beyond. But his mind couldn’t take it in. It couldn’t
absorb the reality of the blood-red swirls materializing through the crystal
fog. The painting was coming to life despite his fight against it.

He hadn’t even had a chance to dutifully accept the fact
that the vases were once again whole. It was too much to ask of a man who’d
nearly choked to death on juice only moments before. Maybe if it’d been a fine
beer or imported ale, it would have been worth it. But not a damned orange
juice.

He was suddenly a thousand miles away, cutting his breakfast
on a mirror. But no that wasn’t him anymore. He shook himself repeatedly,
trying to fling from his mind the image that lay before him. Like he’d done as
a child when the ants in his ant farm had died.

He’d pried the top off, and shook and pounded the tiny
entombed carcasses from their eternal desert sands. He’d stared at their tiny
bodies until the sun had set. The image stayed in his young mind for days. He
never quite got over the loss of his pet ants. He loved those damned ants.

But he knew he was in full control of his mind since he left
Philadelphia. That is, until Heaven made her presence in the household. A
household that was slowly morphing into a sanitarium. He should’ve seen to it
that Harmon stayed on tour and never came back to this place. Because the
mansion was now haunted. Haunted with an unexplainable presence which
materialized into a very beautiful girl who called herself, of all things,
Heaven.

The movie projector jolted back to life. It whirred and
crackled as it replayed its black and white film of impossibility to him. He
struggled to fight it, but once again was drawn helplessly into the silver
screen in front of him.

Through the shimmering and once again perfect butterflies,
dancing high above the frozen crystalline roses, lay Harmon in a pool of blood.