The Risen: Dawning (10 page)

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inner consisted of canned goods and meat in a color and shape that I have never seen in any supermarket. At the time, I was so hungry I did not think much of it. Now as I do, my stomach does a warning roll to stop. The conversation around me ebbs and flows with various mood swings. Each time it flows to a serious note a new tide is inserted to change its course. No one has the strength yet to talk about the day, even as long glances are being cast my way when the swings go south. Though we are all curious about the shadowed looks the conversations place upon each of our faces, no one wants to share first. Who would? “Hey, I stabbed a room full of kids today. How was your morning?”, is not the most encouraging of starters.

Chapel decides to do it anyway though. His own soul is bursting with the need of it. I wonder if all religious men are so immune to others efforts of avoidance of soul baring or if ours is just super talented at it.

“I lost them all.” His statement brings the room to a hush. Everyone at the table does their best to find something amazing on the walls around us. Everyone ,that is, but our leader, J.D. He leans back in the chair, giving Chapel the full weight of his blank stare. If Chapel is going to be strong enough to take the journey, then J.D. is going to be strong enough to travel it silently with him.

Lawless discovers how interesting the engraved art is on his lighter. Rhett makes an amazing find under his thumbnail and begins to stare at it with concerning confusion. Marxx is overcome with a sudden urge to wash his plate, taking him away from not only the table, but also any involvement in the conversation. Even our lighthearted pixie begins to treat the leftover vegetables on her plate as if they are a scientific discovery of wonders. I myself am curious. Will his be as bad as mine? Will I find some redemption for my sins in his story? Will this finally open the door for all of our ghosts that have been haunting us throughout the day to storm through? Will the door be able to close again if they do? Or, are we still too fragile to open the door at all, much less breathe life into the nightmares that haunt us in our minds?

“It started with the little ones. They complained of feeling wrong last night, but other than a small fever they were fine. We sent them to bed. We checked on them a few times before we went to bed ourselves. They were fine. A little warm, but fine. Then Trina woke earlier than normal. She was so sick. Her fever just kept climbing, but she kept refusing to go to the ER. We would have to wake the kids and all, you know. Mother’s logic, it being what it is. I left to get her a cool rag. She was right there in the bedroom. I could not have been gone for more than a few minutes. I came back and she was gone. Her body still burning hot, but she was gone.”

His eyes shift side to side, not seeing us right now. He is reliving his own projections of memories behind those eyes.

“I was so confused. Who do you call, and admit, to letting your wife die while you were getting her a rag? I just shut off, you know. Tucked the blankets in around her. Made her more comfortable like I guess. Then I just left her. I don’t know. I just left her. God forgive me, I just left her and went to sit with the kids.”

His voice never cracks as the first tear escapes, forging the path down his lined face.

“Their little bodies were all contorted in their beds. Sheets tangled around them something forceful. It’s their eyes though, all glazed over, looking right at you, that tells you. Tells you they are gone. I do not remember walking into the room but I must’ve. I must’ve because I remember touching them. Their little bodies were soaked and so stiff. Like soft plastic but still warm. I always thought the dead were supposed to be cold, you know. They were warm. Not as warm as Trina but still…..warm.”

He keeps whispering the word warm like a taboo word in church. As if it holds some damning qualities the rest of us do not notice yet. Like white carpet mixed with so much red.

“I just shut their door and sat there in the hallway. I don’t remember how long. I don’t remember how I got the pistol either. My wife is dead. My kids are dead. I just wanted to join them. I did not want to be alone, you know. There I was in that hallway with all our pictures looking at me and I could not imagine being without them. Those damn pictures. I was just about to pull the trigger when I heard it. It was like something fell in the kids’ room. I remember just sitting there. Just listening, when I heard it again. It was the damn door. Something was hitting it. Hitting it hard.”

His hands begin to clench into tight fists before releasing to only repeat the process. He seems to hunch over with his grief as he talks. His shoulders fall inward making him shrink upon himself. For the first time, I see Chapel broken and brittle before us. I look to J.D. for his reaction and those powerful eyes hold mine, still set in a blank face. Like me, he is waiting for the revelations to begin. It makes me wonder what sins of his own he is holding Chapel’s up against.

“I remember seeing that damn door knob move. Just a little. It rotated so slow I thought I must have been imagining it until the damn thing did it again. I just sat there. Gun still to my head. Just sitting there like a damn daydream when the door started to shake. The damn fingers. Their damn fingers were under the door pulling on it. Shaking it. I just sat there. Sat through it all. God forgive me, I just sat there as they tore open those damn fingers on the wood pulling against it so hard. I called out, you know. Told them stop that now. “Kay, Ken, you stop that.” They did. They did. Just froze there, but they just started back up again. Rattling that damn door. Never saying a word no matter what I called out. I remember that door opening finally. I think I was almost relieved, you know. Stopped the damn noise. It just sits there though. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t close. Just sits there and me a grown man too afraid to go look. I am their Father and I am too afraid to go look. They were gone. I checked. No heart beat. Nothing. Gone. Yet here is their damn fingers under the door still. Just sitting. Those tiny little fingers.”

I notice how he never says dead. Is that word too final or just impossible to believe? The dead do not put their fingers under the door to escape from a room. The dead do not try to even escape a room to begin with. At least they did not till today. Today the dead have a completely new bag of tricks.

“I called out again. Hell if I know why, but I did. Those fingers slid up the doorframe, never stopping. They just slid right around and there they were. Standing there. Staring right at me like they were as confused to see me and I was to see them. You know, for a moment, I was so happy to see them there. My kids, you know. My kids. Something just wasn’t right though. Their eyes. Something about the eyes. Like fish eyes. Dead fish eyes when they cloud over like that. That’s what it was like. What they are all like. Why is it always the eyes?”

He pauses, clearing his throat. Aimes slides him her glass, still amazed by her plate. No matter how hard they have been pretending to not be here, at this moment, they are. Each of them are lost in the moment. Ingesting every word he says. They are comparing it to their ghosts. Taking notes for any similarities to help them find comfort from their trials. Only J.D. and I have the strength to be here openly. We both sit watching Chapel’s every moment of memory. A sick version of truth or dare between us. I have already learned where dares can take one. I will brave the truths.

“I called out to Kay. My girl. My sweet girl. It was almost funny, really, the way their heads cocked slowly at the same time. We used to own a little mutt of a dog that would do that same thing when it heard something. That cock, you know. It never attacked me though. They did. I swear they did. Came right at me. Still all calm like. Just walked right up to me, like needing a hug or something, but then they attacked me. Those little hands that I have held a thousand times just started to pull on me. They kept trying to bite me. My kids. Fighting me. I didn’t want to. God forgive me, I didn’t want to. Those fish eyes staring at me on those faces that used to belong to my kids. God forgive me, but I did. I shot them. One bullet each. I shot them right there in that hallway. In the hallway surrounded by all those damn pictures.”

“…and the wife?” J.D. asks, his voice showing no reflections to the story told.

“Didn’t take any chances.” Is all Chapel says on the matter.

“Till death do you part,” J.D. says as he downs whatever amber liquid was left in his glass, “then death again.”

“It was my old man.” Lawless never looks up from his lighter, completely unmoved, when he speaks. If you did not know his voice, you would never have known he spoke.

“He wasn’t feeling well. Took him to the doctor just the day before. Viral they said. Gave him some shots. Some new vaccine, too. Supposed to help save your life. Make you live longer or something. Irony huh?”

His words are clipping short. His sentences are providing no more than the basic needs of his ideas. That warm voice I have grown so used to is now dull and flat. Tired. Defeated.

“So all is good. Just a normal day. Go to get him up and he’s just standing there. His back to me. I thought it was just going to be another one of those days when the Alzheimer’s really gets a hold of him. I’ll go in. Put him back in bed. Turn his T.V. on and wait. He’ll wake up. Bitch at me for being in his room and want to know why his breakfast is late. No big deal. I don’t even think about it. I put my hand on his shoulder to help him back into bed when he lunges at me. I’m used to it. He gets combative sometimes. No big deal. I push him off me and normally that’s it. This time he came back again. Harder.”

Each “no big deal” is accented with a short shrug of his shoulders. The engraving is becoming more interesting now as he brings the lighter up close to his face to examine it. He never takes his brown eyes off the lighter. It is such a small object for him to use as a shield before such a large monster sneaking up on us.

Something on my face must have shown my concern for him, and it places the full weight of J.D.’s eyes on me. His finger silently tap the glass’s rim in his hand with our eyes locked. I know what he is not saying to me. One word from me and the fragile thread of bravery in the room will be plucked from Lawless. It will rob him of his need to release these confessions. I say nothing. Like a priest in a wooden booth, I say nothing to break the spell.

“Chap’s right about the eyes. Never thought of fish, but yeah, it works. He kept coming at me. Wouldn’t answer to his name. Just kept coming. I hit him. Right in the face. Bounced right back up. His nose was all messed up. It never even slowed him down. So, I hit him again. I thought of my Mom. All those times he hit her. I thought of all the times he hit me.” He shrugs, flipping the lighter to spark its flame before shutting it again. “He isn’t going to be hitting anyone anymore.”

“I thought my parents were fighting.” Our pink tinted pixie says as the sharing continues. “They did that. A lot. Mom would say something to get him really sparked and it would go back and forth until she hit below the belt. Verbally. They never actually hit each other. Mom’s words did more damage anyway than any blow she could land. She was a peach like that. Dad would storm out and come back hours later, smelling of smoke and that same perfume that always caused him to smile. Mom never had a come back to that smile.”

“Anyway, there they were, Dad on top of her, holding her down and choking her. I thought, this was it. All these years, it has finally come to it. I was screaming for him to get off her and he kept telling me to go back to my room. “Go upstairs Amelia.” Just like when I was a kid and they would start in on each other. “Go upstairs, Amelia.”

Though I had just had the exact same dinner as she, I could not recognize the vegetative substance on her plate. Even as she used it to paint green abstract art style patterns, her eyes never focus. Not the way the eyes of everyone around her are now focusing. We stare at the small woman among us with unrestrained sorrow. When Evil dances with a male, it is more bearable than when it chooses such a partner as she.

“She was making these sounds and really fighting. She just couldn’t reach him no matter how much she struggled. He was just sitting there choking her as if it was the same as reading the Sunday paper. No emotions at all. I went and got the little gun Mom kept in her nightstand. I was just going to threaten him, like they show on those shows, and the man always backs down. He wouldn’t though. Just kept telling me “It’s not what it looks like.” “Go to your room.” over and over. I kept screaming for him to stop and he kept screaming at me to go. I don’t know how. It just went off. It was so fast that I didn’t even understand what had happened at first. He was yelling and then he was down. But it was OK. I was just protecting Mom, so it was OK. Till she started eating him.”

She stands up from the table, taking her new modern art piece to the sink and making Marxx wince with her proximity. Losing her own emotional battle, she still reaches out to comfort Marxx before turning to leave the room. Our gentle pink pixie is broken and retreating.