The Risen: Dawning (2 page)

I
n moments of mind numbing tragedy, it is easy to overlook reality. We cling to only what we want to see like a fractured mirror of the event. Our minds become too afraid of the smaller shards that could so easily cut us. We focus on the largest shards that hold the biggest images. Those images stand out the most. They are the boldest. We never see the small shards that are hiding and silently waiting on us to notice them. This is a pity. Often those shards do the most damage to us.

Conroy’s eyes stop their dance of confusion and become wide-eyed with terror. I can see the effects as his body begins to tremble. His arm lifts, pointing an extended finger behind me. Even Ashley’s body becomes stiff and ridged. The whole room seems to become electric with a new energy as both children react to some unseen shift of mood. My own mind that is still locked in its precious cocoon begins to switch gears when my senses warn that something is not right yet again.

My world has become so focused on Ashley’s screams and her fighting that now, in the silent aftermath, even the soft whispering footsteps behind me seem as loud as thunder. Carol’s steps are slow and steady, unlike my own pulse that is mounting in my throat. My whole being is telling me to not turn around. I am never a very good listener to advice that is given to me.

In the short life span of time that has loomed before us, Carol has gone unnoticed by me. Ashley, who had just moments ago been ready to claw her way through me to reach her, has begun to mirror Carol’s steps. The difference being that she is going backwards towards Conroy. Conroy in return has figured out his sister’s new path. She steps to the side to shield him behind her and I kneel watching it all unfold before me. I am a detached audience member of a well-choreographed show. Minus the mood inspiring music and the safety netting that real life always seems to be lacking.

I feel the trembling of fingertips on my shoulder and my spine shivers from the touch. Carol’s low moaning comes from above me with a never before heard tone from her. It snaps my eyes straight ahead and tenses my body. My eyes roll up the walls tilting my head backwards to keep my sight ahead of me until I stare up at my mother’s face. What I see paralyzes me with confusion of how such a beautiful woman’s face could melt down to such pure animalistic hunger when I feel her push against my body. It rocks me to the floor and the screaming starts anew. Except this time, the screams are my own.

I have never been in any form of altercation with my mother before. Our battles were always more of the passive-aggressive showdowns. Never did we have any true form of aggressive conflicts. Those would have required her to touch me, hold me, and see me. She would have to acknowledge me in some step of human nature. Now as she collapses upon me with no heed to her own well-being, I am at a loss as how to combat this. I brace her neck with my forearm, keeping her snarling face from mine. The stench and sounds coming from her throat add a new spice of panic to the attack, kicking my brain into action.

I can feel her body pinning mine with our struggles. Her hands try to grab some part of me but her frenzied attacks are making her clumsy. They claw at my face and shoulders, but my curled legs keep enough space between our torsos, only allowing her fingertips to land their marks. Slowly I pull my legs up tight against me, fighting for every inch it provides between us. Every inch is safety as my own body is fighting for survival. Every inch I fight for until I am able to use the tight ball of my body as a counter weight, rolling us over and lifting myself away from my mother. She fights with the same urgency to keep me near her. I drag my body backwards in some over-played girl victim crawl to escape. Carol wastes no time crawling forwards after me. She is pure hunter in motion and I realize I am her prey.

My back collides with the wall, hard, and yet I still make the motions of escape leaving me treading, reaching nowhere. The constant vibrations of my movements send the lowest smiling framed memory crashing to the floor near me. I scream, afraid of some new attack upon me, but it is only a picture of my mother smiling and posed in a garden. It frames some mockery of the current events as my real mother is grasping at my jean-clad legs, snarling and crawling up me no matter how hard I kick at her.

I start to raise my hands to defend against her assault with the mental clarity that I know I need a weapon. My mind is finally switching gears from seeing this thing before me as Carol and seeing it as my death. What I had refused to see only moments ago is now flashing before me and it is wrong. It is all so very wrong.

Carol was not grieving. She was not cleaning. She was killing. As I stare into those faded blue eyes glaring back at me, I know somewhere deep inside myself that this is no longer my mother. It is some kind of monster wearing her skin. The noises were never from shock but her own deep well of pure hunger and need. A need no sane person should have. A well none of us ever want to admit to owning.

Time seems to slow as I glance from the monster ahead of me, to my siblings beyond, and Lilly beside me. My hands that I am holding out before me are shaded in red. I can feel my legs becoming cold as the blood from the carpet sneaks its way into the fabric of my jeans. It chills me with its truth. Spots of it dot my exposed stomach and stain the half tank top of my work shirt from my crawling escape. The same exposed torso that I am fighting to keep safe is now covered in the damning evidence of what I was refusing to see before.

Sounds explode as I come back to myself. Screams, my own and my siblings, fill the air around us in a nonverbal punctuation of the situation. My eyes land on the smiling frame staring at me with its scenic beauty. The ironically twisted part of my self swears to hear the laughter captured in the picture as it watches the events unfold around us. That imagined laughter strikes a cord of anger deep inside me. It is the anger over Lilly’s death at her hands. It is the anger over being attacked. It is the anger over all the past smiles that were never for me.

My own hands grasp the picture before I even realize what I intend to do with it. With strength unknown to myself, I raise the fragile glass encased memory and bring it down upon Carol’s head. New sounds fill the room as I lift and smash the frame, releasing all the fear and anger inside me with a scream each time. Gore sticks to the broken metal and the glass in my hands. It coats the smiling face before slipping into the spider web design that I am causing with each slam until the room becomes still. I hold it high, holding my breath, waiting, but there is no movement from the thing before me. It is slumped over, half covering my legs and half draping onto the floor. Only the largest piece of glass still remains in the frame, leaving the precious memento vulnerable. It is as if Karma has reached out her hand in her own sick style making the two scenes match now.

I stare at the broken skull of my mother with neither remorse nor victory. The tiny glass shards entwine in the ruin of her blonde hair. They sparkle up at me like glitter in a red hue. These are the small shards. They get us every time.

I
kick Carol’s body off mine with a mixture of sick satisfaction and relief in my own recipe of survival. The sound of it slowly sliding down the stairs only to gain speed from the weight of her limp body does cause a slow smile before I can stop it. I am not sure if I need a smoke or a hug, but I do know there is time for neither. Something has gone horribly wrong in this house. We have to get out.

Sliding up the wall, I stand and for the first time I see myself in the glass reflections around me. Their beautiful stolen moments a stark contrast to my own image. My dark hair is wild and unkempt. Something I know would cause my mother angst if she was not dead on the floor below us. The flesh of my face is hardening from the splashed gore upon it. With the dark make-up from last night still going strong, my torn soaked jeans, newly decorated stomach and shirt, I look like a bad B flick horror star.

I really wish there is a Director to scream “Cut!” right about now but this is not a movie. There is no Director to coach me through whatever comes next. There is just Ashley and Conroy staring at me with their wide eyes as if I have some secret knowledge as what to do next. And me, the Mother murdering Sister slasher savior. Try saying that three times fast with a straight face.

We exchange no words as I take their hands and lead them down the stairs. The normal morning routine is blown to hell and forgotten. There is no need to fight over getting dressed. Pajamas are just fine when your mother goes on a psychotic murdering spree. There is no need for breakfast. Whose stomach could hold down a meal at this moment anyway? The only thought process now is to get out. We need to get help. We need to find someone to make this seem OK in some small shape of a way. If that idea is even possible at this point?

We do not even pause to glance one last time at our mother’s broken body. I think we have all accepted that it is not her. It will make it easier that way. It is not our mother that did these horrible acts just moments ago. It is not our mother that killed Lilly. It is not our mother who was possibly eating our baby Sister for a light breakfast snack. It is not even our mother that attacked me in some unnatural killer rage. It is just a thing. It is a dead thing now. It cannot hurt us anymore. We believe we are safe as we exit what we once thought of as a safe place. It is a pity how the world does not hold our beliefs as precious as we do.

We drive in silence for a long time, each locked in a prison of their own point of view. The surrounding landscape is silent in an almost inconsiderate way. Where is the panic-filled scenery that we are each feeling? Where is the screaming town with their mad, high speeding cars to escape? I will even settle for some form of gridlock traffic in a desperate evacuation attempt of the town. Someone, somewhere, should be running out to motion us to safety. There should be some acknowledgment of the horrors we just escaped around us. Some form of solidarity. There is nothing.

The birds are still singing in some overly optimistic tune of theirs with cords and pitches that mock my mood. The sun still shines, in an all too vivid refusal of the past events, and we drive forward to the one morning routine we still have to cling to in our own denial as noon starts to creep upon us. School.

“She was a zombie.” Conroy’s small voice startles me. I over steer the car for a brief moment, and meet the rolling eyes of Ashley in the rear view mirror as the cost.

“Conroy, there is no such thing as zombies.” I reply, matching the eye roll in the mirror.

“Think about it. She was eating Lilly. She was trying to eat you. That makes her a zombie. Hello, I’ve seen the movies!” He stresses his response.

“Conroy, there is no such thing as zombies!” Ashley and I say together.

“Then what did happen?” With our refusal for his logic, he is soft spoken and fearful of our answer.

I have no answers. I only know that the word zombie ranks right up there with sparkling vampires and teen heart throb werewolves with perfect abs. In my mind they are not real, lame and not real.

“Besides, did you hear her mutter the word brains even once? Everyone knows zombies go around saying brains over and over with some lame body limp walk. Duh!” Yes, that is my sister Ashley. She is the keeper of all the soundproof logic of the world. I smile as they debate the beyond truth zombie facts that everyone should already know in the back seat. The small sliver of a responsible side I own knows I should stop it, but I cannot. The sound of their child pitched voices in their heated debate brings some small sense of normal back to the day and a smile to my face. It is something I have not worn in a long time. I cherish it now.

This is what mornings are supposed to sound like. The birds are singing high up in the trees around us. The hum of my small compact car as we travel down the two lane small town roads. The horrible pop music they make me listen to. I mean really, how many people can Taylor break up with in one album? The kids spending the car ride debating some small fact that holds no real weight to the world. They argue as if some event of epic proportions depends on their side winning.

I glance in the rear view mirror to see the animated verbal tennis match causing me to smile wider. My mind drifts to mornings where Ashley would never agree with Conroy and Conroy would continue to counter Ashley’s points until the whole thing dissolved into a giant “yuhuh”/”nuhuh” mess. It is then that Lilly would join in, clapping her small hands and chanting along with both sides until I have to end it for pure sanity reasons. However, Lilly will not be joining in today.

My smile fades as my chest becomes tight with grief and reality sneaks up on me. I can see Lilly’s broken frame on the floor where we left her and I have to close my eyes against the image as I come back to the now. I can feel the sting of tears and I know that if they start, I will not be able to stop them. Memories will flood and break the fragile dam holding back the weight of my heart.

I see my memories of her long ashen hair flowing behind her as she runs. She was always running. Always on the go. She was always laughing with her bell-like giggles. She was always gentle. Always loving to those around her with her soaked in perfect youth-filled innocence.

The new image of her twists the truths that I know of her. She was never so still. She was never so silent. She was never so broken. Yet here, in the back seat, remain two voices that are a reminder that I have no time for grief. They are depending on me to figure this out. Depending on me to find us safety. I breathe through the pain, rebuild the dam, and blink past the threatening tears. There will be time to grieve for our broken flower later. There are answers for “why” out there somewhere waiting to explain it all to us. There has to be. No matter what the sun and birds refuse to accept. There has to be.

“Helena?” Conroy’s small voice floats to me.

“Hmmm?” Is all I dare trust my voice with in my mix of grief and false confidence.

“Where is Dad?” He asks.

That is a good question. I glance back in the rear view mirror to let him know I still have no answers for him as another debate begins to his whereabouts.