Unhinged (3 page)

“Let me up, Logan,” I command in my best
assertive voice. He isn’t buying it.

“I’ll let you up, but it is going to cost
you,” he warns.

Butterflies invade my stomach as I
contemplate the odds of me getting away before he states his offer.
I look at Dejana for help, but see that she has disappeared. Not
sure now if I want to thank her or punch her, I put on my best
stern face and look back at Logan, intent on telling him I am not a
person to be trifled with, but the look on his face stops me cold.
I see seriousness in his eyes, the likes of which I haven’t seen
since Tyler stabbed me in the torture room in the middle of
nowhere. It was a miracle that Dejana found us in time to save us.
But even that came with a price. A price I am not willing to pay
again. Ever.

“What’s wrong?” I ask as I sit up in his lap
and place my gloved hands on his shoulder. “Please tell me,” I
plead.

Logan’s hands placed on either side of my
waist tighten and curl, crunching up bits of my black shirt. His
stare gives nothing away except that he’s struggling; yet
struggling with what, I have no idea. His brow furrows deep in
thought, and he stares at me in such a strange way, it makes me
wish I could get up and leave. Yet here I stay, mesmerized by his
eyes and anchored by his hands. I place my gloved hand on his face
in a silent plea for him to come back to me. The minute he feels my
glove against his skin, the intense stare is gone. His eyes begin
to refocus and he blinks multiple times in an effort to clear his
thoughts and confusion. Logan looks around the luxurious, albeit
empty, basement.

“Where did Dejana go?” he asks in a
completely normal voice, as if the last minute never happened.
After such a weird day, I decide to let it go. My mind honestly
can't handle any more weirdness.

“No idea where she went. How about we go and
find her?” I suggest as I move off his lap and offer my gloved hand
for him to take. Logan shakes off his confusion and accepts my hand
with a smile.

“With you by my side, girl, I would go
anywhere,” he states, his lip curving up into the familiar sexy
lopsided smile. Together, we climb the steps to the second floor
kitchen and find Dejana raiding the fridge.

“You two have fun while I was gone?” she
asks, not even bothering to come out of the fridge and look at us
as she speaks. “I know you don’t get a lot of alone time at either
of your houses. Good thing my parents work all the time.”

Realizing that Dejana must be alone a great
deal, I decide to invite her for dinner. Her family may be loaded,
but both her parents also live for their jobs. It doesn’t leave
much time for Dejana.

“Hey, do you want to come and have dinner
with me?” I ask her, hoping I sound nonchalant. She finally comes
out from the depths of the fridge with a leftover chicken finger
from Chick-fil-A in her mouth.

“And miss all this greatness?” she says
sarcastically, motioning with her hand towards her house. “No,
thank you.”

I sometimes forget how proud she is, how hard
it is for her to ask anyone for anything. Despite her popularity
and her great personality, she doesn’t seem to mind being
alone.

“Besides,” she adds, “I need to stay here and
complete my painting for AP art design. But thanks for the invite,
amiga,” she finishes, gently nudging me with her hip to soften
declining.

Logan and I say our goodbyes and climb into
his Nissan once again to head home. We drive in relative silence,
the hum of the car lulling me into a pensive state. For the first
time today, I welcome the silence. So many strange things have
happened since I woke this morning and I don’t want to open myself
up to any more occurrences. Besides, after the episode in the
basement with Logan going all weird on me, I’m afraid to say much
of anything for fear it will happen again.

We arrive at my house, just a short ten
minutes away from Dejana’s neighborhood, and I see the light on in
the kitchen. Mary is home and cooking. I hope I’m not too late. I
grab my book bag and look awkwardly at Logan. We don’t kiss goodbye
like normal couples since I am still very leery of any kind of
contact. But we don’t need kisses; our bond is stronger than that.
Our bond brought me back from the dead;
he
brought me back.
When I died, I saw an image of him in a lake. I left behind all the
beauty of heaven for the promise that was him. Since then, he has
shown me exactly how awesome it can be to live. I look at him with
all the love I have yet to divulge and say my usual departure
line.

“Only for a little while,” I state, my voice
cracking a bit.

“Or five minutes past forever,” he returns
with
his
usual departure line.

I exit the car and run to the front door,
pull out my keys from my pocket, and let myself into the house. In
the kitchen, I can hear familiar sounds of cooking. I drop
everything and head straight there, hoping to help at least a
little bit with the preparation. I am not the kind of teenager that
takes a parent for granted. I spent my whole life in and out of
foster care. I know what it is to be unloved, unwanted, and to live
on the streets. I know what secrets lurk behind the façade of the
happy family. I will take Mary over that crap any day. So, I do
what I can to make her life a little bit easier.

I push open the revolving door to the kitchen
and see Mary, dressed in her dark blue pantsuit, and cooking in
heels. She put her long blonde hair up with a two small chopsticks
she keeps in the cutlery drawer. For a woman in her mid-forties,
she is in top shape and the ideal weight. She watches what she eats
and tries to see the good in life. I accidentally absorbed her
memories shortly after I came to live with her. I saw nothing but
good, kind thoughts and a willingness to help people. I knew then
that I never wanted to leave her.

She is singing a song as she cooks, the steam
rising up and flushing her cheeks. She tastes the broth the chicken
is cooking in and declares it is ready for consumption. She turns
to the already set table to put the pot full of chicken on it and
jumps slightly, startled to see me standing there in the
kitchen.

“Oh Aimee, you scared me! When did you get
in, hon?” she asks, thankfully nonplussed by my late arrival.

“Just now, actually. Sorry I’m late. I meant
to be home in time to help you make dinner.”

“No worries,” she says cheerily. “I decided
that I had done enough today and left a bit early so I could cook
you dinner. I hope you’re in the mood for chicken.”

“Sure,” I respond, a bit taken back by this
change of events. As nice as Mary is, she still expects me to hold
up my end of the household; which includes cleaning toilets,
keeping the living room free of clutter, and helping cook dinners.
We usually cook together, seamlessly moving around the kitchen,
lending our talents to whatever is needed. I am pretty good at
cutting; she specializes in adding spices to dishes that make them
taste amazing. I look at her bustling around the kitchen, dinner
completed and on the table, and I wonder why she really came home
early.

I wash my hands and we both sit down at the
table. Mary serves me chicken and mashed potatoes before offering
me a roll. We eat in silence for a minute before I hear Mary clear
her throat beside me. A clear indicator that she is about to talk,
and I am not going to like it one bit.

“So,” she begins, “how are you handling what
happened at school today? I hear it got pretty rough in there.”

So that’s what this is all about. Cooking
dinner alone, not being upset at my late arrival; it’s all out of
concern for my mental well-being and how I’m dealing with what
happened today at lunch with Mr. Hardigree. Damn, this is going to
turn into a therapy session. I hate talking about my feelings
almost as much as I hate touching people. Nah, the suckiness that
is talking about feelings wins hands down.

“I’m fine, really,” I state emphatically as I
shove food into my mouth. Mary always says one can’t talk with a
full mouth. I just might get out of this. Besides, the sooner I get
this food down, the sooner I can escape to my room.

“You don’t seem fine. In fact, you look far
from fine. Unless of course shoving food into your mouth like it’s
going to disappear is the definition of fine,” she points out.

I say nothing, which is an obvious invitation
for Mary to continue.

“In fact, avoidance therapy is the stage
after shock. What you experienced in the cafeteria today must have
shaken you, and your mind has shut it away so you don’t have to
experience it again. Pretending nothing happened is the mind’s best
defense against horror, and the least effective at dealing with the
problem.”

Shock? Really? I know that Mary is aware of
my curse, but I am certain now more than ever that she doesn’t
truly understand it. If she did, she would know that I already
house hundreds of ‘shocking’ memories. I don’t need to avoid them;
I can relive them at any time. Shock would be a blessing for some
of the feelings that I have experienced over the years—especially
the last few months after absorbing Tyler’s memories of murder and
mayhem. Avoidance therapy you say, Mary? I wish it were that
easy.

With truly nothing to add to the
conversation, I shove another spoonful of mashed potatoes into my
mouth. I am three more spoonfuls away from freedom. I keep my head
down and concentrate on my plate, hoping Mary gets the hint that I
don’t want to talk about my feelings. Mainly because I want to
protect her from all the horrible and disgusting memories I deal
with daily. If she knew what memories I harbored in my mind, she’d
hire an in house therapist and never let her leave my side.

The sound of a fork hitting the floor
startles me. I look up from my mashed potatoes and see Mary holding
her head. Despite my earlier annoyance, concern instantly fills
me.

I wouldn’t say Mary is a delicate flower per
say, but her stint in the hospital almost dying from smoke
inhalation has definitely made her more fragile. Hell, it would
soften most people. Most normal people at least. For a freak like
me, facing death and coming out the other end damaged but alive,
changed me. It has made me hard, unbending, and unwilling to let
anything I love come to harm. Some would call that strength. Most
would call it stubborn. I just call it my life.

“Mary, are you okay?” I ask in a soft voice,
careful not to startle her.

Her eyes are vacant as they stare off into
space. She begins to rock back and forth in her chair, both hands
cradling her head. She begins to murmur to herself, but I can’t
make out what she’s saying. The scene from the lunchroom today
comes flooding back. I have never been more scared in my short life
than I am right now. I have no idea what to do; helplessness
consumes me. Then I remember what happened to Logan in Dejana’s
basement and how my touch brought him out of his trance. I get up
out of my seat and slowly approach her. I gently put my hand on her
shoulder, hoping it comforts rather than startles her.

“Mary,” I repeat in a soft whisper. “Please,
tell me what’s wrong. What can I do to help you?” I ask, desperate
to find a way to get through to her. I’m not sure if she feels my
hand on her or not. She doesn’t try to remove my hand, but doesn’t
acknowledge it either. Panic boils up inside me. Okay, enough of
the careful approach; time for more desperate measures.

“Dammit, Mary, stop it this instant!” I
scream in the best scolding mom voice I can muster. I even stomp my
foot on the floor for good measure. My voice must have gotten
through to her because she stops rocking, removes her hands from
her head, and begins to look around. Confusion marks every feature
of her face. When her eyes land on me, her sweet smile returns as
she pats my gloved hand still resting on her shoulder.

“Aimee, dear, why are you up from your seat?
You know you can’t be excused until you're finished with your food.
Is everything alright? Do you need something else to drink,
sweetie?” she asks, clearly unaware that five seconds ago she was
murmuring to herself like a lunatic.

“Sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I’m
not very hungry right now. Can I be excused please?” I ask, hoping
she doesn’t notice how my voice shakes.

“Well, of course dear. I’m not feeling well
myself, either. I think I may go ahead and go to bed. Do you mind
cleaning up the kitchen for me?” she asks, her voice normal with no
hint of confusion or idea that something was off.

I nod, still confused by what just happened.
Maybe I just imagined it. There’s that avoidance therapy again,
rearing its ugly head.

“Thank you, sweetie,” says Mary, giving my
head its usual pat since she learned from the beginning I don’t
like to be kissed, even if she’s never understood why.

I watch her walk away, my heart heavy with
worry for her. I have no clue what’s going on today with people
acting so strangely. I am no fortuneteller but I have a bad feeling
that something terrible is coming. And I have no idea how to stop
it.

Chapter
Four

~ Grown in Darkness ~

The air surrounding him is a thick and dense
fog, as if the world senses he is in need of cover. In David’s
mind, this is simply another way that the universe is showing him
he is on the right path to his destiny. He hides behind a large
willow tree, patiently waiting for his victim to settle down for
the night. None of them are chosen at random. He is methodical and
precise, which leaves no room for error. Mistakes are for the weak.
Every detail of his carefully laid plan is worked and reworked
until every possible outcome is realized and appropriate measures
are taken. He leaves nothing to chance; no avenue that would hinder
or alter the path that he knows fate has for him.