Anathema (3 page)

Once I leave Griffin’s room, I grab my
backpack and head out the door. The grass is moist from heavy dew.
I almost trip over the newspaper on the porch and scoot it aside.
I’m halfway to my Jeep when I spot the same blonde as yesterday—the
dead ringer for Sarah. I debate letting her keep walking and
chalking her striking resemblance to Sarah up as part of my
overworked imagination, but there’s already so much up in the air I
can’t juggle anymore. Considering how Griffin is struggling to deal
with Jayzee, I have to know if it really is Sarah. If it is, maybe
she can give me some answers.

I take a deep breath and shove my backpack
into the driver’s seat. In my hurry to catch the girl, I leave the
driver’s door open. Half of me wants to go back and shut it, but
all I can really see right now is that the woman is halfway down
the street and getting father and father away each moment I waste;
if she gets away, she takes all the answers with her. I run after
her, feeling the wind tossing my long hair behind me.

My heart is racing, and I feel so far behind,
like I’ll never be able to catch up. She turns at a corner. It
seems she’s speeding up, but really it’s the same pace, as though
it really doesn’t matter whether I catch her. I squint, trying to
tell if her profile also looks like Sarah, but considering I’m
running and freaked out, it’s pretty hard to tell so I run faster,
reminding myself I have to find out for sure.

By the time I’ve almost caught her, my heart
is slamming in my chest, and it’s hard for me to breathe. I need to
run more often, I think, wondering if I’m going to be able to go
the last few steps. I stretch out my arm, and when my fingers
finally feel her shirt, she shrugs my hand away and keeps
walking.

I abruptly lose my balance and fall onto the
concrete, taking the hide off my knees. I’m expecting her to stop,
but she just keeps going, and I force myself to stand despite the
ache in my legs.

“Stop!” I yell, sprinting toward her.

And she does. I catch my breath and force
myself to step around her so I can see her face. In that moment,
when Sarah’s features come into sharp focus, I gasp.

“You.” My voice is breathless and weak as I
take a stumbling step backwards.

“Stay away from me,” she hisses, glaring. Her
fingers quickly ball into fists, and she grits her teeth angrily.
Her long blonde hair hangs limply down the front of her shirt and
her skin seems uneven, not refined like when I last saw her. Her
pale face seems more gaunt than usual, and she takes a step back
despite the way her shoulders stiffen, seeming to beg for a
fight.

“You aren’t supposed to be here.” My voice is
cold and calculating as I remember what has happened between us,
the deception she was party to that almost destroyed so many.

“Well, that doesn’t matter because I am.” She
gives me one last scathing look before trying to walk past.

“So how did you manage it?” I step in front
of her to block her path, but even as I move I feel the warmth
begin to wriggle through me, the parasitic feeling of the dagger.
My stomach aches and I feel nauseated.

“Like I’ll tell you.” She side-steps me.

I grab her arm. “You will tell me—one way or
another.”

Sarah tries to break free, but my fingers
clench tightly around her arm. “Let go.” I see the shimmer of the
aura around her, and her eyes seem to turn brighter, suggesting her
supernatural essence. At once, my hand burns, and I jerk it away.
“Back off. Now!”

I feel my body flying through the air, and I
slam against a nearby fire hydrant. The burning from the dagger
spreads through me until I can barely breathe. My vision wanes to
blackness, and suddenly the burning is excruciating; all I can do
is scream as loudly as I can.

The pain in my head wakes me to a dark world
illuminated only by a single street lamp and a luminous, full moon
hanging in a starless sky. Wincing, I sit up, and my hand
immediately drifts to the back of my head where I must have struck
the hydrant. Although I scan the street in both directions, I see
no pedestrians or even cars, for that matter. The only sounds that
break the stillness are the rapid thud of my heart in my chest and
the rasp of leaves against each other driven by the wind.

I glance down the street to see my Jeep still
sitting in the driveway—the driver’s door half-open as I left it
before Sarah and I got into it. Shaking my head, I try to get rid
of that stuffed feeling in my brain, the sensation that I’m not
entirely awake or asleep that coats everything in a Novocain haze.
Getting to my feet, I almost fall. My equilibrium is off, and I
stumble like I’m drunk.

What is going on, and where is everyone?

I stagger; only the fact that I can grab the
bus stop bench keeps me upright. For a moment I just stand there,
trying to make all this go away, but it won’t leave me. What is
wrong with me, anyway? I’ve never felt like this, as though every
breath makes me want to double over. Is it the dagger wound,
somehow?

As I stand, I quickly realize that no matter
what, this pain and disorientation aren’t going to improve, so I
force myself to release the bench and walk towards my house. It
seems to take forever, and only when I’m heading up the walkway
does it occur to me to wonder why Jimmie’s truck isn’t sitting in
the driveway. Considering how dark it is, he should have gotten
here hours ago. And why is it dark already? Wasn’t it just
morning?

I fall over the second porch step and grab
the railing to keep my face from smacking the concrete. On my
knees, I feel I’m going to vomit, but at the last minute the
clenching passes enough for me to get to my feet. My whole body
shakes uncontrollably, and I’m wondering if this is what it feels
like right before someone passes out; if it is, I can’t let myself
do that, not considering how topsy-turvy everything is.

Swallowing the bile I feel at the back of my
throat, I force myself to keep going. I have to find Griffin. Even
as I walk, I finally realize the reason for my disorientation—my
vision. It’s like I’m looking through a camera’s fish-eye lens, and
the distortion makes me feel like I’m stuck in a funhouse
surrounded by trick mirrors.

“Griffin!” I yell, grabbing for the front
door handle and propelling myself through the doorway. I try to
keep my gaze downward because that seems to downplay the visual
effects that make me so miserable. The house is stifling, as though
it’s been shut up on a hot summer day without the air conditioner
on. Sweat beads my forehead and trickles down the sides of my face,
and it seems harder to breathe than before, if that’s possible.

“Griffin!” I yell again, hoping this time
he’ll answer. I don’t know how much farther I can go like this, and
I sure don’t have a clue what’s wrong with me.

Silence.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to
continue down the hall, heading to his room. He’s got to be there.
Despite my distorted vision, I see his door is closed, probably
because he’s resting, but I can’t wait for him to wake up. I won’t
make it that long.

“Griffin? Please help me.” I knock softly on
the door and lean against it, pressing my face against the smooth
wood. Although I’m hoping the surface will cool me, it doesn’t;
it’s just as hot as the rest of the house. I close my eyes and
focus on my breathing, waiting for him to answer.

Silence.

“Griffin, I think there’s something wrong
with me.” I wait a few seconds more to see if he says
something—anything. No such luck. Gritting my teeth, I twist the
door and push. As the door gives, I almost fall into the room, and
I’m definitely not prepared for what I find. Instead of just
Griffin standing there, I also see Jayzee. The two of them are
close enough to kiss but instead look deeply into each other’s
eyes. Suddenly my vision really goes haywire. Instead of having the
funhouse effect, it distorts to blackness except for the heat
images from Jayzee and Griffin. Jayzee’s form is a white blur,
whereas Griffin’s is more of an orange-red, and I shake my head,
trying to get rid of the distortions.

“Get away from him!” I shout, stepping into
the room. Immediately, I trip over something and fall headlong into
the room. Even after I finally get up, the forms remain in the same
position despite my entrance. I try to move forward, but something
blocks me.

“You shouldn’t be here, Jayzee!” I yell,
finding the bed blocks me.

“Griffin wants me here,” she purrs. “And what
Griffin wants, Griffin gets.”

The nausea and pain I’ve been dealing with
this whole time suddenly kick into high gear, doubling me over. As
I’m lying there, trying to remember how to breathe, I look down at
my hands and see the hard white glow that seem to match Jayzee’s
aura. I don’t understand. Seemingly of its own accord, one hand
stretches out, and an even whiter flash leaps from my hand to both
Jayzee and Griffin. I watch the light, suddenly fascinated, trying
to understand what’s happening and why I can’t seem to control my
own body when all at once I can’t shake the pain anymore. I start
crying, and my hand falls as I linger in the embrace of the
darkness splintering around me.

I don’t know how long it takes before the
pain finally subsides enough for me to move, but when it goes, I
blink and see my vision is back to the funhouse mirror perspective.
Swallowing hard, I peer at my hand. It seems unchanged as I furl my
fingers to clenched fists and splay them wide. Trying to make sense
of what I’ve seen, I repeat the motion once or twice, but it
doesn’t give me any answers. The only way I’m going to find those
is by standing so I ignore the rising feeling of nausea and roll
onto my knees to get up. Even before I put my weight on unsteady
knees, all I see is what appears to be an empty room. No Griffin.
No Jayzee.

What in the hell is going on?

“Griffin?” I lean against the bed as I
stand.

Silence. My breath stutters in and out as I
slip around the bed to find two bodies collapsed one atop the
other. The world suddenly stills, and I begin shaking my head in
denial. Even from here, I can see Griffin isn’t breathing. I want
to be wrong. Maybe since my vision is so messed up I can’t really
tell.

I force myself to kneel and reach out to
Griffin’s neck. My trembling fingers skim his flesh and sink down,
probing for a pulse. Nothing. It doesn’t matter where I move. I
can’t feel anything. Still, I keep trying. It has to be there.

“Griffin?” I say, my voice trembling like my
body. “Can you hear me?”

I stare hard at him, watching for any sign of
movement. Nothing—no flaring of the nostrils or fluttering of
eyelashes, not the slightest hint he’s still in his body.

What have I done?

I look at my hand, trying to find anything
else out of the ordinary, something to make all of this logical,
but it looks the same as it always has. I run my fingers across the
top of it, but nothing feels amiss.

Confused, I snatch my fingers away and force
myself to stand. I give Griffin one last glance, desperately
searching for any signs of change; there are none, which means I’ve
really killed him.

I suck in air like somebody has just punched
me in the stomach and scurry from the bodies. I actually make it
about four feet before I vomit, and it’s then I see my reflection
in Griffin’s bureau mirror. The person looking back at me is a
stranger. Her long hair cascades over her shoulders, and her face
is flushed. Her eyes peer at me with that haunted look.

I hate her. I hate her. I hate her.

I grab a baseball from the stand next to his
mirror. I know somebody signed the thing and that’s why Jimmie
keeps it, but it doesn’t matter to me. I hurl it with all my might
at the mirror, and the shattering glass sprays outward in a silver
shower. Still, even after the damage is done, a single shard
remains, and in it, I see my reflection just as clearly as if I’d
broken nothing.

I have to get out of here.

I stagger out the door, my hands grasping the
walls as I stumble down the hall. The world is spinning like a
crazy carnival ride, and it’s hot—so so hot. I’m almost to the end
of the hall when I see the shadow of someone about to turn the
corner. I stagger backward, my gaze falling to my hand. I shove it
in my pocket, as if that’ll do any good.

The shadow lengthens, and Jimmie enters. He
stops short as he sees me and cocks his head to one side, as if
surprised.

“Lizzie? Are you all right?” He steps toward
me, but I stagger backwards.

“Stay away from me!” I clench my fingers into
a fist just to prove that I can still control my own body, that my
hand won’t suddenly act of its own accord and kill the man I’ve
come to think of as my father.

Jimmie stops short and raises his hands.
“Lizzie, you look like hell. What’s wrong with you? Are you on
something?” He shakes his head and starts toward me again.

It’s then I feel the horrible pain seize me,
and my vision suddenly shifts to the blackness in which Jimmie
becomes a red-orange blur. My throat is tightening, and my body
shakes convulsively. I slam against the wall and start sliding down
it.

“Lizzie. Oh, God!” I hear Jimmie say, and the
blur rushes toward me. I want to fight it, but I can’t. My hand
slips out of my pocket, and I feel the muscles contracting in my
arm as it lifts. I know what’s coming abut I can’t fight it, no
matter how hard I try.

“Please, Jimmie.” Those words are the last
thing I remember hearing as the pain fractures my world so much I
can’t think. There are only shapes and blurs of light as I see
Jimmie reach for my hand, thinking I’m reaching for him, as the
light glows on my fingertips and jumps toward him. The
reddish-orange blur suddenly crumbles to the floor, and I hear a
loud keening cry it takes a moment to realize is coming from
me.