Authors: Dawn Brazil
I tried to drown the voice with other thoughts. But it resurfaced. Overpowered me. Tiring, I closed my eyes and started building walls. Something I’d learned to do when I was a kid to block out unpleasant things. As a child, it had been my mother’s nagging voice or my classmates’ nonstop babble. Now on the cusp of adulthood, I’d forgotten this ability. I could make the world around me quiet – what I wanted – and exist in that reality. At least for a while.
People assumed I lived this glamorous life. No one knew me…I barely knew myself. The real me lay hidden beneath carefully constructed lies. I had desires that would never be realized because of who I was. Chloe Carmichael. I hated her sometimes. She was weak. Pathetic. I’d always had this sort of out-of-body experience with life…like I was outside looking in. “Such a sad affair,” I’d say, “such a lost soul she is.” Only problem: eventually reality set in.
I’m her.
I couldn’t run from her. From me. The sad excuse for a girl hidden away within the socialite, the debutant, the BFF, the intellectual, and the daughter extraordinaire. After 16 years, the cancer had spread, and she – I – was debilitating.
I opened my eyes and to my amazement, it worked – no more voices.
Relief washed over me. At least something had gone right today. My turn approached in line. Mrs. Wright, the Attendance Coordinator, was a petite woman with a smile as big as New York itself. She listened as Trevor complained about the wait, then about the lack of chairs to sit in while he waited. On and on he ranted. Finally, Mrs. Wright smiled and handed him the yellow copy of his dismissal form.
Mrs. Wright excused me promptly when my turn came. I strolled out of the office and into a barrage of questions. Three girls from my first period class stumbled over one another, spewing them at me. They must have witnessed my emotional meltdown. I assumed they needed direct information to relay back to everyone else. How absurd my classmates could be at times was unbelievable.
I repeated nothing was wrong. Tiring of their banter, I pushed pass them, ignoring their grunts for information. I tripped over a student as I made my exit. He, for whatever reason, lay face down on the hall floor with his ear buds on.
As I caught myself, I stumbled right into Zack.
How did he get out of class?
“Chloe. We really need to talk.” He ran his tongue across his lips and looked down the hall then back at me.
“Zack. Please, I–”
“I don’t want you to hate me. I just…” He sighed glancing down the hall again and not finishing his sentence.
“Zack, I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. You’re one of my best friends. But–”
“We should still talk about it. Can I come by tonight?”
Absolutely not.
Stand up for yourself, Carmichael.
“Umm. Uh, not tonight. Just call me later. This really isn’t that big a deal. I won’t say anything if that’s what you’re worried about. To my mother, I mean.”
He threw his head back and laughed. Then he reached down and grabbed my right hand – all traces of a smile gone. His hand was moist against mine. “You know you’re being very selfish. I’m trying to change things between us.”
What the hell does that mean?
He allowed his eyes to dart down the hall again. This time I turned to see what he was looking at. Just as I turned my head, Mrs. Graves bounded out of her office. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the two of us. I pulled my eyes from her and back to Zack. His eyes were still aggressively trained on her.
I snatched my hand away. “Call me later,” I shouted, as I ran for the double doors. My legs couldn’t move fast enough.
I ran to the end of the block before I dared a glance behind me. Breathless. My only concern: to ensure no one followed. I exhaled deeply when I saw I was alone.
I leaned on the bronze light-post by Tiffany Harris’ house and dreaded going home. Mom and Dad would be there preparing for work. They would be full of why’s, why not’s, and how could I’s. If Ms. Graves hadn’t called to inform them yet that I’d left for the day, I might be able to evade them until they were gone.
I needed to find a mental balance. Like tires on a sleek road, I had to get moving. It was impossible to avoid this confrontation. I took a deep breath to gather all the strength I could muster. Then I walked home.
Stop being a coward and be brave for once in your miserable life, Carmichael.
Our neighbor, Mr. Hatchet, had just stepped into his SUV as I passed. He rolled down the window of his black Navigator.
Just what I needed today. Him!
“Chloe, what are you doing walking home this time of day? Shouldn’t you be at school?”
“I wasn’t feeling well, so I was excused home,” I answered.
Mind your own business perv.
I pulled my cardigan around me tighter as he moved his eyes from the top of my jet-black hair and rested them on my protruding chest. I sucked in a deep breath and rolled my right hand into a tight fist. If only I could use it to sock him in the eye.
“You look okay to me. Truthfully, you look quite good.” He arched his overly hairy eyebrows. I suppressed my frown. But I clenched my other fist.
I didn’t speak or dare move. I’d receive the lecture of a lifetime from Mother if I did. Mr. Hatchet had always been overly friendly with me and I never trusted him because of it. An inner alarm rang, Stranger Danger, every time I saw him.
“Would you like me to walk with you the remaining houses – I don’t mind. You know, to ensure you get there safely?” He smiled. His pink too-thin lips disappeared. I pushed back the revulsion.
You can do this, Carmichael. Just get past the car, then bolt.
“No, thanks,” I said.
Smile politely.
“I can manage.” Get a life, you degenerate.
“I’m sure you can.” He moistened his pencil-thin lips again and ran his freakishly large hand over his sweaty balding head.
“Okay. Well, I’ll see you, Mr. Hatchet,” I said. Nervous, daggers of fear assaulted my abdomen. I knew his eyes were glued to me. I took a few steps past his truck.
Please don’t say anything else.
I considered breaking into a sprint to the house.
“Can I take you up on that?” I glanced back. He arched his connect-a-brow at me again, as if the action made him appear attractive. It didn’t. In fact, it made him appear more menacing, but perhaps that was what he wanted.
“Chloe,” he tried again, in a most disgusted fashion. I bit my lip to stifle the rude comment suspended on my tongue. I was past his truck and I pivoted back.
“Oh…uh…I guess.” Mother would call me paranoid if I were rude to him. After all, he’s a powerful attorney. “It is always about the image you are displaying,” she’d say. What image did I display –
come and get me
?
I scuttled off before he could get another word in. I had told her his prolonged staring and flirty mannerism with me was inappropriate. She explained that I was a beautiful young lady and all men – young and old – would take notice. I knew they would. Everyone seemed to notice. Mother said to laugh. Toss my long tresses over my shoulder, as if I heard those compliments all the time. Truthfully, I did. From boys my age it was normal, not middle-aged balding men.
What was up with her?
Statements like that forced me to realize how wholly different we were. Though I knew she was flawed, she was my mother and I wanted so desperately to please her. Wanting her to love me was one thing – emulating her was something else altogether. Who I wanted to be was questionable, though. Who I would never be was clear: I would never be Karen Carmichael – a slave to tradition and etiquette. Unfortunately, at the age of 16, I had minimal control over my life. It belonged to her. I knew because she reminded me constantly. Between her and my current emotional state, who I would become appeared bleak.
I could see our mammoth house, though I was four houses away. It loomed in the distance like a familiar friend waiting to hear how my day had gone and wanting to comfort and ease my fears. Though my mother had decorated it in her grandiose style, it remained my refuge – at least my bedroom was a haven. It was a four-story, dark brick, brownstone. A bronze wrought iron fence flanked the front and sides of the house. Ivy grew across the face of the building. Our gardener, Toney, had planter boxes on most of the windows. To soften the look. Trying to give the illusion of warmth and peace within. Inside our house, every room but my own was ice cold…a cold that touched your bones and sank to your soul.
My parents had to be on their way out. I glanced at my diamond-encrusted Cartier watch.
I really hope they’re gone.
When I glanced up from my watch, my mother stood on the front steps of our house. Michael Kors pant suit in charcoal. Check. Tiffany earrings. Check. A storm brewing behind her stone-gray unflinching eyes. Check. And of course, she anticipated my arrival. I cringed at the lecture I’d receive. It wouldn’t be for leaving school early but for walking home alone.
I stepped onto the porch with my teeth gritted.
Ready for battle.
“How do you feel?” she asked. Disapproval dripped from each syllable.
“I actually feel better.” My voice raised an octave to sound cheerful. I took a deep breath and wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans. “I think the walk home helped. I –”
“Chloe, you cannot walk down the street idly, as if you have not a care in the world.”
And here we go.
“What were you thinking?”
I’m sure I wasn’t.
“Were you even thinking at all?”
And I was right. Or she was.
“Do you know how dangerous that can be?”
Walking home?
“What will people think after seeing you walk home by yourself, and supposedly sick?”
I’m sure she’ll tell me.
“They will assume we do not care enough to come pick you up from school when you are ill. You must think of others and not just yourself.”
I try to. I really do.
I rolled my eyes – internally, of course.
“Mom, okay, it won’t happen again. I need to lie down. I am sick.” I stormed off to my bedroom with sourness rising from my abdomen.
I raced into my room and threw my bags to the floor. My tears were so heavy they felt like dumbbells under my eyelids. Unable to show emotion in front of my parents and brother, this was my only avenue of emotional release. But it didn’t happen often. Emotions were unwelcome nuisances in our home. The only feelings allowed, however, were disdain, resentment, and pride.
I’d lived in this emotionally illiterate family my entire life. I rarely allowed anything to break my cheerful demeanor. I’d gotten accustomed to the madness.
Even so, I was unable to shake the battle that raged within me. Had I really seen Zack dead? Or had I been mad enough to want him dead? And why? And what the hell was up with the voices?
Why am I losing my mind?
Chapter 5
I gulped the air. My fingers stretched, as if I were reaching for something or someone. But they met emptiness. Then my eyes popped open. I’d had a nightmare. I couldn’t recall what I’d dreamt, but I knew it had been violent.
I pushed myself from the red coverlet I’d been stretched out on. My throat had the consistency of sandpaper. I grabbed the bottle of water on my nightstand and guzzled it down. My thoughts returned to my dream. It seemed vital I remember, but I couldn’t. Only one detail was fresh in my mind: someone watched me. The more awake I became, however, the more the dream slipped away.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at empty space. The deep burgundy of the walls made the room appear darker. And normally that was what I wanted. The room shared light from the moon sliver my opened curtains expelled. That piece of light threw shadows of bogeymen into the corners. That, of course, was not what I wanted.
I stole hasty glances into the dark to confirm no monsters lay in waiting. It didn’t ease my tension. My even breathing was the only sound in the room. Yet fear gripped me. Unable to move, it demanded my total attention. A bead of sweat caressed the side of my neck and the hair on my arms stood at attention.
It was the voices.
I threw my hands to my ears to drown them out. “Stop!” I whimpered. “Please.” They continued. Obviously, they couldn’t hear me.
They were conversing, like what happened when telephone lines were crossed and you picked up someone else’s conversation. One distinct difference: this conversation wasn’t taking place on a phone or anything electrical.
It was inside my head.
Why now?
I have the SATs, my AP exams, Dad’s re-election, college applications…
Argh!
I have too much on my plate already to be dealing with this. I didn’t need to add losing my mind to the list. I tried to hold onto my sanity, all the while it felt like it was slipping away.
I laughed. A full on cackle that sounded like something you’d hear on a movie when a character had lost it completely.
Had I lost it?
I knew I couldn’t fight them. Or whatever was happening.
They continued to talk despite my protest. I sat on the edge of my bed, on the edge of insanity, and listened. Hoping to understand why this was happening to me. My heart jumped into my throat. And my eyes darted about the room but didn’t find an object to draw my attention. I allowed my head to fall into my hands as I attempted to follow their conversation.
Perhaps, I’d hear an explanation for this…but crazy couldn’t be explained.
Right?
“I don’t understand why we haven’t found Amanda,” a girl with a high-pitched voice said. She didn’t sound any older than me.
“We’ve looked everywhere,” said another girl.
“Actually…well, nothing,” a guy said. My mouth fell open at the sound of his voice. I knew him. Where I knew him from, I wasn’t sure. But I was certain I knew him.
“Amanda could get hurt if we don’t find her soon. Obviously she doesn’t know who she is or she’d come looking for us,” said the girl who had spoken first.
“Who is that you keep thinking about?” the last girl who spoke said. “Who is Chloe?”