A Sadness Within

A Sadness Within

Copyright © 2014 by Sara Fiorenzo

All Rights Reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any hat manor whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events or real people are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Sadness Within/Sara Fiorenzo

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I
first registered the pain
. White and hot, coursing through my body, and so intense, I could not tell which part of me had been hurt.  There had been laughter before. And love. Always love with my family. Then I remembered the accident — a derailment. I had been looking into the laughing eyes of my wife, Elizabeth. They sparkled when she looked at me, and I felt the connection we had shared for the past 30 years. She clasped my hand and smiled, but then a shift in the railcar had thrown us apart. Men were all around us, and the screams of the other passengers filled my ears. Were we being robbed? Were they taking advantage of the disaster? Or maybe they had planned it. One minute we had been sitting there, talking about our plans for the next day, and then …suddenly, I felt very alone.

Will! Celia! Elizabeth! My dear, sweet Elizabeth. I tried to sit up, to find them. Had they survived? Then I saw them. Will and Celia were on one side of me, both lying in hospital beds, their bodies seemed to be writhing in pain. Elizabeth was on my other side, her beautiful face grimaced with pain, and I instantly felt her turmoil rolling through me. Her pain was different than my own. I could feel it, our connection bonding us. She stirred and turned toward me. Our eyes met briefly, the once bright, blue irises, now dark and sad. Her skin was pale and droplets of dried blood surrounded her once soft lips.

I tried to speak, but could barely get a sound out, my voice nothing more than a harsh whisper. All she seemed to be able to do was cough, blood trickling out with each burst of air. Consumption. It had to be. Perhaps we had all been exposed while on the train. But there had been an accident. I couldn’t quite put my mind around these circumstances. Something wasn’t making sense.

I don’t know how long we lay there, fading in and out of consciousness. I began to have a hard time deciphering reality from dream. At one point, men were standing at the foot of my bed talking.

“These three will make it. Their bodies have already begun accepting the change,” I heard a voice say.

“This one will not,” added another. “I fear the Consumption will take her instead of save her.”

And then they were gone.

This was the reason my own pain was so intense. I could feel hers as well. Something was happening to us. Something within us was changing, and the stronger I began to feel, the further away Elizabeth felt. Whatever was happening to me was not happening to her. I was healing and she was dying.

Will, Celia, and I seemed to be growing stronger, our bodies mending. Finally, I was strong enough to move. I swung my legs over the bed and practically leapt at the bed next to me. By now, Elizabeth’s body was weak, withering away. She coughed frequently, droplets of blood covering the sleeve of her gown as she tried to cover it. I encased her in my arms, holding her, giving her strength, feeling the connection between us fading and wishing I could make her stay.

I knew the moment she slipped away because the physical pain was gone, and the ache moved into my heart. For many years afterward, I longed for the pain to return, because it would mean that she had come back to me. I longed to fill the empty void that having someone like her in my life meant.

My son, daughter, and I had all survived the train accident, only to be attacked with this immortal disease. We were cursed in this new life. Nothing would ever bring Elizabeth back, so instead, I focused on what I had... helping my children know the kind of love that I had shared with their mother.

N
umb. That’s how I would
describe myself. Not meaning that I couldn’t feel, but that I didn’t care if I did or not. I was desensitized to the world around me. My head was a mess, and I was unable to make sense of it all, an unexplained weight always pulling me down. As I raced down the highway, storm clouds were building over the lake and would soon overtake the sun that had been beating down and warming my skin.  I felt nothing.  Neither the wind I was racing against, nor the warmth of the sun; not even the pain I wanted to get away from. Today wasn’t any different, though. I hadn’t felt anything real in a long time.  I wish I could say it was because of my actions over the past several years, or even the last few days. No remorse, no regret, and certainly no sadness. I suppose one could argue that I felt
something
as I was heading back to the only place I had ever considered home. Or maybe there was simply no difference between ignorance and apathy.

Eventually the grey asphalt beneath me speckled with the cool autumn rain that was beginning to fall. Within minutes, the rain beat down in a steady pulse, assaulted my face and eyes, and slid off of my jacket.
I pressed the pedal down even further, urging the motorcycle for more speed. I glanced behind me, still expecting someone to be following me. It wouldn’t take long for them to realize I was gone, and I was certain they would follow. This journey felt like forever.

The events of the night before had been coming to me in pieces. The bodies. The booming bass of a horrid song. The copper tang of blood. A scream. Fear. Shame? Remorse? Did I feel remorse? Was I sorry that things kept on ending like last night with bodies and blood? I suppose it could be argued that
that
is exactly why I was running away. Or maybe it was her voice. ‘
Please, Will. Please come back home,’
the message on my phone had said. A simple plea from my sister miles away is what I thought had suddenly sent me heading back on the road to this place. I hadn’t been there for a long time. My father and I argued too often. Our lives, our believed purpose, too different. A way of life that I never asked for but was given. All of us were.

I suppose we were considered immortal, the three of us, my father, sister, and me. Ravaged by an incurable disease decades ago that left our bodies frozen. Lifeless.
 Empty shells. Not really living, but not dying. We needed blood to survive, to run through our veins and feed our organs, to keep our heart beating ever so slightly. Of course, the opinion on how to get the blood is part of what differed between the three of us.  It’s what made me move to Chicago in the first place. I was angry when the change happened, and didn’t want to hide. I didn’t want to pretend to be something I wasn’t. I didn’t want to play at being a human.

The rain finally began to subside as I pulled off the highway and onto my exit. It would only take a few minutes until I pulled into the driveway. Still, I wasn’t quite ready to walk through the doors of the old house, announcing my presence. Instead, I found myself meandering down a familiar shaded drive and into the cemetery; there was a stop I needed to make first.

A cool north wind swirled through the leaves as I parked my bike. The rain had fully stopped, leaving everything with a wet sheen; the wood around me smelled vaguely like cinnamon. Closing my eyes, I breathed in deeply and absentmindedly grabbed my chest, feeling the heavy numbness sink back down into me. The large iron gate creaked as I pushed it open. Walking forward, my eyes scanned the manicured lawn in search of my objective. I followed the winding path deep into the sunken meadow. Protected on three sides by the trees on the sand dunes, it was still there and hard to miss. The maple tree, with leaves turned a brilliant red hue that clashed with its smooth grey trunk. The gigantic tree wasn’t the only thing I sought out. At its base sat four granite stones. Gravestones. The leaves stirred in the breeze, waving to me, beckoning me to come closer, while some fell around me like thin sheets of paper.

I stood at the foot of the tree and filled my lifeless lungs, deeply drawing the smell of the damp and decaying leaves and enjoying the burn. I leaned against the tree and glanced down, letting my eyes wander to the old, moss-covered granite stones that lay below. A shudder went through my body as I stared. I hadn’t come to this place in a while but somehow needed it now, to remind me of what I was; to remind myself that coming back here should be temporary. They would come for me eventually, even if it wasn’t today.

Again, thoughts of last night invaded my mind. I had left Chris at some party, but as I was leaving, I heard a whimpering sound from the corner. It came from a girl who was crouching down, her arms fiercely hugging her knees. She shook as she looked around the room at the bodies. Her lips had parted and a small noise escaped, while around us, the stereo was blaring some stupid classic rock song. An unwarranted anthem for a party such as this. It would have been easy to end it for her. To continue the life I had been living for many years. But then I hesitated, realizing that I was at a crossroad and didn’t know which way to turn. I hadn’t ended a life but instead, had walked away from it. From Chris. I was tired of the darkness that seemed to settle over me. It was time. Something had to change, although I knew it was only a matter of time before he would come looking for me, and right now, I wasn’t sure that I didn’t want to let him find me. Just because I had left, didn’t mean that I knew what I needed to do. Maybe I would go back and maybe I wouldn’t. Either way, I needed some time away.

“Just leave. No one will hurt you,” I had whispered, letting the girl go. I then found myself aimlessly wandering the streets of the city for the rest of the night, unsure of what was happening.
Over and over, I listened to the pleading message from my sister, trying to find the answers I was seeking.

Perhaps that’s why I came here first, back to this cemetery. To find something. It took only a few moments to realize that the stones at my feet held no more answers than my sister’s voicemail.

Driving back toward the house
, thoughts about last night and the carnage I had left behind continued to cloud my mind. At the time, leaving Chicago and coming back here had seemed like the right decision, but now that I was on my way, I hated myself for letting my father and sister influence me. Once I got there, I knew what would happen. They would try to convince me to stay, to live like they did, pretending we were like everyone else; as if we were human. I would stick around for a few days, as always, then tell him what I thought of that life and find somewhere else to go. That thought made me smile and press the accelerator down even further. Yes, this is what I needed. Just a few days away from Chicago so I could let things clear. Then everything would go back to normal... whatever that was.

I slowed a little as I neared the familiar surroundings of my ancestral home. Following the hidden driveway to the sprawling house that I knew was just barely visible beyond the trees, I slid to a stop on the front walk, spewing gravel every which way. Taking my helmet off, I looked up at the house that most people would consider an old Victorian. It was three stories, with ornate detailing around the windows and a tower with bay windows and stained glass. Hydrangeas surrounded the front of the wraparound porch. To the right of the house was an English garden, complete with a trellis of wisteria. My mother’s rose garden was just past that. Pathways wound their way through the landscape to a koi pond just beyond the gardens as well. The front of the house was obscured from the main road
by trees, but the back opened up and sloped gently downward, offering a view of Lake Michigan off in the distance. It was exquisite. Anyone who knew it was back here thought it was a perfect restoration when in reality, it was the same house that we had lived in for 100 or so years, meticulously preserved.

In its former glory, the house had been part of a 50-acre fox farm. My family had made its money at the turn of the century selling fox pelts. Then the accident and infection happened, and we were forced to remain out of sight, to hide our immortality. Eventually, my father, disguised as a relative, sold off several parcels of land. Now, all that was left of this farm was the ten acres surrounding the house and a few outbuildings scattered around the neighborhood that had built up in the fields. The neighborhood had been here for 30 years, but it was still hard for me to see what happened to our old farm.

Standing on the porch, I looked around the yard at the gardens, breathed in the lake air of my hometown, and prepared to make my arrival known to my family. I stood quietly by the front door for a moment, readying myself for the scene that would surely follow once I walked in. I raised my hand to knock, and then dropped it back to my side, reminding myself that this was as much my home as his. Only guests knocked.

I shoved the door open and called out.

“Father, your favorite son has returned,” I announced sarcastically. The house was quiet, except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.  Not the homecoming I had expected. Hadn’t they been calling me for days, begging me to come back?

“William, glad you decided to grace us with your presence.” My father emerged from his study with a furrowed brow. He had been about 50 when he was infected and just like me, still looked the same, his age frozen in time. He was tall — over six feet, with wavy salt and pepper hair. His eyes were a deep brown, framed by a pair of round glasses.
 Once a literature professor at the local university, he found that he couldn’t gain enough knowledge, a condition that was made worse by being granted so much time after the infection. He was the perfectly preserved specimen of the father that I had known for over a century.

“Glad to see you too.” I hesitated, and we stared at each other, neither one wanting to back down. “Celia called me and I had a few free days, so what do you want from me?” I asked boldly, although I was sure I already knew.

“I read about the recent antics of your Chicago crowd, and there was more on the news this morning.” He stood straighter, as if to look down on me, which was difficult when I was equally as tall.

Of course, he knew about it. He was constantly keeping tabs on me, which was why he continued to call. I felt a flash of something rush though me. Disgust? Guilt, perhaps? I shook it off quickly and clenched my teeth.

“How I live my life is none of your business.” It didn’t take long for me to become defensive and ready for a fight.

“Oh, yes it is! I am still the head of this family, and I will not have a member of my family running about undisciplined!” He turned away quickly, but not before I saw his face soften. “You just don’t seem to understand. I don’t know what would happen if I lost you.”

And therein lay the cause of my sudden guilt and perhaps the reason I came back here at all. I could feel the sadness coming from him, but I wouldn’t let it get to me. I knew what he was trying to do and it wasn’t going to work. It didn’t work the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t work this time. I refused to let it.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said in denial, as I slid into the soft leather of the arm chair, propping my feet up on the worn ottoman.
 “And I am not the one who killed anyone.” I crossed my arms in front of me, making a show of standing my ground. I would not let him intimidate me.

“Oh, so now you are killing? Never mind, it doesn’t matter! You are associated with those
people
and are therefore responsible for what they do. Do you really have to be so reckless? Being immortal only guarantees you long life. It doesn’t make you any less vulnerable to dying.” He was angry again. “I just wish that you would stay here and leave that life behind you.” He faced me, his eyes pleading.

I stared at him for a minute, contemplating what he was really asking. Despite the fact that he was right about Chicago, my answer would not be what he wanted to hear.

“No. This is not the life I chose.”

Disappointment etched across his face before he pulled the hard mask back in place. I realized this had been a mistake. I may need a change, but I don’t think this is it. Guilt or not, I could read into what he was really asking, and I didn’t want to stay. This was the life he had chosen for my sister and himself. I didn’t want to pretend that I was human. I didn’t want to pretend that I was something I was not. We were different, and the sooner he accepted that, the better off all of us would be.
 I glared back at him, daring him to continue this argument.