Evanescence (Black Rose #1) (2 page)

“Okay, I love you too mom.”

She gave in easily this time and closes the door. I listen as her footsteps become faint. I clasp my hands behind my head thinking about the nightmare. I've always had terrible ones as a child and for the past few weeks, they have returned. There have been times, like tonight, when it is difficult to determine if I am asleep or awake and unlike other nightmares in my past, this nightmare felt the most realistic. It was like one big déjà vu. And those people, if that's what they are, are always in them.

I reach under my bed and grab my composition notebook. I will do as I was told and write it down; however, that nightmare will be difficult to forget. When I dot the last period, I place the notebook and pen on the nightstand and close my eyes.
Who or what are those people? Why are they in my dreams? Why do they look so familiar?

I can't stand sunlight. My mother would joke and say,
like a vampire
. I rise from my bed and tuck my notebook into my book bag. My room has bins of notebooks filled with poetry, short stories, and screenplays that I've written since childhood. The walls of my room are covered in my artwork and I have a few portraits of famous works. My favorite? Salvador Dali's
Persistence of Memory.
There's something about those melting clocks. I also have an easel for painting, a small coffee maker for those 4:00 am writing muse sessions, and a small desk covered in book outlines, crumbled papers of poor ideas, and books by some of my favorite writers like Ernest Hemingway, Edgar Allan Poe, and C.S. Lewis.
           I love all forms of art. I remember my mother taking me to the Munson-Williams Proctor Arts Institute when I was younger and I would stare painting after painting. I also remember her reading me poems and going to Shakespearean plays. “What a genius,” is how she describes him. Before I knew it, I was creating my own works of art. Not to say I am as good as Shakespeare, but I must be exceptionally well to receive the recognition I have achieved from the awards I’ve received in poetry, short story, and art contests. One day, I'll hopefully write a novel, but life is a novel in itself.

“Evan?” she calls from downstairs. “You awake?!” 
            “Yes. I'll be down in a sec'!”

"If you'd like a ride to school, you better hurry!"

After the daily bathroom regimen, I get dressed wearing my black casual shoes and glasses. I sling my book bag over my back and head downstairs. My mother is in the kitchen dressed in her white work clothes and name tag which reads, Sarah Foster. Her and dad was never married. 
            “Took you long enough, sleepyhead,” she says before kissing my cheek. “Good morning. Breakfast is right there on the counter. I'll have to leave now to make this delivery. I waited as long as I could.”

“It's alright. I can take my bike,” I say. "No biggie'."

“Be careful on that bike,” she says putting her lunch into a shopping bag. She then grabs the orange juice from the fridge.
           "Thanks for the breakfast. Hope you didn’t get any blood on my food.” 

I take a bite into a Morning Star veggie sausage biscuit. She smirks and pours a glass of orange juice, then slides it in front of me.
            “Well, Mr. Vegetarian, my job does pay the bills around here," she says smirking. "I'm surprised you haven't turned into a vampire by now."
            I flinch and think about the nightmare from last night. Their eyes, pale skin, and fangs.
It was only a dream
, I tell myself.
Vampires aren't real.

“Could say the same for you I guess, but I have no shame in my diet,” I shrug. “Have to accept me for who I am, right?” 
            She's frozen and unreadable. I wait for her punchline, but she doesn’t deliver.

“Mom?” I say hoping to defrost her.             
           “And I most certainly do, Evan,” she finally responds. “Sorry, must be the pain medication. I'll see you when I get home, sweetie. Don't be late for school.”
           “I won't be.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, mom.”

She slings her purse over her shoulder as her lunch bag hangs from the wrist. She closes the front door behind herself.

My mother makes deliveries for a blood donor company stationed just outside our city in Rome, New York. Sometimes she'd have to make
emergency deliveries
that almost seem routine, but I never questioned her. I learned to live with it.

I had to be about five or six years old when she had the accident. The one that left her in pain to this day. She told me it was one of the worst ice storms of the century. She was on her way back into town when she lost control of the work van and broke through a guard rail. The van rolled several times before a tree stopped her from rolling into the Mohawk River. Now, she's left with taking pain medications and a permanent scar down her right cheek as a reminder, but who would forget such a tragedy? My father was gone by then and to think how different my life would be right now if I had lost her too. I am blessed.

I’ve never had to rush to school, but this morning might be the first. Sometimes I use my mother's car, but majority of the time I ride my bike. I don't mind because Utica, New York is beautiful. Most disagree and believe there isn't much to do here. Others would say that the city is small, so what is there to enjoy? People move away, never here. Most of us attend Thomas R. Proctor or Norte Dame high school, but they are quite similar rather than polar opposites.

I believe Utica's small size masks its treasures. Our winters can be brick cold, but thanks to The Great Lakes, the lake effect snow makes skiing and snow tubing worth-while. Our summers are hot and humid, so building sand castles and the smell of barbeque are common activities. Right now, we have the best of both worlds. The end of March brings sunny days and thunderous rainy weather which helps with my writing.

           I live just off the coast of the Mohawk River Valley named after the Iroquois confederacy. There are many forest green trees, bike paths, hiking trails, high hills, and the air is fresh. Sometimes it has this mixture of pine and mint I love. Behind my house, there is a sea of tall trees before you hit the water of the Mohawk River, which stretches for one-hundred fifty miles or so through Rome, Utica, Little Falls, Canajoharie, Amsterdam, and Schenectady. From my bedroom window, it looks like a rainforest, and I call it that.
            I look down the slope road and decide to race the wind. The school is a short distance away and before I know it, I am looking up at the school's sign which reads, “
The Reason. The Skill. The Observation. The Spirit.
” Many students are conversing in the front of the school and in the parking lot. Others step off of the yellow buses that run throughout Oneida County. I chain and lock my bike on the rack, and sling one strap of my book bag over my shoulder.
            “Hey, Ev!” a familiar voice calls from the buses.

My best friend, I consider him a brother, Mike Druin, steps off of his bus. Mike is a bear in size. He's not huge, but he's well-built and athletic -- more than me to say the least. 

              “Had fun with the hair gel? Looks all porcupine.”

           He runs his fingers through his thin black strands, then shrugs.

              “Shower, almost missed the bus.”

I smirk.         

“You really should have gone to that party man,” he says. 

I shake my head and laugh as we head up the steps and into the school.    

“You know I'm not much of a party goer,” I remind him.

            “But really,” says the party animal. “That was the first one of the school year and almost everyone at least goes to the first one. You could've listened to music, danced, talked to Essence— “

“What?”

“Danced?" he says with a guilty smile. "I'm just saying. You would've enjoyed it.” 
            "Can't say I disagree. I'd be lying if I said I didn't clock my closet a few times, but I needed to be alone.”

We pass through the slams of locker doors, the chatter of students and teachers, and the zombies who faces are buried in their phones before I reach my locker. I open it with the combination. 
            “What's been going on?” he asks leaning on a locker.
            “Well, I'm having those nightmares again. You know? The ones I’ve had since we were kids?”

Mike has always known about my nightmares. I use to get picked on because of them, but ever since the day I met him at the swimming pool rec center as a kid, he's always had my back and defended me.

I was being picked on by a few of the other kids when I told them about my nightmares. I was trying to make friends. I didn't know anyone. When everyone was getting into the pool for a game of Marco Polo, I refused. Regardless of how shallow the water was, it looked too deep for me. I wanted to go find my mother to ask to leave, but before I could, the kids grabbed me by the arms and tried to toss me into the pool. I still hear their voices from time to time. "You're scared of water?! Haven't you ever taken a bath?! Don't be such a scaredy-cat, weirdo!"

I begged them not to toss me into the water, but they refused to listen. The tips of my toes were over the edge, almost how they were on the cliff in my nightmare last night. I yelled for help, but didn't see my mother nor lifeguard. I begged again, not to throw me into the pool, and before the heels of my feet left the ledge, Mike pushed them aside and told them to go away. They respected Mike. Even back then, Mike was a bear and since then, Mike has been my best and only friend.

“The nightmares that half of the kids used to pick on you about? Yeah, hard to forget,” he says.

“Right," I say. "Well, the past few weeks, they've come back. Almost every time I shut my eyes now. And last night's felt so different than ever before. It felt...real.”

“That's the thing about nightmares, Ev. They feel real, but they aren't,” he shrugs. "Your mom knows they've come back?”

           “She makes it difficult to hide. She still does the whole, ‘
write it down, Evan
,’ thing,” I shake my head.

“Soon she’ll have you write your biography.”

“Or my obituary when I'm on my death bed."

“Have you tried sleeping pills? Nyquil?”

“Nyquil?” I say. “You drink Nyquil to sleep?”

“Who doesn't? It works every time. I know
I
sleep well every night.”

"I'll pass," I close my locker. “I just hate that my mother thinks I'm as fragile as a wine glass.”

"She's being protective. I'm sure she's scared just as much as you."

I nod my head and see the faces of those people at the table again, their pale skin, sharp fangs, and red eyes.

“This is going to sound weird Mike, but do you believe in – in things like,” I pause.

"--Things like?" he asks as I try to find a way to not sound stupid.

"Vampires?"

He scoffs.

“No, do you?”

“I do," I shake my head. "I mean I don't. I mean, well I don't know to be honest. That’s what those people seem to be in my nightmares."

"That's the thing, Ev. They're nightmares."

"But they even look familiar like," I think to myself. "Like I know them from somewhere or a long time ago. All of them. It felt much more than just a nightmare it was more like,” I drift off.

"Like what?"

"Like a memory."

He shakes his head and chuckles.

“Do they try to suck your blood in any of the nightmares?”

“No actually now that I think about it. And it kind of bothers me that they didn't. They just send me away as though I had done something wrong. And this little girl, she gets so upset when I leave and she wants to tell me something, but says I won’t believe her.”

“What do you think that might be?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “But all five of them, I know I’ve seen them before. I just can’t put my finger on it. One of them said, ‘
someday, you’ll come home
.’”

“Come home? Ev, this is crazy. Listen to yourself. You are home. Utica is your home and you may not have a big family, but you still have one. Your mom, Sarah,
is
your family.”

“She never answers any of my questions about my childhood besides talking about you, and she doesn’t answer anything about my father. What about aunts, uncles, cousins, et cetera? Where are they? Why doesn't she want to talk about family or anyone else related to us? Why haven't I met any of them or even heard a name? There aren’t even any baby pictures of me around the house. It’s like, my childhood never existed and that all other relatives are either dead or don't exist. I think she’s hiding something from me. Sometimes I just feel like I was dropped on her doorstep or something.”

Mike places a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry you’re going through this and I’m willing to help you through it all, but you can’t start second guessing where you come from because of a bunch of ridiculous nightmares.”

“What if it’s the truth?”

“What if what’s the truth?”

“What if I’m adopted?”

“Ev,” he sighs dropping his hand. “Stop. You’re not adopted, just confused. Besides, things could be worse I mean, who would you rather live with? Sarah, your mom? Or some vampires?”
            He's right. I couldn't live with them. Vampires. I shouldn't consider that they are real. Then my eyes then lay upon her. Her flawless skin and curly, dark-red hair sitting on her shoulders and collarbones. Some of her hair shades one of her eyes. Her pink lips, rests on her symmetrical thin face.

I watch as she opens her locker. She takes a look into a mirror that hangs on the inside of her locker door. Her fingers stroke through her hair from root to tip. She stops and our eyes meet in her mirror. I avert and regret dazing in front of Mike.
            “Essence LaRoux,” he grins.
            “What about her?” I say struggling to breathe.