Fall of Hope (Book 1): Real Heroes Don't Wear Capes (6 page)

Often
she sees helicopters carrying cargo and tanks in hordes across the
sky. But she says it may not have been World War II, but a war in
another place and time

Her
dreams are no better. They all start with a siren wailing under the
darkness of her closed eyelids, which caused a phobia of loud sounds.

She
is in school in most dreams as the raid begins. Sometimes she makes
it to the bomb shelter in the basement, other times she doesn't. The
last thing she sees, with blood smeared across her face, is the
bricks and wood atop her. Other people's limp bodies and severed
limbs sprawl out everywhere as planes drone past the fluffy clouds.

After
talking about it at length, she admitted sometimes within her dreams
she is in her home. When she is, it's the most real and the outcome
is the same every time. Her childhood drawings hang on the fridge and
the cupboards in the kitchen. Her mother tells her to hide under the
table, so she does. From there, she watches the cutlery and plates
shake on the counters as the roof caves in above her head. Like her
mother, she wears an apron and oven mitts, but she is safe while
particles fall into her mother's hair.

She
never divulges what happens next because she cannot recall. Only, she
can and he knows it—he can feel it in his heart. She is just
terrified of what happens after that point, so he doesn't push her on
the subject. But he cannot help believing everything she says. He
cannot keep his chest from tightening each time they talk as though
somehow this is fate. He doesn't know why the instinct strikes him,
but it's the truth.

It
could be she is lying because she changes her mind and the story so
often, but she was young. As more pieces of memory come floating back
to her, she has to amend what came before. He feels her fear she may
be wrong and, if so, she will have no basis for her wild beliefs and
assumptions. And, if that is the case, then all it can mean—by
her own admission—is she is crazy.

He
told her everyone is crazy to some degree. We are, after all, a race
laced with attraction, obsessions, accusations, thoughts and emotions
we have no control over. Those things range from normal to
damn
right
unexplainable and will remain so for as long as we are here
and not interfered with.

What
would we be if we weren't this way?

Before
he can reply, she adds more.

Static
Whisper: The red coats may still follow me, but guess what I did?

Bobby:
I was never any good at guessing. Go on, tell me.

Static
Whisper: When I went out to talk to people, they didn't stop me. And
the people were nice to me.

Bobby:
That's great, good for you!

He
has asked her frequently what these 'red coats' are, but she doesn't
know. She knows they aren't products of a previous life, but has no
explanation for their presence.

They
speak further about her new adventures until his mother calls him for
dinner. He would much prefer to eat sitting up here in his boxers
instead of watching each mouthful. He must chew deliberately slow
downstairs so he doesn't break the silence between the three of them.

He
bids goodbye to a few others he has been talking to with Gage chiming
in every few minutes from behind.

At
least when he gets downstairs, he is in time to see his father
disappear out the front door. Bobby sighs with relief.

Looks
like it's the pub for him.

CHAPTER TWO

He
is soaring through the clouds as they whip at his feet and whirl
about his head like froth from the cappuccinos Miss Summers makes.

Heights
have never been his strong point; he suffers with vertigo from simple
distances such as standing on the roof of a car. But with his arms
outstretched like a bird and his hair ruffling on his scalp, he feels
free. And there is nothing he can compare it to.

The
winds and temperature are not as they would be in reality. Instead,
they contain the warm lucidity of a dream. Hypoxia is a distant
irrelevance because he is
Superman
right now.

His
baggy clothes pull taut against his skin, then fall loose again
within the air. It reminds him of being in the garden with his cars
and trucks as a boy in summer. He rode them through the grass and
over the mounds of earth as though they were huge mountains.

He
gets caught up riding a single roll cloud like cotton with his arms
stretched out behind him. Through the canopy of trees beneath him, he
spots the red path winding through the island.

As
he glides across the air, the specks of sunlight glisten over the
ocean's rocking surface. Under the waves, he spots schools of fish
making their way through the depths. He even spots a fin bob up,
belonging to a dolphin, or a whale.

Earth
and rock tumble from the cliff's edge. The turquoise waves and foam
lap the sides like cake crumbling within a hand. And that is when he
spots the white house to the West, sitting past the trees. That is
where the path ends, he thinks.

Although
I've never made it to the end before, that is it.

He
knows it without knowing why.

The
blue shutters open to allow the light to spill from them, but he
doesn't know what's inside that's so bright. A red door sits atop the
stairs, surrounded by vines and flowers in pots.

As
he gets closer, he knows he has seen this house somewhere before, but
just as fast as he sees it, everything changes. As swift as a cloud
blotting out the sun, everything becomes dark and tainted.

Through
the gaps in the trees, the winding path that stretches out for miles
pulsates and changes form. To Bobby, it looks as though it is
leaking. And then it travels, spilling over the land and soaking up
the bluebells in silent waves of death.

He
can hear himself screaming. Although his mouth is agape, the sound is
distant as though coming from his real body. The stain on his
oesophagus is tightening like someone has lit a sparkler and it is
burning. Although he cannot comprehend it, his subconscious whispers
he is airing his lungs out in his bedroom.

The
sky around him turns dirty like an old t-shirt that's gone too many
rounds in the washing machine. A bolt of lightning strikes like the
large hand in the commercials for the lottery. He raises his hands to
his face as though it will protect him, and feels himself spinning
out of control.

Where
the lightening whips the ground around the island, a crack appears,
causing the heavens to roar with approval. From this height, he
shouldn't be able to see it so clear. Yet, as he spins, it keeps
coming into view as though a magnifier covers his eyeballs. And in
those moments, he sees it ripping through the cliff as the land
separates with painful moans. It looks like a modest version of the
continents breaking and being set adrift.

Boulders
spit into the air and crash into the waves that now spew in foaming,
slapping motions. Through the centre, the red liquid falls over the
path like a waterfall. Trees snap and fall as the gap consumes them.

With
a jolt, his tumbling halts. He is flung about until he falls into a
quiet rhythm as though attached to a bungee cord. Vomit rises into
his throat to add to the burn, then back into his stomach as though
fingers are forcing it back down. He gags and stills.

His
eyeballs roll into the back of his skull and, when he glances back,
he sees the horror unfolding before him again. Now vertical, he grips
himself with hands that feel like they have been rooting around in a
freezer.

Crimson
trails make their way up the white stone of the building, crushing
vines. The liquid travels over the door and reaches the gutters with
little effort.

Bobby
watches as the light disappears when the blue shutters slam closed.
With the light's presence gone, he feels as though someone has stolen
his aspirations.

Just
when he thinks it cannot get any worse, the centre breaks into
miniature pieces of brick, wood and glass. Before he can react,
debris flies in all directions.

Then,
before he can blink the horrifying sight away, the island, house,
bluebells and everything else darkens to become a shadow of what it
once was.

Like
the fairground.

Behind
it, the colours of a raging fire hiss and spew. He has seen something
similar in the video footage showing the aftermath of a tsunami. In
the night video, the sky looked to be bleeding.

Before
he has time to express anything more, a harsh gust of wind whips him
backwards. The force is so strong he fears his limbs may tear loose.

The
temperature drops as the sky plunges into darkness, despite the
blazing heat seconds before. His hands stiffen and the blue veins
beneath his translucent flesh bulge. The darkness eats away at his
vision like a worm making holes through an apple until it leaves no
moon, stars, or anything but an abyss and a tempest wind.

Within
seconds, his body is writhing in agony. Nothing has ever felt so
harmful before. He cannot catch his breath; it catches in his throat.

As
he grabs at his neck, his eyes fling wide open to find he is sitting
in his bed gasping. When he tries to swallow the lump in his throat,
a coughing fit takes hold, causing him to panic.

As
he leans over to the flexi lamp on the side table, he struggles to
locate the switch at first. For a moment, he fears he has fallen into
that abyss where his limbs are separate and floating within the
darkness. The lamp is solid enough, yet he cannot shake the feeling
until he hits the switch and the light casts about the room.

Sucking
in the air, he rests his back against the headboard. The sweaty curls
are flat across his forehead and the remnants of the sticky dream
cling to his flat chest. With a struggle, he fights his legs free of
the cover and stumbles across the bedroom.

As
he leans against the radiator, Bobby flings the curtains aside and
pushes the window open. It may have been icicle weather in his head,
but in here it is stuffy. He tries to steady the trembling of his
bones by breathing the air in through his nostils and exhaling. Yet,
the tightening inside his rib cage refuses to wain.

Harsh
tones come from beneath his feet. One sounds like his mother
somewhere in the front room, so the only explanation for the loud
noise is his father is home. Through the dissociative episodes, she
has periods where she is too aware of everything around her which
only makes for nights like this.

“
Don't
know which is worse, do you?”

Startled,
Bobby's skin seems to leap a foot in the air, leaving his bones
behind. He hadn't even heard Gage come in.

Why
would I?

It
isn't as though he uses the usual means of entrance; walls and doors
do not apply to him.

The
thought of him, or anyone else watching him sleep is creepy. But on
nights like this, he is thankful someone is here to relieve the
tension.

When
his father's tone overrides his mother's, he knows he should go down,
but history has taught him it doesn't help. It will only worsen
things—the bruising on his body is a testament to that. So he
crawls back under the sweaty sheets and ignores Gage because his
words didn't sound like a question. In fact, they sounded like a
taunt.

Folding
the pillow around his ears, Bobby tries to block out the sounds while
his eyelids swell with emotion.

The
pillow fails to block out the furniture crashing and his mother
wailing, but somewhere in the early hours, he finds peace. But peace
rarely lasts as long as we would like.