Grasping at Eternity (The Kindrily)
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Authors: Karen Amanda Hooper
Grasping at Eternity
by Karen Amanda Hooper
Copyright 2012 Karen Amanda Hooper
First Edition
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Cover design by Alexandra Shostak
http://www.AlexandraShostak.com
Edited by Marie
Jaskulka
Visit author Karen Amanda Hooper on the Web at
http://www.karenamandahooper.com
Grasping at Eternity
Book 1 of The Kindrily Series
By Karen Amanda Hooper
Dedicated to anyone who has loved and lost, but found the courage to love again.
THE BEGINNING OF THE ALMOST-END
BLURRING THE LINE BETWEEN LOVE & HATE
MOVING AWAY BUT GETTING CLOSER
"If you love someone, put their name in a circle; because hearts can be broken, but circles never end.
"
~Anonymous
Maryah
I wanted to punch a hole in the sky, rip it wide open, and fly out of this world and into a magical one. Except I’d never punched anything in all my seventeen years of life, I didn’t believe in magic, and I sure as heck couldn’t fly.
As my dad pointed out at dinner, “Some people are destined to be average.”
He was referring to me, of course.
Whenever Dad made wisecracks about me, I’d escape to the boat docked behind our house. It was the perfect hideout since it had a mini kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. Unfortunately, our old Bayliner hadn’t run since summer break started, so in a tragic reversal of the old cliché, I could hide, but I couldn’t run.
I smacked my pillow then flopped down on the bed. My back knew every lump in the mildewed mattress by heart. Beyond the dirty film on the boat hatch window, high above the occasional blinking firefly, one star shined brighter than the others. It winked at me from light-years away.
“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight…I wish my family would leave me the crap alone.”
The boat dipped, and I knew my twin brother, Mikey, had climbed aboard. He peeked into the cabin and tossed me a pack of Oreos. “Figured you might be hungry since you left most of your food on your plate. You okay, Ry?”
“You mean besides being destined for averageness?”
He ducked through the narrow doorway and sat on the bed. “Dad knows he messed up. He’s setting up another Forgive and Forget soirée.”
I rolled my eyes, but not at Mikey. “Is he using the temporary insanity plea again?”
“Hope not. He forgets you have a stellar memory.”
My memory was the closest I’d ever get to having magic powers. Except my talent only worked for useless stuff like filing away every harsh word my dad ever said, memorizing song lyrics after hearing them only once, or remembering the bra size of every customer who came into my mother’s lingerie shop. Anytime she measured ladies and had me write down a size bigger than my pathetic 30A, I’d silently beg the boob fairy to let me trade with them. Lame, for sure, but that pretty much summed up my existence.
Mikey got the good looks, brains, athletic abilities, and every other trait that secured his spot as the favorite child. Mom and Dad pulled double doting duty when it came to him. Most sisters would hate their twin brother in a situation like ours, but how could I hate him? He was my own personal superherbro.
“Mom’s already got cookies baking.” He pulled off my flip-flop and hid it behind his back. “I’m holding this hostage until you come inside.”
I laughed and shoved him with my foot. “Fine. Just give me a few more minutes.”
“Hurry up—before I eat all the snickerdoodles.” He cracked my big toe—which I hate—then escaped just as my other flip-flop went sailing past his head and hit the wall. I listened to his footsteps stride up our dock then fade away.
Crickets chirped and waves lapped against the side of the boat. I cherished my last few moments of solitude before I went back inside for the I’m Sorry Party.
Dad would play my favorite records—Ella Fitzgerald or Frank Sinatra—and twirl me around the living room while telling me I’m his favorite girl. Mikey would show off by doing a flawless waltz with Mom. A couple dances, a few heartfelt apologies, and several snickerdoodles later, all would be forgiven. That’s how it worked in our family—like something straight out of a ‘50s sitcom. I could say I hated it, but that would make me borderline cool. Like most do-gooders, I loved my family: dancing, cookies, Donna Reed flashbacks, and all.
A faraway shriek interrupted my thoughts. I assumed it was a bird until I heard another sound. Glass breaking? My ears pushed everything else into the background.
No more waves or crickets. No more breathing. I think I even silenced my heart from beating.
The bird wailed again. Except the bird was my mother, and the wailing was filled with terror.
I leapt off the bed and sprung from the cabin. Above deck, I froze, staring at our house. Shadows moved behind the backlit curtains of the living room windows. They must be dancing.
So why did my mother scream? The rocking boat nudged my wobbly legs forward. I stepped onto the dock and took a deep breath, hoping the noise couldn’t be as frightening as the rigid hairs on my arms indicated. No matter what scary scenario my overactive imagination created, I had to make sure Mom was okay.
As I neared the back patio, Frank Sinatra sang about fairytales and young hearts. Our screen door creaked when I opened it. The music grew louder as I entered the kitchen. The smell of cookies baking should have calmed me, but the house was too quiet. No laughing or talking meant something was very wrong.
Mikey staggered into the doorway. “Run.”
One hand clenched his chest, the other slid down the doorframe, holding a butcher knife. Then I saw the blood seeping through his fingers. A deep red blot on his t-shirt grew bigger.
“Mikey, what—?” My trembling voice couldn’t finish the question.
A huge man dressed in black appeared behind him. Mikey turned and lunged at him with the knife. The man flung Mikey against the wall like a rag doll, choking him, and lifting him off his feet. I wanted to yell, hit the stranger, and pull him away from Mikey, but I couldn’t. I stood there paralyzed, not comprehending.
My brother’s flailing legs and arms blurred through my tears.
“Ry, run.” Mikey gasped.
And like a coward, I did.
I ran away.
I stumbled through the kitchen, out the back door, and across the backyard. The music from the house faded as I got closer to the dock. What now? Hide in the boat? No, jump in the water. Swim away. Just get to the water.
Heartbeat-heartbeat-heartbeat breath. Heartbeat-heartbeat-heartbeat breath. Both involuntary actions came at unrealistic speed, but my legs wouldn’t run fast enough. Get to the water. Focus. Almost there.
I tripped over my own feet, hitting the dock with full force. Pain shot through my ankle, and splinters stung my cheek and palms as they skidded against the wooden planks. I tried to push myself up, but my foot buckled and I fell back down.
Laughter echoed behind me. “Ah lass, aren’t you going to fight back?”
Panicking, I glanced around. One of the dock planks had come loose. I crawled onto my knees, yanked the board free, and spun around, waving it like a bat. Except now there were two men. “T-t-take whatever you want. Just please, d-don’t kill us.”
The second man kept laughing while the younger one squatted beside me. “They’re already dead.”
No. He had to be lying. Please let him be lying.
My breathing became more rapid. The planks under me were vibrating. No, the dock wasn’t shaking—I was.
A female voice whispered in my ear.
Concentrate on the eyes
. I looked around, not seeing anyone else, but the voice spoke again.
Concentrate on the eyes
.
Shuddering, I made eye contact with the monster from the kitchen. His pupils were like a snake’s—golden with black slits.
The older man walked closer, eating a snickerdoodle. He bent down so close I could see crumbs in his black beard. “Why didn’t you stay and fight for—” He paused, his forehead wrinkling as he tilted his head. “It’s not her,” he said. “We’ve got the wrong house!”
“They swore she lived here. What a waste of time.” He snatched the plank from my hand and cracked it over his knee, splitting it in two. He handed Snake Eyes half of the broken plank and clapped his hands. “Finish her.”
Snake Eyes didn’t hesitate. He stabbed the jagged edge into my stomach so fast I didn’t even try to protect myself. Fire ripped through the middle of me, tunneling upward through my chest. I gagged on my failed attempt to scream.
He pulled a metal pipe from a holster behind his shoulder. “Wrong place, wrong time.”
“Please, no!” I tried to block the first hit with my arm. The stake gouged my insides when I lifted my leg to absorb the second swing. Every hit felt like dynamite exploding through my limbs. I couldn’t even be sure my leg and arm were still attached to my body. With all I had left, I tried rolling over to crawl away, but the flames in my stomach burned hotter. I got so dizzy I saw spots.
Just shoot me
, I mentally begged. The last world-shattering swing came at my head in slow motion. The loud crack swallowed every other sound. Then he was gone.
And so was I.
∞
I’d always heard that when people die, there is a bright light. Nothing but pitch black surrounded me. Where was the light I was supposed to follow? As if answering my question, one star appeared, shining dimly but hovering close enough to touch.
Concentrate on the eyes
. Those words rumbled through me like an earthquake.
The star split into two, morphing into light-filled eyes. A face formed around them, turning into a full bodied angel equipped with heavenly good looks. His emerald green eyes sparkled with an inhuman intensity. They had to be the eyes my intuition whispered about. They had to be the light I was meant to follow. Death had found me, and he was mesmerizing.
