Liquid Death (The Edinön Trilogy Book 1) (2 page)

              “Yes, Ma’am.”

              “Kandi, do you think you’ll be okay with that?”

              My insides are screaming, while no thought or emotion is betrayed on my face. I stare unblinking at the floor, counting idly in Latin. I am
not
. Okay. With. That. But what difference would expressing my feelings make?

              Well… it would free me from therapy…

              I part my lips and utter a small grunt, unable to produce a bigger sound.

              “Good!” she praises me like I’m a toddler taking my first steps.

              I imagine a deep, deep hole, crawling into it, and burying myself in it.

              The session is interrupted by a crash and scream outside. The counselor jumps from her chair and peeks into the hallway. “Hey!” she storms out the door, leaving it open behind her. I catch a glimpse of broken glass and water.

             
“Honey, what happened?” Mom exclaimed as I set my backpack down in the entryway. I tried to hide them, but apparently her keen motherly senses picked up on my bloody hands.

              “Nothing,” I said, moving my hands behind my back.

              “Did those kids bully you at school again?”

              “No.” I sidestepped into the kitchen to wash my hands.

              She pursed her lips and grabbed my wrists. “Kanidie, this does not look like nothing.”

              “I…” I tore my wrists from her cold fingers and gulped. “It’s my fault.” I walked to the sink and turned on the water.

              “How is this your fault? Did you cut yourself?”

              “No, Mom.” I sighed and hissed when my hands hit the scalding water. “The rocks on the playground are unusually sharp.”

              “You tripped?”

              I nodded.

              “Let me see.” She tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear and lifted my hands for her inspection. “These do not look like ordinary scrapes. I don’t buy your story.”

              “It doesn’t matter. They’ll heal.”

              “I want to know who did this.”

              I shook my head. Tears brimmed in my eyes.

              “Kanidie… tell me the whole story.”

              “You would not benefit from it.”

              “Kandi!”

              She only called me by my cheesy nickname when she was upset. I turned off the water and patted my mutilated hands with a paper towel. The cuts on my palms were already sealing. “I was waiting in line for the slide when someone threw a dodgeball at my head. It knocked me forward onto a cluster of sharp rocks. The kid who threw the ball laughed and encouraged his friends to join him in throwing balls at me. I couldn’t get up for several minutes. When I lifted my hands, they were covered in blood. So I ran home.”

              “Why would there be sharp rocks on the playground by the slide? That is a serious safety hazard.”

              I shrugged.

              “I’m going to call the school.”

              “No, please! Don’t,” I said, deflating.

              “Why not?” she asked mid-dial.

              “Because it didn’t happen at school,” I admitted, tears flowing freely. “I skipped school with a group of kids so they would accept me. It turned out to be a trick. They pushed me down a hill into a barbed-wire fence.”

              “Which group of kids?”

              “Briley and… and Terrance. I never learned the names of the others.”

              Mom found gauze in one of the utility drawers and began wrapping my hands. “I’m so sorry, Kanidie.”

              “I just want to have friends,” I sobbed. “I just want to be normal.”

              “You are special, honey. You should
never
be ashamed of your talents. It doesn’t matter if you are the loneliest person on Earth, you be proud of who you are.”

***

              Gentle snowflakes twirl in the air on the ride home from therapy with Miss Eddington. It is six in the evening in Sego Lily Valley, Utah. The sky is gray, the streets are quiet. Kyle is also quiet, for which I am grateful, his undivided attention on the wintry roads.

              He drives across the railroad tracks to the dumpy neighborhood beyond it, past graffiti-marked warehouses and old shacks that scarcely pass as houses. I live with Uncle Jim in a cul-de-sac where the grass is never green, the official facial expression is the Scowl, and the porch swings continuously creak up and down, even on windless days.

              Kyle’s posture stiffens as he navigates the neighborhood. The few houses with Christmas lights flicker in the light fog. The palpable silence is occasionally ruptured by barking dogs. I am accustomed to this environment, but Kyle is such a pretty-boy, I doubt he has ever ventured over the proverbial tracks.

              He doesn’t speak as he pulls into the crack-ridden driveway, until I pop the door ajar and step out.

              “Kandi,” he says, reaching toward me with a card in his hand. “Take this. Dial this number if you are ever in trouble, okay?”

              I look at the card, knowing I can’t take it from his hand, but unable to tell him so. The air is biting, and I start shivering.

              “Here, I’ll just throw it to you. See you tomorrow.” He tosses the card out and sets his shiny red coupe in reverse.

              I pick the card off the ground and run inside, the rumbling noise of the engine tearing out of sight and the screen door banging closed behind me. The tiny house is bleak and always smells of cigarette smoke and stale beer. I immediately head to my room to block out the world with music, worried Jim might already be home.

              “Kandi? You home already?”

              No. I rush into my room, grab my MP3 player off the nightstand, and scramble under my bed. I have hidden under my bed for two days straight before. Unfortunately, I think my uncle knows to look for me here. I can’t think of anywhere else to hide.

              “Kandi, come out, please!” He sounds drunk. He must have taken a day off work. “Don’t make me get off this couch!”

              I plug my ears and hit ‘play’ on my music device, drowning out reality for twenty blissful seconds.

             
When I met Alice, Jim’s fiancé, for the first time, I became more acquainted with her shoes than her actual face. I was incapable of
looking at faces back then, so I remember quite clearly what her shoes looked like on December 14th, 2010.

              They were pastel green flats with cute little bows on the toes. And they were the same shoes she wore when she was murdered.

              Alice’s first reaction to meeting me in the courthouse was warm and friendly, but I didn’t feel anything. I was still in a corpse-like state, so emotions were almost a foreign concept to me.

              “Oh, she’s adorable!” Alice squealed, kneeling in front of me. “And Kandi is such a cute name.”

              “Careful, Alice,” Jim warned, his hand gently squeezing her shoulder. “Don’t touch her.”

              “Okay, I won’t,” she assured him. Her attention turned to her purse, which was strapped over her shoulder. She retrieved an object from the purse and gave it to me. “I bought you a gift. Go ahead and open it.” She clapped her hands excitedly as I mutely obeyed. I tore the metallic purple wrapping from the hidden object and stared at it.

              “It’s an MP3 player,” Alice explained. “You put music on it and listen to it.”

             
Music? When was the last time I listened to music?

              “You’ll probably need help setting it up. I can put music on it for you.”

              “Okay, let’s go,” Jim urged, clasping Alice’s hand. “Come on, Kandi. Let’s take you to your new home.”

              I followed them outside to Jim’s car and sat in the backseat. Memories of similar instances resurfaced and swam in my head for the first time in years. My mom’s face appeared in my mind as she turned from the driver’s seat to lecture me. I shook the memory away and focused on my feet. The social workers had given me new fuzzy black boots, as well as an entire wardrobe of charity clothing. I didn’t know how I felt about this. I wasn’t used to clothes this soft.

              “Okay, we’re here!” Jim announced happily. He got out of the car and opened the passenger door for Alice as she stepped out. We climbed up the narrow metal stairs on the side of the building to Jim’s apartment. Before walking in, I glanced over my shoulder at the wet street below. A tall man dressed all in black stood on the other side of the street. I couldn’t make out his face, but I had the distinct feeling that he was staring at me.

              Later that night when I was settled in, and Alice and Jim were sleeping in the room down the hall, the floodgates opened. I listened to the music on my music device and remembered my mother’s laugh. I recalled smells and emotions and sensations. I also recalled the sting of the blade that killed me.

              A large, sticky hand latches onto my leg and yanks hard enough to snap it off. I scream and kick with the other leg, nailing Jim in the face. Unfazed, he drags me fully into the open and props his rotund figure over me. “You can’t hide from me, sweetheart,” he slurs, glazed blue eyes ogling my body. His breath reeks, and sweat stains his underarms and collar a sickly yellow. Both of his hands clasp my wrists together above my head, and his knees pin my legs to the itchy carpet. He moves his right hand to fish a pocketknife from his jeans and displays the blade. “Where should I make you bleed first, my little fountain of youth?” He holds the knife to my neck. “Here?” He moves the knife to my chest. “Here?” Then he moves the knife lower. “Here?”

              My consciousness flickers. I vaguely try to buck him off, but my frail five foot frame against his bulk is far from a worthy match. Jim places the knife between his teeth as he removes my sweatshirt and pants, leaving only a torn white undershirt and underwear while he grazes my skin with the sharpened blade. Flashes from the past come to me in tactile interludes. I scream again, goosebumps appearing on my arms and legs and an intense burning sensation sweeping through my core.

              The present blurs as I slip in and out of consciousness, but I see the past clearly: My father’s face as he rolls away in the back of a cruiser with his hands cuffed behind his back. My little sister, Traci, as she lies on the kitchen floor next to Mom, their dead eyes staring back at me. Blood on my hands, in my eyes, soaking my clothes. A little girl’s screams. Sirens. Interrogations. Cement walls.

              When I return to awareness, I am still on my bedroom floor. Uncle Jim is gone. Every movement wrings tremendous sharp pain as my fresh knife wounds split open. Blood coats the carpet around me. A volcano erupts in my skull when I try to lift my head, and my legs are quaking. The room is pitch dark save for the time flashing on my digital clock. It is 4:04
AM
.

***

The New Prison

              Dec. 15, 2016

                           
I love lacking control
.
When I was
finally released from Blue Skys after two years, I thought I would be free. But... no. I am simply being transferred from one prison to another: mental hospital to high school. My hopes are not high as I sit here in the principal’s office, awaiting further undue punishment. Though I only attained a freshman-level education before my arrest, I shall be enrolled in Sunny Days as a senior, with five months left of the school year. After that, who knows where I’ll go? I can’t imagine going to college like a normal graduate and achieving a career. No, I will probably be placed back in Blue Skys to become a life-long pin-cushion for the Doctors’ entertainment.

              “Let's go over the rules and regulations one more time, Juan. Perhaps this time you will decide to pay attention.” The principal, a burly man in his late forties to early fifties, leans over his desk and glares at me as though his threatening tone of voice doesn't get his point across enough already. I get it: no funny business. How hard is that to understand?

              “That's okay, sir, I think I got it.” I hold up my hands and try to maintain respectful behavior.
This is one step closer to freedom
, I remind myself.

              Principal Walker slides a piece of yellow paper across his desk toward me and hands me a blue ballpoint pen. I delicately pick up the pen and sign it, hyperaware that I often underestimate my own strength. (Yes, I have broken a pen in half before while writing with it.)  Without further ado, I scoot the contract back to him and clear my throat expectantly.

              The man behind the desk eyes me warily before placing the contract and pen in his drawer and shutting it. He rises to his feet, exhales loudly, and coughs. His eyes switch back and forth between the two aides behind me, as though he can speak telepathically. I can almost hear the silent conversation passing between them:

             
“Any chance you get, keep this boy locked up.”

              “Will do, sir.”

              “And don't let him eat anything he likes. Feed him copper wires for all I care.”

              “No problem, sir.”

              “And don't hesitate to push him around a little. He doesn’t bruise easily.”

              “Very well, sir. We'll be sure to make him as miserable as possible for no reason.”

              After that peculiar nonverbal exchange, I feel a hand on my shoulder forcing me to my feet. The owner of that hand is a six foot five monster with blond hair slicked back on his thinning scalp and a permanent frown. That description also applies to the aide on his right. They look more like professional hockey players than social workers, and I must say… it will not be easy being the new kid with these two goons shadowing me everywhere. Of course, this is not a normal school, so perhaps I won’t be the only one.

              I shake the principal’s hand and politely thank him before Goon 1 shoves me out of the office and Goon 2 plows in front of me.

              I pull my schedule out of my pocket and glance at it. “My first class is Spanish.” My brows furrow. “Why would I need to take this class?”

              “Be quiet, boy.”

              I scoff and shake my head. I don’t have to do anything they say.

              This school looks pretty normal – despite the security guards stationed in every hall – with its muted blue walls and vivid yellow lockers. According to a poster hanging above one of the drinking fountains, the Winter Ball is this weekend. The structure and design is modern and clean, indicating this school was most likely built within the last five to ten years. I don’t see any sports paraphernalia or trophy cases. I do, however, see plenty of cameras following me as I walk by, exact replicas of the cameras in Blue Skys.

              We round a corner and pass a wiry teenage boy screeching and violently kicking the wall while three adults attempt to console him. We pass a similar situation in another hallway, where three girls are dumping their water bottles on each other. One of the girls lashes out with her teeth and bites another girl’s arm. The scream that ensues pops my eardrums like overinflated balloons. My aides don’t seem to notice or care. I close my hands into fists, crinkling my schedule.
I am still in Blue Skys.

              The Spanish classroom is on the opposite side of the school from the principal’s office. Goon 1 opens the door, and Goon 2 shoves me inside, forcing me in front of five students and the teacher, who appear surprised at my intrusion. I clear my throat and try to be cool, not wanting to cause further alarm. I peer over my shoulder at my aides for assistance. Are they going to introduce me, or should I sit down? Should I introduce myself?

              “Um… hi.” I smile sheepishly and wave. The teacher, a tall man with an athletic build, finishes discussing something with another student and beckons me forward. He pushes up his glasses and places his hand on my shoulder.

              “I’m Mr. Brown,” he whispers. “Your seat is right over there.” He points to the empty desk in the second row, second column.

              “Shouldn’t I introduce myself first?” I ask.

              He smiles and shakes his head like I just asked if I should sing the alphabet backwards. “We know who you are.”

             
Oh
. I nod and take my seat behind a girl with a pink bob and nose ring. I shift on my side, finding these desks too cramped for my long legs.

              The guy behind me taps my shoulder. I turn to face him. “You’re Juan Chavez?” he inquires with a semi-grin.

              “Yeah,” I reply blandly.
So what?

              “Dude, we heard rumors you, like, killed your dad with a baseball bat. It would be so
rad
if you could tell us the whole story at lunch.”

              My mood rapidly plummets from apathetic to pernicious. “You would like to hear my story, huh?” In a flash, his collar is clenched in my fist. “How would you like to
live
it?”

              A large shadow appears over my head. Goon 1 dislodges my fist from the boy’s collar and stabs my neck with a needle. Instantly, I feel more complacent, my eyes hooded, my jaw slack.
Ah….

              The sensation wears off by the end of the hour, and soon I am walking to my next class thinking of all the wonderful ways I could torture that kid for mentioning my past. I’m so lost in thought that I barely register almost bumping into a guy about my height and build with chiseled features and sandy hair.

              “Excuse us,” he huffs impatiently.

              “Whoa! Sorry,” I apologize, snapping back to reality. “I didn’t see you…” My voice trails off when I notice the guy is not alone. He is standing protectively in front of a small girl with the most pulchritudinous face I have ever seen. Her skin is smooth and white, her light blond hair is stringy and gathered in the hood of her gray sweater, and her jeans are scuffed and full of holes. But her face looks like it was carved by angels.

              My aides tug me aside so the girl and her companion can continue walking. The girl’s eyes are downcast, and her gait is slow and uneven. A purple bruise along the underside of her jaw is fading to green, and I notice her tiny hands are shaking before she conceals them in her long sleeves.

              She looks like so many of the patients at Blue Skys: pale, alone, forgotten. I want to torture whoever inflicted her with that nasty bruise.

              We near the end of the hallway when suddenly I hear a soft whimper and whip around. The girl is now on the floor, curled against the wall and sobbing. The jock is urgently talking to someone on his phone. “I need you to come down here,” he says. “I gave her the shot, but she doesn’t seem to be responding. Yeah. I think she’s having a breakdown. All right. Thanks.” Then he hangs up.

              “Stop stalling, Chavez,” Goon 2 growls in my ear.

              I keep walking, not veering my eyes from her until she disappears.

             
I entered the house through the back door and flung my backpack to the floor. The house was relatively quiet; most of the noise was coming from outside. I heard gunfire as a car sped through the neighborhood, but nothing about that surprised me. I often went to bed at night hearing similar racket.

              It was a little later in the evening; I had spent most of my day in the public library studying for finals. I searched the house for my mother, who rarely went missing and could usually be found in the basement drinking or in the family room watching television – mostly to forget the stressors in her life, especially me.

              “Mom?” I called, a chill racing down my spine. Something wasn't right. I don't know how I knew; call it a premonition, whatever. It just occurred to me that tonight could be one of
those
nights.

              Luckily, Mom answered my call with a groggy “what” followed by puking and a toilet flushing. Ah. She was in the bathroom.

              I walked down the hall and knocked. “Are you okay?”

              “I'm fine,” she clipped in annoyance. I heard water coming from the faucet, then gurgling. She finally exited the bathroom and appraised me. “Where've you been?” she inquired, hand on her bony hip. “Dinner 'as an hour ago.”

              Like she ever made dinner... I almost rolled my eyes. Instead, I shrugged. “I was at the library studying. Where's Dad?”

              “He's at work, ya idiot. Where else 'ould he be?” She pushed past me and stumbled drunkenly down the hall to the family room. I followed her.

              “I don't know. I just had this feeling... I heard gunshots a minute ago and thought...”

              She looked at me like I was as dumb as a rock, which was probably true. I was only fourteen at the time and could barely tell the difference between a minus sign and a plus sign. “Thought what? That yer father 'as involved? 'E pro'aly was. What're ya gonna do 'bout it?” she asked rhetorically, shrugging her shoulders and collapsing on the sofa. The pale woman groaned and massaged her temples, obviously in a great amount of pain. I sat down next to her and gently rubbed her back. There was nothing I could say that would console her; she'd simply be more upset no matter what words of comfort I had to offer.

              But I spoke anyway. “Need some aspirin?”

              “Yes.” She sighed and closed her eyes. I nodded and rose to my feet.

              On my way back to my mother with a glass of water and a few pills, my father appeared in the entryway, his mouth set in a firm line and his eyebrows deeply furrowed. He looked at my mother. “Got anything to eat?”

              My mom shook her head and sniffed.

              He turned to me. “What's that you got there, son?”

              “Water and aspirin for Mom. She's got a headache.”

              “Oh, a headache, huh?” He stepped in further from the entryway to the couch where my mom rested, expressing disapproval. “I just came back from the office of the doc who's treating one of my men, who just got his leg blown off, and you're complaining 'bout a headache?” He leaned closer to my mother so his nose was in her face. “
Perra patético
!” My mom flinched. He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back so she was looking at him. “You're lucky to be alive! My career is collapsing, and all you can think about is a
stupid
headache.” He forced my mom to her feet by her scraggly brown hair and pulled her closer to him. Mom whimpered, and her eyes watered.

              In the past, I would have cowered in the corner for fear of punishment if I intervened. But at this moment, rebellion coursed hotly in my veins. I didn't want to watch him beat my mother again. She was struggling to live as it was; I had it easy. Why should she take the blame for my father's failure?

              I set the glass of water and aspirin down. My father smacked my mother twice in the face, which spurred my resolve. I was going to help my mother.

              For the first time in my life, I stood between them and pleaded with my father to stop, tears stinging my eyes and rolling down my flushed face. My father, more infuriated than I had ever seen him, flexed his fist and aimed it right at my jaw. I felt the impact a moment later while I was on the floor. He hammered me in the stomach, in the chest, in the face, and then he picked me back up and repeated the beating.

              After he’d finished, I was broken. My chest had collapsed, so I couldn’t breathe. Both arms were fractured, my face was swollen, and my legs were terribly bruised.

              My mother called an ambulance as soon as my father left, claiming I was in an “accident.”

***

              “I’m home.”

              “In the kitchen, dear!”

              I set my books on the mudroom bench and rub my nose. Holy crap, I smell cookies!