Piercing The Fold

A hazy, dusk-filled night approaches me. As I run, I watch the darkness challenge the light, bringing an indelible silence as it slowly creeps into the world. The unhurried sunlight retreats beyond the sidewalks, the grass, the trees, the buildings, the houses. The darkness wins the challenge. Fear envelops me.

I run with panic weighing heavy on my chest. The pound, pound, pound of my heart and feet are in harmony. My breath is silent, but fast; I can feel it. I feel the urgency to get home to save them, my parents. Wet, glossy asphalt shimmers on a dimly lit street as I climb the familiar hill just before turning left toward my house. I can see mist gathering at each lamppost down the long road. Nervousness and fear slip into my mind. The urgency to get there faster is my singular thought that is festering up to the tip of my tongue as I mouth the words, but no sound escapes. Out of the sheer silence, I hear a man’s holler and a woman’s scream.

The voices are so familiar at first, then distort.

Mom. Dad.

Even though my muscles burn, I move with speed and strength as the hill’s elevation becomes almost too steep to bear. At the crest of the hill, I see my house. No lights, except for the one room upstairs. Incomprehensible speed gets me to the front door of our house in seconds. I brace myself with one deep breath because I know what is coming. Even though I have dreamed this nightmare countless times, I still feel the blood drain from my body. My throat constricts in preparation to bar any sound coming to my aid. I feel a dark, evil presence all around me, thick with a terrorizing and intimidating presence. It knows that I am listening for it. I feel the rush of the dark force block my path. As I attempt to pass and climb the stairs, the sensation of walking through deep snow kicks in. I push myself to press on, having had repeated these same attempts and failures time and time again in this vicious, cyclic nightmare. I am up the stairs two steps at a time with unearthly speed. My kick to the door cracks the door frame and startles Dad. His head snaps up to look at me, and then he promptly returns his disturbing gaze to Mom. They are huddled, holding each other in a corner between their bed and nightstand. My mother is writhing and convulsing in his arms. My father is holding her, weeping and quickly speaking under his breath, a prayer, I think. I feel the heavy, intimidating presence in the room with us now. I cannot see it. I can never see it in my nightmares.

“Leave this house,” comes out of my mouth, crackly and muffled with no strength behind it, like my mouth is stuffed with cotton.

I close my eyes and focus on my strength. I put every ounce of volume behind my voice. “Leave my house, my family. With all my strength, I com—”

Then my mind shifts; I hear the audible reality. “Command you to leave!”

The sound of my voice wakes me.

I am drenched in sweat, yet shivering and cold. I cannot move my body. I can only look around. My legs feel like they are being sat on, and my arms feel as if they are chained to the bed. I move my eyes to the window by my bed. It is still dark. The trees are casting dark shadows on my bedroom wall. I am breathing rapidly. I try to slow my breath down.

Don’t panic, Jes.

More frequently than not, when these very physical nightmare occur, it takes a while for my body to regain the ability to move. In my adolescent years, the doctors remedied my parents concern by naming this bizarre episode “sleep paralysis”. The nightmares became more intense as I got older and so did the paralysis. My breathing is slow and deep now. I can start to feel a tingling in my legs and arms. I lie there, waiting for the paralysis to pass. Three times this week. I can’t help but think, like so many times before, that these nightmares could be a vision. A warning or sign of some kind. I look at the clock; it is 3:34 a.m. Too early to call Mom and Dad. I always talk with them after “an episode”. Since I can remember, Mom and Dad have been either physically at my bedside or available by phone to comfort me after the nightmare. I suppose it is their way of bringing me back to reality after the horrific unreality of it all. Now, I am hesitant since the increased occurrences of the nightmares; it would only worry them. The frequency of these nightmares is beginning to worry me as well.

Sunny skies and cool, brisk breezes. Leaves, in a multitude of colors, tumbling down from the trees and onto the sidewalks and streets. I’ve lived in Marietta, Georgia, my whole life. Last year, freshman year at Southern Polytechnic State University, I moved into my own apartment. My parents wanted me to live at home and commute, but I was determined to give it a go on my own, to proclaim my independence.

I was adopted as an infant by Roan and Delilah Sera. The Sera’s waited many years to try to have children. They discovered that it was not possible for them to have their own, and that is when I arrived. Mom and Dad said that my birth mother, Anna Gershon, had an accidental death. They said they did not know the details of her passing. When I was three, Mom and Dad were surprised with the birth of their daughter, Bethany.

The memories of my childhood were wonderful. As small children, Bethany and I were rarely left alone with a sitter. It was always a very close and trusted friend left to watch us. My parents were never far from my sister or me. I guess they were cautious with us in that sense. When I was in elementary school, Dad and I would take long hikes in Kennesaw Mountain National Battlefield Park. As I got older, I was able to hold my own better on the rough terrain near the foothills. Dad and I would run the trails there. The lake near the national park was also a place of great memories. Mom, Dad, and I would get up early on Saturday mornings to fish and bring home our afternoon catch for cleaning. Bethany liked to sleep in, so she never joined us. Dad taught me how to clean the fish we caught. I always joked with them that I should have been their son.

He always reminded me, “Strength is not a variable only applicable to masculinity. It is your strength, Jes, that will define and defend your femininity.”

Mom was always the reminder of my femininity. In my tween years, girl time included shopping and pedicures. In elementary and middle school, Mom and I spent special alone time taking field trips of our own to local libraries, museums, zoos, aquariums, and planetariums. At night, Mom and I would sit out on the back porch and talk about the good and bad of the day and stargaze.

I remember a conversation from second grade.

“Jes, how was your day today?”

“All right. Sandra told Janice and Beth not to sit with me at lunch, and she said it in front of me. She knew I was there!”

Mom coyly asked, “And how did you handle that?”

I looked up at Mom, puffed my chest out, and said, “I planned to sit with Sarah today. It didn’t bother me one bit.”

Mom congratulated me on taking the high road in the discussion with Sandra.

Mom continued. “But remember, Jesca, sometimes it takes a stronger person to walk away from a confrontation and remain righteous than to stay and battle.”

“Mom, where is God? I mean, I know He is everywhere. I know He is in Heaven, but where is that? Is it in space? Is He in our universe? Is He in our galaxy? Or is He beyond all of space?”

“Such a visionary, Jes.”

Mom stopped, looked up, then at me, and decided what to say. “Jes, God is everywhere and somewhere. I believe that He is not as far away from us as some think. I believe that God will reveal our ability to physically reach Him when it is our time to pass over.”

We lived a Christian life. Attending worship regularly was part of our weekly routine in the Sera home. However, Dad and Mom made sure that we respected many of the scientific theories and their link to God and Christianity. In my parents’ eyes, there was no reason to deny science and scientists their due respect as visionaries of biology, physics, astronomy, and so on. Our pastor, Daniel, was a visionary of Christianity. And I was taught to appreciate both and see the inevitable harmony they could harness together as a union. Dad and Mom taught me that it is the scientists’ and pastors’ different interpretations as visionaries that will eventually intersect, producing one singular, indisputable truth.

On cue, I would ask, “And what would that undeniable truth be?”

Mom would say with a smile, “Well, if we knew, then there wouldn’t be much of a purpose for all of the visionaries we are blessed with, would there?”

I am their first child, so it is understandable why they didn’t want to let me move out. I was so ready, though. I was becoming more involved on campus and with specialty coursework now; I need to be close to campus.

I open the curtain to the window in my apartment: sunshine. The light shines clarity on every object in my visual range. Still groggy from the long night of unrest, I put my undercover, Jackie O sunglasses on. My hazel eyes resemble a bloodshot mess. I started my sophomore year about two weeks ago. My apartment is about two blocks from campus. The first couple of weeks of a new semester are always tough: getting your schedule regulated without tearing all over campus like a maniac, waiting in long lines with fellow students to purchase books that are so pricey the hard covers should be made with gold filament. Let’s not forget the supplies for the courses. Oh, and the collegiate paraphernalia. I may sound jaded, but I enjoy the campus life and the feeling of camaraderie with fellow students.

As I walk, I button up my blue peacoat. My dark brown, wavy hair is whipping across my face. I quickly tug on the rubber band secured around my wrist and pull my hair up into a high bun. I’d absentmindedly let it grow out over the summer. I desperately need a trim. I start calculating the number of nights I have not slept due to the nightmares. Crap, this is the sixth time in two weeks. It may be the new semester. The stress of settling in to my coursework. The new apartment. My part-time job. The multiple responsibilities could be taking a toll on me.

That sounds exactly like something Mom and Dad might say to precursor an offer to take some of that stress off my hands by coming back home. I can do this, though. I have always been headstrong and confident and never backed down from a challenge.

I come to an intersection just on the fringe of campus. In my peripheral vision, I see a dark green jacket and a baseball cap, traditional garb for campus. Feeling the urge to acknowledge the person, I look over. This guy is looking at me with these dark, angry eyes. No other expression on his face, devilishly catatonic. Then his face shifts. I instantly feel a surge of energy run through me. Everything starts spinning. I put my hands out to try and catch myself. I feel him grab my arms. I’m about ready to wale on him when I look at him again. The eyes, they are normal, quite beautiful, actually. Light green and gorgeous, to be exact.

What the hell just happened?

He is still holding my shoulders to steady me. “Are you all right? You almost fell into oncoming traffic.”

I stare at his face for a moment, searching for a change in it. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.”

That is all I could think of, really?

He let go of my shoulders and quickly darts across the street ahead of me. I try to catch up to him to get another look at his face. I can’t get the first image of him out of my mind.

I tell myself it didn’t happen.

It is just your mind playing tricks on you, Jes. You’re tired.

He has his head down as the majority of people on campus do, extremely focused on getting from point A to point B. He takes a left at the forked path where I need to take a right. I pause just a bit to watch him walk. I’m so tempted to run up to him and look at his face once more. The wind suddenly picks up, bringing along with it the frigid cold. Feeling the sharp cold in my bones, I turn and head to Shakespearean Lit.

It bothers me all through my first class. Maybe I am hallucinating because of the lack of sleep. It could be the change in weather. The shift in barometric pressure could account for the dizzy feeling.

When he touched my arms, the shock was so strong, though.

What about his face?

My vision has always been perfect. It has to be the lack of sleep: hallucinations, headaches, dizziness. All are symptoms of lack of sleep. This reasoning calms me enough to get through my next two classes.

After my classes, I head off campus, stop for a Starbucks’, and walk to work. I work at a bookstore, Benson’s Book Store. Benson’s is about three blocks from campus. I love how close my apartment and my job are to campus. It makes me feel safe and secure to know my life could be wrapped up into a six-block radius. Benson’s is a small-town, privately owned bookstore. My best friend, Elisha, and I have been working shifts there since high school. The owner, Todd Benson, is a retired English professor from the university. He started up the bookstore after retiring since he loved the college environment that buzzed around downtown. He didn’t want to give that up. He was very visible at the store for many years. Then, his health started to fail, and he handed ownership over to his son, Todd Jr. Todd Jr. is a hippy, literally. Once a week, he walks in with no shoes, torn jeans, and a half-buttoned flannel to “take care of business”, look at shipment records for new orders and delivery records for old, check the registry for purchase and sales accuracy, etc. He is in and out in about six hours since we aren’t a huge conglomerate.

I cross in front of a side-street alley. Whispers catch my attention, and I turn to see two people in the alley. The situation looks off. I duck around the corner so they won’t catch me listening in.

A gruff voice whispers, “See, it works like this, I help you out, and you help me out. ’Kay?”

I hear a rustling bag being pulled between them.

A woman’s voice whispers back. “I know how this works. I’m not new to this, damn it. Just give me my boyfriend’s stuff. I’ve got your cash.”

I can’t help my curiosity. I slowly peek around the wall I am leaning against.

God, why am I getting involved?

A middle-aged man, dressed in slacks and a leather jacket, and with greased-back, blond hair, is groping this much younger girl. She must be in high school. She looks too young for college. She is holding a small baggy with one hand. She is pushing away the man with the other as he tries to kiss her.

The sinister, slick, male voice whispers, “Oh, sweetheart, I think you know that cash won’t cover this.”

I feel anxious for the girl. I want to help her. She must have felt me looking at her because she looks up at me. Her eyes meet mine. Her mouth doesn’t move, but I can hear her speak to me.
Go away! I’m fine. Mind your own business. Go!

I stand there for a few seconds in shock from the interaction they are having and what she just said to me without speaking an audible word. I slowly turn, back away from the alley, and lean against the wall. My heart is racing from anger and frustration. I want to help her out of this, but she doesn’t seem to want it. I can’t help but think what she would do for her boyfriend and his apparent addiction. The more I think, the angrier I get. I have to get out of here. Frustrated, I push myself off the wall, fold my arms around myself for warmth, and walk away.

How could I hear her voice in my head?

Maybe I was just thinking of what she would say.

But it wasn’t in my voice. It was in hers.

I start feeling nervous.

What is going on with me?

I walk into the store and immediately head to the back to put down my backpack and get a coffee. It is pretty vacant in the store at this time of day. The rush usually starts around 5:30.

All was quiet except for Elisha, who was listening to her iPod at the cash register, tapping her pen on the countertop and chewing gum. We have been friends since kindergarten. We are inseparable. She has been my partner in crime in many juvenile pranks. We grew up going to the same church and youth group. We have been through each other’s dramatic boyfriend issues. We went to prom with our dates together. We graduated together. We both got part-time jobs together. We both go to the same university.

We have different majors, though, way different. Elisha has always been the free-spirited one. She is into art, writing, and music. I stand in front of her for a second and smile as she taps to what sounds like
Silversun Pickups
. She looks up at me with a do-I-have-something-on-my-face look.

“Let me ask you something, Elisha. Do I look okay? I mean, do I look different?”

“You look fine. Hey, there was some guy in here earlier asking if you worked here. Said he knew you from class. I told him that I was new to the job and didn’t know all of the employees yet. He’s pretty gorgeous. Are you holding out on me? Do you have a ‘special friend’ you haven’t told me about?” Elisha smiles coyly and sits back in her chair.

I’m paying little attention to Elisha’s banter. I’m thinking on everything that has happened today. It occurs to me that it isn’t just today. My hearing voices happened a couple of times last week, too. I thought it was just my thoughts. But what happened just now makes me see it in a different light. I wasn’t hearing my voice at all.

Elisha touches my shoulder. “Hey! Jesca! Earth to Jesca!”

Elisha obnoxiously pops her gum. I quickly download the day’s happenings to Elisha. The freaky details about the cutie that I almost lashed out at and the crazy drug trafficking going on in the side alley by the Starbucks.

“Jes, you have always been ‘out for justice’. Maybe today was the token vigilante day of the week for you. This crap goes on around us all the time. Maybe you’re just sensitive to all of it today. You may be looking for it in some weird way. I mean, you are pretty weird when it comes to scoping out the not so obvious. It’s like you have radar for it or something.”

I don’t want her to explain it away that easily. Something is going on with me.

“What about the freaky face on that guy?”

“Easy, Jes. Something on TV last night triggered that image, and it popped into your pretty, little head this morning because you are so tired from not sleeping. By the way, your mom and dad are pretty concerned about your lack of sleep. They keep calling me and poking around to find out about their baby girl. You need to give them a call. Apparently, you haven’t called them in a week. God forbid!”