Purpose (4 page)

“Who are you, then, Alexis?” she’d asked.
“You’re barely alive. Your characters are more alive than you. At
least they
do
something!”

I finally promised her I would try, just to
get her off my back. And Mom and Rina, too, who insisted I start on
the new idea I had before my world fell apart. I had decided I
could use writer’s block as an easily acceptable excuse when asked
why I never produced anything. But no one ever had to ask. I
discovered, once I forced myself to sit down at the computer, I
did
still enjoy writing, and the stories came effortlessly,
as if they’d been given to me by some other force and I simply
served as a tool. As time went on, I found the escape to be even
better than my dreams.

Apparently, I’d created a welcomed escape for
my readers, too. As the normal world came into its own dark times,
people looked for a fictional world in which to lose themselves.
The world I’d invented became one of the most popular choices.
Knowing I’d given this to readers—a little escape from their
miserable lives—was one of the reasons I enjoyed writing. Because I
knew exactly how they felt.

Now that I’d almost completed the entire
story, however, I struggled to bring it to an end. Just two days
ago, my fingers flew across the keyboard, barely able to keep up
with my thoughts. But as soon as I ended the chapter and started a
new page for the next one, the flow of words ceased, as if turned
off at the source. I knew
how
the story ended. I just
couldn’t put the words together. Yesterday, I’d blamed it on the
vampire dream. But I knew the real reason. I had no ideas for the
next story, which meant no other world to throw myself into. Then
all I would be left with was my own life of nothingness. Perhaps
knowing how close I was to that abyss sparked yesterday’s
meltdown.

I needed to push past this obstacle, though.
I needed to do it for Dorian. Perhaps ending this series would
allow me to end this chapter of my life. Perhaps Dorian and I could
move forward with a fresh start at a new story. Perhaps the new
dream was my subconscious trying to tell me something. Or, perhaps
Swirly Alexis had stepped in overnight, mixing my thoughts into a
mass of confusion.

I hated Swirly Alexis almost as much as
Psycho. Nothing made sense with her. I often had a hard time
distinguishing between fact and fiction when she ruled my brain.
Today will be another doozy
, I thought with a sigh as I
crept out of bed, leaving Dorian to sleep for another hour.

I stopped in the doorway of the breakfast
nook, which led to the kitchen. Always an early riser, Mom sat by
herself at the wooden table with a cup of coffee held between her
hands in front of her. Surely she sensed my presence—even normal
humans could feel when someone has entered a room—but she didn’t
acknowledge it. Her back faced me as she seemed to be staring out
the window, watching the backyard brighten with the morning’s first
light. The bluish-gray of dawn still colored the sky and the birds
and squirrels were already active, hopping around the lawn and
fluttering among the tree branches. The windows should have muted
their chatter and calls, but they seemed unusually loud today.

I moved my attention from the yard back to
Mom. As I watched her, sitting so still and looking so peaceful, a
wave of remorse washed over me. I had treated her cruelly and she
didn’t deserve it. I lashed out at her all the time because, well,
she was here, and also because she stood next in line to lead the
Amadis, but she couldn’t give me even the smallest bit of
information. I held a certain amount of resentment for that, but I
knew she had no control over it. Until she became matriarch, she
had to follow orders. And, in the meantime, she never complained as
she took care of Dorian and me as if we were both her small
children.

I wrapped my arms around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry I’m such an ass,” I whispered
against her cheek. I cringed, knowing I’d just offended her again.
“Sorry.”

She patted my hand. “I’m sorry you’re still
suffering so much.”

I pulled away to pour a cup of coffee, then
sat down at the table with her. I played absent-mindedly with my
necklace, sliding the pendant and key back and forth on the chain,
rubbing my thumb over the smooth face of the triangular ruby.
Usually Foggy could numb the pain, but I hadn’t been fooling anyone
that she made it completely disappear, especially not Mom. And not
even myself. I knew the pain always lingered, under the fog, and,
deep down, a part of me wanted to feel it…
needed
to feel
it.

“I would really like to stop hurting, Mom,
but then it feels like I’m…giving up.”

“Nobody would blame you, honey,” she said
quietly.

I stared into my coffee cup. “I know. They’d
probably be glad I was finally coming back to reality. Seven years
is a long time….”

“Not really. Not for us,” she said, waving
her hand to dismiss the idea. “I still mourn for Stefan—”

My breath caught at Stefan’s name. I still
mourned for him, too, but... “He was a protector. I mean, not a
boyfriend or real love or anything. It’s not the same.”

“Yes, but we were very close. We even talked
about dating, but were afraid we’d ruin our friendship. I miss him
very much.” Mom sighed. “And I still mourn for my true love.”

I looked up at her with wonder. She’d never
mentioned her true love before.

“Yes, honey, I’ve lost my own true love. Many
years ago. It was 1910, a very different time, before either of the
World Wars. Oliver was an English man visiting Italy, where I was
born and raised. We fell in love at first sight. I followed him
back to England and we married almost immediately. Barely more than
a year later, he died. He’d become terribly sick and no one knew
why. He probably had cancer, but we didn’t know back then. I
couldn’t save him.”

A single tear slid down her cheek. She
brushed at it with the tips of her fingers and then wiped at her
eyes before anymore fell.

“Mom, I had no idea.”

“He was
my
soul mate, Alexis. And just
like you, I had such a short time with him. As you can see, I still
grieve for him. But life goes on and so do we.” She smiled, just a
turn of her lips that didn’t reach her eyes. “So, it’s not how long
it’s been that bothers me, honey. I understand.”

“But you mourn for their
deaths
.
Tristan isn’t dead. I
can’t
believe that! I don’t mourn. I
hang on!”

“Look how miserable you are, honey. I know
hanging on is part of who you are. Ever since Stefan left when you
were little, breaking your heart, I realized you were given the
capacity to love more intensely than even me. Once you allow
yourself to even trust enough, you become so attached. But…do you
really think Tristan would want you to live like this?”

Tears pooled in my eyes. This wasn’t the
first time she’d brought this up, so it wasn’t the first time I’d
thought about what he would want for me. He would want me to be
happy. I knew that with my brain, but my heart didn’t care. I had
to hang on and wait for him, regardless of how much his absence
hurt. She was right. That’s just how I was.

“If I don’t live like this, if I don’t feel
the pain, I’m afraid I’ll forget. And I
can’t
forget!” She
took me in her arms and I cried on her shoulder. “He’s already so
dim, fading in my mind. What if I lose his face? What if I can’t
remember anymore?”

Very quietly, she said, “Maybe it’s time to
let go, honey.”

I felt like Mom had just slapped me. Swirly
Alexis jumbled my thoughts, but Psycho pushed her away, and the
insane anger from yesterday returned.

“
NO!
” I yelled, slamming my fist on
the table, startling her. I jumped up, staring at her as if she
were the crazy one. “I will
never
let go!”

I grabbed my coffee cup and stormed outside.
A tumult of emotions battered at me, a hurricane raging in my mind.
How could I make any changes, move forward, if I refused to let go
of the pain? Letting go of the pain, of the misery, of exactly what
caused days like yesterday, meant letting go of
Tristan
. And
I absolutely refused to do that.

Did that mean changing would be impossible?
Did I have to live like this until he returned? Or until the
Ang’dora
, which would change me, make me strong and give me
powers so I could find and rescue him? Or did I hold onto something
that didn’t really exist? Was holding onto the thread of hope that
he still lived completely futile?

Ugh! I hate you, Swirly! Stop messing with my
mind!

She responded with more irrationality. An
unexplainable and overwhelming need to move overcame me. I went
around the corner and pulled out my stash of cigarettes from under
the air conditioning unit, needing to take the edge off. As soon as
I lit one, I gagged and choked.
Gross! When did I start doing
this?
I smashed the butt out and crushed the pack in my fist. I
took a swig of coffee. What I normally called the nectar of heaven
now tasted bitter. The warmth felt thick in my mouth and coated the
back of my throat. I tossed the rest out. I didn’t need the
caffeine anyway. I already felt wired.
What is wrong with me
now?

I knew I wouldn’t be able to write. My
publisher would be expecting those final chapters any day now; it
had been too long since I’d submitted anything. I didn’t care about
their deadlines as much as I did about Dorian. But despite my
revelation this morning, I just couldn’t bring myself to sit down
and finish the story. My mind wouldn’t focus and my body couldn’t
physically sit still.

While Mom took Dorian to school, I paced
anxiously through the sprawling house, first through Dorian’s and
my bedrooms, as well as my office, which all sat on the east side
of the house. I picked up toys in Dorian’s room and straightened
the bed, though it was unnecessary—he hadn’t even slept in his bed
last night. I moved to the kitchen and scrubbed the counters and
then the floor. Again unnecessary—Mom kept the house immaculate—but
I needed to
do
something.

I even ventured into the west wing that
housed Mom’s suite and the guest room, which we called Owen’s room.
Besides Rina’s visits every year or two, he was the only one who
used it. Wondering why the door was closed, I cracked it open. A
pillow flew at me and I jerked the door shut.
Crap.
I’d
forgotten Owen had arrived yesterday. I wondered how much of my
tantrum he experienced. Not that it was new to Owen. He’d seen the
worst of me.

He must have had a difficult time at first.
He mostly stayed away then. Being the one to return that ill-fated
day and deliver the crushing news, he’d obviously felt survivor’s
guilt and it was hard for him to be around me. I probably didn’t do
or say what I should have to make him feel any better. I didn’t
blame him for what happened. But I did, every now and then, wonder
why and how he, Solomon and the other soldier came back and not any
of the rest. I never asked him, though. I didn’t want
details…details that might tell me something I really didn’t want
to know. Owen never brought the subject up himself, either. I
didn’t know if he didn’t like talking about it at all, or just not
with me.

Although we didn’t need extra protection, not
even a shield, he started coming around more. Especially recently.
Dorian loved his Uncle Owen. He was the closest thing Dorian had to
a father figure, although I ensured everyone remembered he was
not
his father and he would
never
replace him. Mom
enjoyed his company, too, and I didn’t mind it.

I let him sleep, returning to the mid-section
of the house. I circled the table in the formal dining room and
meandered through the living room that we only used for holidays,
moving around knick-knacks and putting them back the way they were.
I did the same in the family room at the back of the house and
eventually swept all the books onto the floor and started
re-shelving them by the color of their covers. I supposed Swirly
made this organizational system seem rational when I started.
Half-way through, though, I realized the idiocy of it. Too
impatient to put them back in alphabetical order, I just piled them
haphazardly onto the built-in shelves.

At some point, Mom returned and watched me as
I paced and rearranged and cleaned, trying to work off this insane
energy. I tried to ignore her. Once Owen woke up, they both seemed
to contemplate my behavior and exchanged worried glances. I
couldn’t ignore that.

“What?” I demanded. They just shook their
heads.

“Nothing,” Owen muttered.

“For you to worry about,” Mom added
cryptically.

By noon, my muscles twitched and ached with
the need to
move
. Cleaning and pacing weren’t enough. Energy
synapses shot through my nerves and muscles and the sudden urge to
run
came over me.
Run? What the hell?

I didn’t understand the insane impulse, but I
rushed to my room to find running clothes and shoes anyway. I only
found old shorts, sweats, holey and stained t-shirts and
flip-flops. I didn’t even own a pair of tennis shoes. Of course,
that made sense. I hadn’t run for the heck of it since high school
gym class.

Oh! Mom runs
. I found her in her room,
folding laundry. “Mom, can I borrow your running shoes?”

She gave me a funny look.

“I just feel like I need to go for a run.” I
couldn’t explain the compulsion. She would think me deranged if I
told her Swirly decided I needed to fix my fat self, the only
explanation I could conceive. I hopped from foot to foot with
overwhelming energy.

She narrowed her eyes for a moment and then a
strange expression flickered across her face, like a realization
she quickly dismissed. “Yes, of course. They’re in the closet.”