Schasm (Schasm Series) (2 page)

Why is she leaving me here with this man? I don’t want to be alone with him.

The man sits down in one of the metal chairs next to me and shifts his body to look at me. “Everything is going to be okay now.” He places his cold hand on my back. It makes me shiver. “Most people call me Tomas, but you can call me Franco,” he says with a friendly smile.

I guess he’s kind of nice. I’ve never met anyone with two first names before. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

“Chloe, would you like a special juice drink?” he asks.

I like juice, and I’m thirsty. “Okay,” I say.

He hands me a small plastic cup with a red liquid. It tastes like strawberry…but it also tastes like cold medicine. The icky kind. He only gave me a little bit, so I finish it with one big gulp.

He pats my back after I return the cup. “Good girl, Chloe. That should fix all of your problems.” He says it with a smile that doesn’t look so friendly anymore.

“I don’t have any problems, Tomas…I mean Franco,” I say.

Franco kneels in front of me and rests his arms over my shaking knees. “Chloe, I need you to close your eyes and repeat after me. Ten… nine…eight…seven…”

“Ten…nine…eight…seven…”

I don’t like this.

It’s too dark.

CHAPTER ONE

CAPABILITIES

IT’S SEVEN IN THE MORNING.
I wish just once in my life this condition would allow me to sleep a little later. I have this perpetual mental alarm clock that switches my mind on at the same time every morning, whether I’m still tired or not.

I lie here most mornings until I hear my mother and father moving around downstairs. I would lie here all day if I had the choice.

I slap my arm over my eyes in hopes of dozing off for just another minute or so. I find myself dazed and awake instead. I see a blazing hot sun in a clear blue sky, not icicles dangling from my windowpane like there should be. I turn my head and focus my eyes on the thermostat that shows seventy-five degrees. I smile and reach my arms above my head, stretching out every muscle. It looks like a perfect moment to head outside for a quick run before my long day starts.

I don’t intend on losing a single moment of this warm, welcoming weather. Vitamin D would do me some good, I’m sure. I slip on jogging pants and a t-shirt and shove my feet into old sneakers.

Running feels effortless today, as if the world is floating beneath me with no resistance.

I feel like I’m flying…

I glance down at my feet and find that I’m not quite running anymore, but rather pirouetting three feet off the ground with the grace of a ballerina at every stride. My thoughts race. I’m filled with a feeling of freedom, happiness.

Clarity.

My eyes snap open and my ears sting from the alarm clock's screaming buzzer. The clock says 7:02 a.m. It has only been one hundred and twenty seconds since I closed my eyes. I sigh and gaze out at the dark sky filled with gray clouds and cold wind. I hate how my frost-covered window allows the single-digit March temperatures to sneak into my already frigid bedroom.

I’d prefer someplace more reasonable, like San Diego, where the weather always seems to be warm and perfect compared to frostbitten New England. I’ve been there, actually. It’s become my dream to take up permanent residence there someday.

Just as I’m drawing up my daily plan to escape from Southborough, Massachusetts, an echoing sound travels up the stairs.

“Chloe, are you awake?” Her voice makes me cringe. I clap my hands over my ears to block out the shrill sound of it. “Do I need to come up there?” she yells again. Her voice pierces my clenched fingers and penetrates my ears.

No,
I think.
The last thing I need is for you to come up here.

“Sorry, Mother,” I shout back. “I must have fallen back asleep.” I groan at the thought of starting another day in the same way I start every other day.

And it’s all about my so-called
condition.

I’ve clearly become a burden on them since the age of seven… which, not coincidentally, was around the same time my diagnosis was made. No big surprise there.

I hesitate to call it a condition because it really seems as if there’s nothing that can be done to fix it. And really, I don’t mind it; my altered state of mind has never bothered me like it bothers my parents. Other than slipping into this state every so often, I’m no different than anyone else. But I’ve been going to the same doctor since I was seven years old. He’s the one who labeled it “temporary fugue-state dissociation.” Second opinions aren’t an option when it comes to my mother; one person told her twelve years ago that I have an incurable condition, so that’s the opinion we’re going to rely on forever.

And in her world, protecting me has meant imprisoning me. I’m essentially a captive here, in my own house…in my own room. She’s made it clear that if I leave, she’ll report me to the authorities and disown me. I’d become a ward of the state, and be institutionalized—permanently. At this point, I’m not sure I’d be able to tell the difference.

I drop my feet onto the arctic floor as a chill sparks up to my neck, like an electrical current bolting through my body. Every strand of hair stands at attention. Even the floor has it out for me. God, I hate this place.

I plop down at my vanity table that was given to me on my seventh birthday, afraid of the mess caused by the static. I look in the mirror and find the dreadful disarray that I have to deal with for the day. It’s the same every morning: gray rings beneath my bulging eyes, which accent my nearly-monochromatic complexion; pasty cheeks and forehead. Winter and my irregular sleep patterns don’t combine to make for a very pretty Chloe. The only color that exists on my face is the redness of my severely chapped lips and my ruddy winter nose. I snarl at the stark pallor of my own reflection. I ruffle my fingers through my hair and push it all up in a pile on top of my head, trying to figure out what to do with it. It really doesn’t matter what I do; according to my mother, there’s no reason to get all
dolled up
just to go see my doctor. Strange how she doesn’t appear to follow the same philosophy for herself.

She’s left me a pile of clothes on top of my bureau. She insists on picking out my clothes
every day
. Nothing about my state of mind prevents me from pairing colors or matching patterns. I’m fully capable of pulling clothes out of my drawers and getting myself dressed. But she continues to treat me like a child, even all these years later. And God forbid I don’t put on what she laid out for me.

It’s not even worth the fight anymore.

I slip my legs through my straight-leg jeans and poke my head through a knit sweater the color of snot, something my grandmother made for me back in the mid-nineties. All of my clothes are perfect for covering every inch of my body, from my chin down to my ankles. No skin is allowed to show at all, per her overwhelming concern that I might attract the wrong person—or any person, for that matter. I shove my feet into a pair of brown hospital socks and shamble down the stairs, taking my time, moving just slowly enough to aggravate her. She screams my name one last time. “
Chloe!
” It’s irritating for me to hear her, but I know my moving slowly irritates her even more.

I shuffle into the kitchen, dragging my feet across the yellowing linoleum tiles. The odor of my usual breakfast assaults my nose: bland over-scrambled eggs, a burned piece of turkey bacon, and a large glass of orange juice. It’s the same thing I’ve had every day for the past twelve years. It's clear that my gaunt figure isn’t enough to justify the need for a better diet. I’ve stopped pointing it out, though. It’s another fight that I’ve lost a million times before.

My mother is rinsing dishes when she sees me. “Good morning,” she says, as if her shrieking me to attention had never happened at all.

“It’s morning,” I say, “I don’t know how good it is, though.” I pull my chair away from the table, the chair I’ve claimed to be my own for as long as I can remember. It faces the wall where our clock hangs, ancient and foreboding. But I’d rather look at that than anyone here.

“Eggs?” she asks.

“You mean I have choice?” I answer, my eyes sliding from numeral to numeral on the clock. Not only is it the only thing I want to look at here; it’s also the only thing in this house that has any personality.

“Chloe, please don’t give me an attitude today,” she huffs. “You know how important it is for you to eat enough protein.” She whips the dishtowel over her shoulder and places my plate down in front of me. The stench of the burnt food coming closer makes my stomach wrench.

In an attempt to avoid my mother’s disapproving glare, I keep my gaze on the clock, focusing on the numerals as I close out the world around me.

“Chloe,” she says. “Eat your food, please.” Her voice goes shrill again.

I keep my eyes squarely on the clock.

“Chloe Renee Valcourt,” she scolds. She claps loudly to get my attention.

My eyes are set on the thick black Roman numerals. The hour hand ticks over the eight, the nine, the ten.

Every numeral explodes into dust…

The clock ticks and each subsequent numeral burst until the clock face is blank. The second hand spins faster and faster. Streams of numerals surround me; a slow ticking sound resonates through my ears, speeding up until it sounds like a jackhammer. Then it becomes a low hum, and finally a high-pitched squeal. It’s as if the volume knob on the world around me is being twisted all the way to the right.

Just as I begin to feel like my ears might bleed, everything stops.

CHAPTER TWO

DRIFTING

MY BLURRED VISION
is making it hard to determine where I am. I’m sitting at a black iron bistro table. It’s as if there’s a spotlight in front of me…everything around me is dark. There’s a tiny coffee cup and a steaming baked croissant smothered in butter on the table; next to them is a perfect long-stemmed red rose with a note folded over the stem. I look around to see if it might belong to someone else. It doesn't appear that anyone cares about me sitting here. But no one ever seems to see me when I’m drifting anyway. It’s just as it has always been.

Curiosity finally gets the best of me. I pick up the paper and find my name written in script down the center, with a blurb of French I can’t translate. The details are so sharp that I forget sometimes: this place is my own invention.

Based on all of this, it’s safe to assume that I’ve drifted to someplace in France.

I eat the croissant. It’s mine, after all. Quiet moans of gratitude escape my mouth with each indulgent taste. The image of my mother’s burnt bacon and bland eggs disappears from my mind. I scrape up the last morsel of food and focus my attention to the background conversation. It seems to be getting louder. I wish I could make out what the people are saying, but my French isn’t what it should be, even after having a French tutor for the eleven years of homeschooling.

I give up trying to understand the surrounding chatter, and turn my attention to the window instead. I can see through it now. My eyes focus on the beautiful, old-fashioned cars and multi-colored pastel cobblestones that line the roads. It’s like another world out there.

I stand and search around for an exit, but even with a broader view, I still can’t see much…except for the unusual crowd of people that just appeared out of nowhere. They’re all surrounding me and staring at me with an odd look. Can they see me? That’s impossible. I wish I could fade back into the darkness. At this moment, I don’t want to be here anymore. I kind of want to run away screaming.

I still have no idea where the exit is. I take a few hesitant steps forward. A sharp pain grips my arm. I look to see that my skin is pinched upward into a wrinkle. I press my hand down and apply pressure, hoping for it to stop, but it doesn’t. It’s getting worse. I clench my eyes and grit my teeth, trying to block out the pain, but it doesn't work. Instead, immense pain spreads across my face. Both go numb, until I finally feel nothing. Just when I think it might be safe to open my eyes, the pain returns at twice the intensity.

…a voice that sounds like darkness, dragging me back into the light…

My eyes snap open. I find my mother standing over me with the skin of my arm pinched between her thumb and index finger.

“You drifted, Chloe…as always. You looked happy this time. Where did you go?” She seems to expect an answer that she knows I can’t give her.

“I didn’t
go
anywhere.” I snap. I rub my hand over my arm, massaging out the pain. “I’ve been sitting here staring at the clock.”

Her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare. I can see she wants to do something to break me out of what she thinks is my stupor, something to express her anger. Something to regain control of me. Instead, she exhales heavily and pushes her bangs off of her forehead. “Do you see this, Paul? Now she’s drifting at the table.”

My father, as usual, does nothing and says nothing. He just stares back at me with his sad, hazel eyes.

“You need to keep control over this, Chloe,” she says.

“She can’t control it, Marie. That’s the problem.”

I know my mother wants to respond with something sharp. But she knows he’s right: I can’t control it.

I choose to ignore her, just to show her that she doesn’t scare me. “Good morning, Dad.”

“Good morning, Chloe.” he says, pouring himself a cup of coffee

“Can I get some of that?” I ask.

He looks over at my mother for approval, since he’s effectively unable to make any decisions around here. Whatever voice he used to have has been glared out of him by my mother over the last twelve years. He’s as useful as a pile of mush when she gets the way she is now.

“Absolutely
not
,” my mother croaks.

As usual, she gets her way.

***

I force down a few bites of my cold eggs and bacon to keep my mother from force-feeding me like she tends to do when I refuse to eat.