Read Fell of Dark Online

Authors: Patrick Downes

Fell of Dark (6 page)

BOOK: Fell of Dark
7.82Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

THORN

VOICES IN MY HEAD.
Growls and grunts and whining saws.

A woman got on the train and pushed right past me. She sat on the floor. Tote bags between her legs. The crush of people, so I turned a little to see her. No one wanted to stand too close. She had sunglasses on, huge ones that fit over regular glasses. She looked old, but I wasn't sure. She didn't have any teeth. And her hair was dyed an unnatural shade of red or something closer to orange. I thought I saw gray underneath. I don't know. She might have been old and suffered a lot. Or she might have been young and suffered her whole life.

She talked to herself. Her hands flew around like frightened birds. Something moved inside of her. Spirits.

Homeless? Who knows?

There she was, on the terrible floor. High socks held up with rubber bands, and her skirt falling down her legs. She didn't care, and I didn't look away. I don't know why. What does a crazy woman wear under her skirt?

Then I noticed something. Her legs. Her legs were young. I expected wrinkles or spots or veins. And her smooth hands, long elf fingers, knuckles like little skulls.

She was skinny, skinny. When did she last eat? Days or weeks or years? But she had perfect legs and perfect hands.

The train slowed down.

The woman dumped an ancient brown coat and a gold scarf out of a bag right onto the floor. She wrapped the scarf around her head and tied it at the back of her neck. She pushed herself up to her feet, pulled on her coat, lost her balance. She grabbed my shoulder. Her eyes. Black and pink in her sunglasses. Her eyes, or not her eyes exactly, her gaze was a needle. A needle pushed straight through to the back of my skull.

“Get it out of my head,” she said. “You look like a nice boy. Get it all out of my head.”

I touched her. I held her up. “It'll be better now,” I said. What else could I say?

The train stopped. She picked up her bags, slid out, and disappeared into the crowd.

It all might have been a dream. Or did it happen? I can't always tell the difference.

Dreams, memories, what does it matter?

I have a memory from when I was very young. How long out of my mother?

I remember a man lifting me over his head one-handed, two suns shining out of his dark glasses. His mouth filled up with a golden light. This must have been my father.

I remember crawling into an oven and sitting under the coils.

I remember a dark alley and the black points of buildings stabbing the sky.

And I remember a windy day. I was walking next to my mother down on the avenue. The wind lifted me off my feet and sent me flying. My mother couldn't hold on. She screamed. A Doberman pinscher snatched me out of the air and saved me. It dropped me at my mother's feet.

Is even one of these memories true? Or did I make them all up?

They feel true to me.

My hand might be broken. I punched my bureau. I don't know why. I have no idea why.

The power of my heart.

I don't always know who speaks for me or out of me. I am many. I have a Protector who shields me against the world, against people, men, women, and other kids, and against monsters, beasts, and the wild. He's huge and can't be stopped, but he won't protect me against the Sawmen. The Sawmen punish me if I don't listen to the Architect. When the Sawmen come, I suffer. The severing.

The Guardians command the Sawmen. Geniuses with whips. They will talk with me, but when they talk, they growl. They laugh when there's nothing funny at all. They laugh at me because I'm stupid compared to them, compared to the Architect. They serve the Architect with total loyalty.

The Architect lives at the center of me. He created everything within me, and I sometimes think he created me, too. I've never seen him, and I can't imagine him. I know he thinks and draws and stares out of the windows of my eyes.

Who created the Architect? What was inside me before him? Anything?

A drop of rain hits the window and dissolves. Another one and another one.

Thunder, lightning.

Rain scared me when I was young. Not even so long ago.

Splash splash splash splash

I will not be killed. Panic. The lightning, the thunder, the rain. Soaked. Keep running. What have I done to die like this?

The frog. The frog.

Sixth grade. Three years ago. My winged mother came out of hell to frighten me. All her screeching and bloody fingers. And my father arrived in fire and pushed my face into my cereal. Nearly drowned me in a bowl of milk. I squirmed out and ran the five flights from our apartment to the ground floor. Escaped.

My face. Milk running down my face under my shirt, dripping all over my shirt. Milk in my ears. Milk coming out my nose. Milk streaming from my eyes.

Out in the street, I pulled my baseball cap down low. I had my backpack, my apartment key in my left front pocket, and stuff in my right front pocket. A stone, a bottle cap, a tiny key to a hidden lock, and some change. My sneakers looked new, but the treads had been worn down. I went through a pair of sneakers every month before I stopped growing. All my running and walking.

My pants above my ankles—high-waters. Always embarrassed and ugly. I still have the ankles of a pony, too skinny for my legs.

My backpack. Pencils and erasers. Binder. A separate math notebook. A worn copy of
Bridge to Terabithia
I had to read for class, and a few other tools of the trade. A silver cross on a chain I kept all by itself in a pocket. Lunch in a brown paper bag, a sandwich and cookies that I'd give up or throw out. I had these books:
The Pilgrim's Progress
and
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
.
Catcher in the Rye,
which I thought would have a bad ending and did. Totally boring and meaningless. Very human.

The school day started like any other. A settling of homework with Mrs. Jacobs. New stuff, whatever it might've been. Who cares?

Then, Kristine Pierre passed me a note. She had to know what would happen. She sprang the trap. The note came through Kristine, who tucked it into my collar since she sat behind me.

Meet me after school on the back steps. Just you. Mala.

The rest of the day was a waste. I went around in a fog. I couldn't keep my eyes off Mala for months. She came here from Bangladesh. I'm not even sure if Mala's her real name. She might have a Bengali name too hard for me to pronounce. She has black hair almost too thick to believe, a real ponytail. Her eyes are the size of dinner plates and only seem black. I once saw the sun in her eye. Deep brown.

She smiles like a voice inside of her tells her she's beautiful and loved. Only a half smile, but happy. Her skin is dark. Dark and light at the same time.

She made me stupid.

The day went by until it ended. I stuffed my backpack and sat in the corner of the classroom after the last bell. Waiting, terrified. Calm down. Calm down. I had to get myself together.

BOOK: Fell of Dark
7.82Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Skin Walkers Conn by Susan A. Bliler
Extrasensory by Desiree Holt
The Paper Magician by Charlie N. Holmberg
LOWCOUNTRY BOOK CLUB by Susan M. Boyer
Geezer Paradise by Robert Gannon
The Deception by Catherine Coulter
Full Circle by Lisa Marie Davis
Juliet in August by Dianne Warren
Beguiled Again: A Romantic Comedy by Patricia Burroughs