Moonglow (11 page)

“Dominy, stop!”

My father's command fills up the kitchen, but it's as if he's shouted at me from a mile away. I hear a whisper, a snippet of his anger and his fear.

Looking at Barnaby on his side, his legs twitching, his bony fingers shaking and clutching the throat that I just held, stroking the now-red skin, it's like I'm watching a movie that I directed. I'm not part of the action any longer, even though I'm the one who set it in motion. I feel normal again.

“She tried to kill me!” Barnaby screams.

I remain silent because I can't disagree.

“Ape Girl tried to kill me!”

My father steps in between the two of us when Barnaby lunges at me even though I don't take a step toward him; I don't flinch. It's as if I'm not in the room, although I can hear and see everything.

“What the hell happened?!” my father asks, crouching down so he and Barnaby are on the same level.

“She flipped out again! Like some . . . rabid animal!”

My father drops his head, and his eyes examine the floor. I have no idea what's so enticing about the linoleum, but he can't lift his head for a few moments. Finally he turns toward something on the floor, and I feel my head turn in the same direction. He sees Barnaby's gift. He then looks back at Barnaby, his expression eager for an explanation.

“T.J.'s grandmother works at the Hair Hut,” Barnaby explains. “She had to do a wax job on Dominy 'cause she's sprouting hair like some mutant dog!”

When my father slaps Barnaby across the face, it's the first time I've seen him hit one of his kids. This is more sinful than my actions; nothing is right in our house, in our family. I close my eyes, and slowly I feel them shifting back into focus in the darkness. When I open them I can feel my body again.

Barnaby is on the verge; I don't know what he's going to allow his body to do: cry or lash out. He does both.

“Why'd you hit me? She's the one who tried to kill me!”

I can't see my father's face, but I know that he's weary. His body shifts, and his knee hits the kitchen floor; he has to press his hand into the tiles so his whole body doesn't topple over. All the while Barnaby is slapping his hands against my father's shoulders, his arms, his head, and my father lets him, lets Barnaby give him the punishment he feels he deserves, until Barnaby is exhausted and stops. At first my brother's arms are limp as my father hugs him, but their embrace grows tighter, and soon Barnaby relents; he gives in and accepts my father's grip and his apology.

“I'm sorry,” my father whispers into Barnaby's ear. “Please forgive me.”

There's silence as the two of them continue to hug and contemplate the flurry of emotions filling their minds and hearts. I know exactly how confused they must feel, but they're also lucky; they have each other to hold on to; I just get to watch.

Watching my father as he kneels in front of Barnaby, I can see his face now; he isn't crying, but he's ashen—his handsome features are drenched in gray. He holds Barnaby tenderly around his neck, the neck that I tried to snap a few minutes ago. “Your sister didn't mean it,” he says. “It wasn't her.”

Neither of us really understands what he's saying.

“It's . . . it's her birthday and you . . . you hurt her,” he stammers. “It was wrong of you to do that. You know that, don't you?”

Barnaby nods his head. I see his lips move, and I know that they mouth the words “I'm sorry,” but I can't hear them. They're only meant for my father anyway.

“Now let's clean up this mess.”

We follow my father's orders like robots, silent and mechanical. We don't look at each other, but somehow we work as a team to make the room look normal again, as if rage hadn't devoured it moments earlier. Maybe this is what a family does during times of crisis? Cleans up their messes in silence. But the silence doesn't last long, and when my father is making noise throwing away some broken dishes, Barnaby leans in close to my ear, deliberately ignoring my face, and whispers, “Don't think I'm ever going to forget what you did.”

He runs off to catch his school bus before I can tell him that I doubt I will either.

“You'll be home tonight?”

My father's voice sounds like the kitchen now looks. Serene, but startling.

“I was thinking of doing something with Caleb and Jess,” I reply, even though I hadn't made any such plans. The thought of being alone in this house with my father and Barnaby any longer than I have to is suddenly unbearable.

“I thought we would have a quiet family dinner for your birthday,” he says. “Just the three of us.”

I watch him make circles on the kitchen counter with a sponge.

“Can I invite some friends?” I ask.

He presses down harder onto the surface; there's a stain that simply won't come out. “No, let's make it a family celebration.”

My father looks at me, and his face is no longer gray; it's the face I remember. He's handsome and young and filled with hope. His quick changes are confusing me; I don't know who my real father is and who is the imposter. Something is so wrong. It feels like a turning point, but it doesn't feel like my birthday.

“Let's not invite anyone else until . . . until the weekend, and then we can have a party,” he says. “Just make sure you come home before dark.”

He tosses in this comment casually, to make it sound like he hadn't wanted to say it since the conversation started, but I know better. He throws the sponge into the sink and leans into the counter, his back to me, and I see his shoulders rise and fall. He's breathing deeply, searching for courage or warding off fear. “I have to work later tonight, and I want to make sure . . .”

He turns around to face me, and the sight of me makes him lose his concentration, erases all meaning from his mind, and he stops speaking. Whatever he wants to say to me, whatever words he wants to share with me remain unspoken, remain his alone. The stone wall is back up; I can barely see my father standing right in front of me.

“Make sure what?” I ask.

“That . . . um . . . that you're home for our celebration.”

I desperately want to ask him what's going on, but I'm desperately afraid that he's going to tell me the truth, so I keep quiet. I nod my head as I grab my coat and bag so I can leave, get out of this house, finally get outside where I can gulp in the air.

“I love you, Dominy.”

The words stop me from leaving. I have one foot out the door; I can feel the fresh air on my face, but I can feel my father's love like sunshine on my back. Pushed and pulled into two different directions. I want to reply; I want to turn around and look my father in the eye and tell him that I love him too, but the words won't come. Something is holding them back, keeping them from finding their voice, keeping them trapped inside my mind and my heart. It's the same thing that's pushing me outside into the unknown and away from my father.

The door slams behind me, and I still can't breathe. I feel as if I'm completely alone in the world.

When I wake up next to Jess's dead body, I no longer simply feel as if I'm completely alone in the world. I know that it's true. Because that's how you feel when you become a very bad person.

Part 2

The moon is gone and I am lost
My body, mind, and soul
are tossed
Into a prison, no longer free
The warden moon holds the key.

Chapter 8

 

The sky doesn't look normal without the moon. Where's the black velvet? Where's the silver circle? Where are the things that fill my heart with hope and gratitude?

A chilled breeze wraps itself around me, and a few seconds later I shiver. I'm a different person. I don't have to look down at Jess's body to know this; it's a certainty that something inside of me has changed. Yesterday the moon was the enemy, and now I'm seeking it out, begging for it to arrive. I'm like a vulture circling above a bleeding animal, willing it to turn into a carcass so I can carry out the tasks I was born to perform. Jess's lifeless body reminds me that I've done just that.

“Jess!”

My voice is rough and sore and hollow. I wait for a response, although I know she won't answer. She's dead. My best friend is dead.

Her ravaged body is two feet from where I'm standing, and the reality starts to drill into my brain and into my mind and into my heart, until it can no longer be ignored. No! This can't be real! Close my eyes; open them. Nothing's changed, except everything has. And it's all because of me. But no, it can't be! I can't possibly have done this. Could I? Could this . . .
horror
. . . be my doing?

I reach out to hold on to something, anything to steady myself, but there's nothing. I'm alone. My bare ankle scrapes against the pointy edge of a rock, and I feel blood trickle out of my body. The shock steadies me, and I look down to see a stream of red trickle over my anklebone and onto my sock, staining the white cotton material pink. The color reminds me of yesterday, of my innocence and my youth—everything that's been taken from me and everything that I will never have again.

Another breeze, another shiver. This time they both attack my body with more intensity. There is no yesterday; there is no innocence and youth, only today and this new life that I've chosen or that's somehow been forced upon me. Whichever one it is, I know that it's a life from which I'll never be able to escape.

I hear a rustling in the distance, and my body takes over, interrupting my thoughts. I crouch down, all fours on the ground, and my head jerks to the side to search the area for intruders. This position feels odd and familiar at the same time, like I was a marine or something in another life and the memory was lost to me until now. I twist my head around to look behind me and back again. Nothing. I'm disappointed because I was hoping to see a wild animal staring at me, watching me from the entrance of the hills, which makes absolutely no sense because if that did happen I'd soon be as dead as Jess. But maybe that's my wish? Pray for death by attack from a cougar or a mountain lion, so the world will think that Jess and I died the same way, so I can take my secret with me to the grave.

The rustling sound catches my ears again, and my back stiffens. Once again my body takes over. My body is certain; my mind is hazy. I don't want to die; I want to fight. How disgusting can I be? The survival instinct has already kicked in, and while my mind may want to convince me that I wish I were dead, my body clings to life. My eyes shift to the left, the right, while my head doesn't move, and my opponent is finally revealed; it's not an animal I heard, just my jacket rolling in the dirt. There's no immediate danger, no chance for death, and for some sick reason I'm disappointed.

Sliding my arm into the jacket I notice there are tears in the left shoulder; it looks like a claw ripped through the material. Now I really am confused.
Was I attacked?
Did Jess and I stumble upon some lone creature on our way home? Did we disturb some
thing
that was hungry and on the hunt? It would be a rare occurrence, but not unprecedented, as there have been such reports in this area before, an area well past the town border that the locals call Dry Land. Once or twice I've heard about someone being attacked, but usually there's a scuffle and the animal retreats back into the hills to feed. Could it be that the food supply in the hills has dried up? Or were we just unlucky?

The material of my jacket, a kind of lightweight parka, is covered with dirt and weeds. I look closer, and they're not weeds, but hair. Could be strands of my own hair, but they're not long enough. Short bristly strands of hair that are a deep red. Against my green jacket they remind me of Christmas, candy-cane wrapping paper, Barnaby's gift, and home. Home. I've got to get home before my father and brother wake up. The only way I'm going to make it is if I stop thinking and start acting.

I'll never be able to carry Jess home with me, but I can't leave her here on display either. Out here in Dry Land, she'll be exposed. Some early morning hiker might find her, or worse, the wind will carry her scent, and it'll be picked up by an animal just waking up in the hills or stir one out of its sleep with the promise of breakfast. If anything can lure an animal out of the comfort of its home hidden deep within the dense foliage of the hills, it's the smell of blood. My only choice is to conceal the corpse.

I wince when I touch Jess's skin. It's already inhuman; it feels like ice. There's loud shouting going on in my head:
Don't think about what you've done, could've done, might have done! Don't think; just get on with the job.
I grab underneath her calves and start to drag her over to a fallen tree, no longer suitable to provide shade, but perfectly suitable to provide camouflage.

I place the tree's fallen branches over her body, and she disappears; her life is gone, and now her body is too. Almost. Peering out from underneath the branches that crisscross to create a natural lattice, Jess's blue eyes are staring at me. I've been so careful not to look at her face, to focus only on her body, her new weight, that I don't recognize them at first; I think they might be stones or absurdly, two birds in a nest that I accidently covered up. But they're not; they're parts of Jess, parts of my friend. Her eyes surprise me; they aren't filled with accusation or judgment; they're kind. I wonder if they know that they may be looking at their killer.

My fist bangs against my forehead, once, twice, three times in an attempt to jostle my brain back to the past and remember exactly what happened, but my memory is unclear; it's like the night brought with it a fog that refuses to fade away. Why would I have done this? Why would I want to kill my best friend? Think! Think! There has to be a more plausible explanation than the one that keeps clutching at my heart. But what other explanation can there be? Yes, I have some scratches on my body and my clothes are torn, but that's nothing,
nothing
compared to what happened to Jess.

My hand navigates its way in between the zigzag of branches until it finds Jess's eyes. Two shaking fingers touch her eyelashes. They don't feel natural; they're hard like the bristles of a toothbrush. One finger is poised over each eye, and I hesitate. The warmth of my tears feels good against my cold cheeks, and I grab my wrist with my free hand to steady myself. I'm not ready to say good-bye; I'm not ready to close Jess's eyes and cover up the blue forever, but I have to do this; I have to close her eyes so Jess can move on. If we do have some kind of spiritual afterlife, I don't want Jess's soul to be lured into staying inside her body because she can still see the physical world. I want her to escape, move on, and go to a much better place. A place that I may never be allowed to enter.

“Good-bye, Jess.”

The blue is gone, and I hear a sound come out of my throat that I've never heard before. I don't recognize it, but I understand what it means. It means that somewhere inside of me lives the filth. All my fears over the past few months, all the suspicions I've had were not just coincidences; they weren't just creations of my own imagination. They were clues. The sounds coming out of my throat grow louder and angrier and sadder, and I feel my fists banging against the dirt and my body. Striking out against everything and nothing at the same time.

Finally, the wild fury takes its toll on me, and I slump over exhausted, my forehead pushing into the ground, my body rocking back and forth. All I can hear is my breathing, strong and loud and steady; it's like a code that triggers something in my brain. I've heard this sound before. I can't remember when or where, but it strengthens my conviction; none of what I've been feeling lately is my imagination. For months something has been forcing its way inside of me to take control. For months something has been trying to turn me into something unrecognizable, and it's finally succeeded.

Who am I?

What am I?

I have no idea. All I know is my life has changed. Why and how I'm determined to find out, but for now all I know is that Dominy Robineau has been turned into a new person.

And it's definitely not a blessing.