The Reaping: Language of the Liar (2 page)

Chapter Three

It was a sunny afternoon a week after her therapist meeting.  The Parish was a few blocks away from the half-way house, so she made the walk in only a few minutes, arriving early.  She followed the directions Maria scribbled on a yellow post-it Dorian stuck to the side of her portfolio, and went in through a side gate.

The grounds were gorgeous, and Dorian felt like she could stay there forever.  Tall, looming citrus trees lined the walkways, providing shade and the fragrant scent of the blooming season.  There were flowerbeds lining the walls, and vines growing wild up the bricks.

Something about the grounds was soothing, and it sent shivers up her spine.  A sense of wellness was creeping through her limbs as she made her way down the cement pathway to the heavy, wooden double doors of the Parish offices.

Taking a breath, she stepped into the foyer and looked around, unsure what she was going to find.  Dorian had avoided churches for most of her life, having several bad experiences at the hands of zealous foster parents trying to get her healed.  The ones she’d been dragged to carried the same scent—a musty, stale cologne and they were all empty rooms with large crosses and uncomfortable pews stretching across the chapel.

This place was more like an office.  The inside was expansive, tall ceilings with three fans wafting a cool breeze downward.  The walls were a cream color, more soothing than the usual stark white, and the floor was covered in a burgundy, thin hotel-like carpet which stretched from the door to a reception desk.

A woman behind a computer looked up and shot Dorian a friendly smile.  Having expected a nun in a thick habit, she was put off by the low-cut yellow blouse and trendy black-framed glasses perched on her nose.

“Can I help you?”

Dorian shifted from one foot to the other.  “Yeah.  I um… I have an appointment?  With Father…Father Stone?”  She hated her inability to sound confident.  She was tired of being perceived as the terrified child, and yet she couldn’t seem to escape it.

“Of course.  I’ll page him and he’ll be right out.  Have a seat.”  The woman pointed to a row of chairs under the window, and Dorian walked over.

Just as she took a seat, she felt a breeze across the back of her neck and saw one of the windows cracked open.  Gulping, she turned away, her eyes screwed shut, and she began to count.  It was a way to combat a panic attack before one occurred.  The fear was less in a large room like that, but knowing the window was behind her and sitting open, leaving her vulnerable…

“Ms. Hawthorne?”  The soothing, low voice shook her from her spiral, and Dorian’s eyes flew open.  The priest stood there looking just like she expected.  He wore all black, the little white square sitting at his throat, and his iron grey hair was gelled and combed to the side.  His face was young though, hardly a wrinkle, and his light eyes were friendly and warm as he extended his hand.

Dorian pulled herself together long enough to stand and she took his hand with her clammy fingers.  “Sorry,” she said, shaking her head.  “I was um…”

“Why don’t we go to my office,” he said, saving her from an explanation.

She let out a long breath of relief as she adjusted her portfolio under her arm, and she followed him into a tiled hallway.  It was narrow, a door to an office every three or four feet, but they were all shut and instead of feeling claustrophobic, she felt safe and warm.

Father Stone kept up a swift pace, and they reached the end of the hallway before he stopped.  His office was on the right, a small gold plaque glued to the front with his name embossed in the center.  He used a key to open the door, and flipped on a light as he stepped aside to let her enter.

It was similar to Maria’s office.  A desk, computer, couch, and a few bookshelves filled from end to end.  The only real difference was the lack of self-help texts and an overabundance of theology tomes and bibles crammed together.

She expected something a little more religious, maybe a crucifix or altar of some kind.  Instead, the only indication he was a man of God was a small painting of the Virgin Mary hanging in the corner next to the window.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” he said, nodding toward the chair sitting across from his desk.  “I’m going to send out for coffee.  Would you like some?”

Dorian hesitated, then nodded.  “That would be great.  Thanks.”

Crossing the room, Father Stone picked up his phone and pushed a button. “Coffee tray.  Cream and sugar.  Thanks Beth.”  He hung up and took a seat behind his desk, clasping his hands on the top.

Dorian sat back, but out of the corner of her eye she noticed he had left the door cracked.  Feeling a numb, tingling feeling creeping into her face, she took a breath in an attempt to calm herself.  “Mind if I um… close that?”

“Not at all.”

She jumped from her chair, trying to keep the urgency out of her steps as she walked over and pushed the door shut.  She gave a tug on the handle to make sure it was secure, then she came back to sit, her face a little red in the cheeks.  “Sorry.  I’m a little…”  She trailed off, shaking her head.  “It’s a weird thing.”

“I think Maria might have mentioned it.  My apologies for not remembering.”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed, trying to get a read on him.  Was he mocking her?  Patronizing her?  His eyes continued to hold the warmth from earlier, and there wasn’t a hint of judgment on his face.  “Um.  Thanks.”

He let out a small chuckle and shook his head.  “You can relax, my dear.  I promise this isn’t an interrogation.  I’ve read your file extensively, and Maria gave me a copy of your portfolio before we set up the meeting so I’m well acquainted with your history and your talents.”

Dorian’s head bowed and all of her interview training went out the window.  “I’m sure you have a lot of questions about um… all that.”

There was a pause, but before Father Stone could say anything, a soft knock interrupted them.  “Come in!”

The woman from the front desk walked in and set a tray down on the desk.  “Anything else?”

Father Stone shook his head.  “Just make sure the door is shut on your way out.  Thank you, Beth.”

She nodded, gave Dorian an appraising look, and hurried out.  Dorian heard the door tug closed and unable to stop herself, she glanced back to make sure it had been done properly.  When she turned back, Father Stone was pouring coffee from an antique-looking silver pot into two porcelain cups.  In the center of the tray was a small bowl piled high with stark-white sugar cubes, and a small pot with cream.

“Thank you,” Dorian said as she took the offered saucer.  She shook her head when he offered her cream and sugar, and she took a sip as he added a few lumps to his, stirring the cup with a tiny spoon.

“So, where were we?”  He looked at Dorian who gave a shrug, and then he smiled.  “Right yes, your portfolio.”

Dorian blinked in surprise, confused as to why he wasn’t asking her about her past.  She’d had job interviews before, set up by Maria or the half-way house coordinator, and all of them ended just after Dorian went into her past violence.  It was all they wanted to talk about, and it was all the reasons why they couldn’t trust her with the public.

“So, Maria says you got your degree in art therapy?”

Dorian took a breath as she set the saucer on the desk.  “Well, it’s a fine arts degree, but my emphasis was on art therapy.  Art was something that helped me.  I guess.  Not a lot, but…”

“Actually that makes perfect sense.  It’s hard to call yourself an expert at something you haven’t personally experienced.”  He took a sip of his coffee, then sat back with his hands clasped over his stomach.  “Did Maria explain the job here to you?”

Dorian shrugged one shoulder up and down.  “I’d be working with the middle school kids in an afterschool art program.”

“That’s right.”  He paused a moment, staring at her with a blank expression.  “It’s not art therapy.  To tell you the truth, most of the students here are well off and, forgive the expression, well adjusted.  The tuition here is very high and thus we see a lot of high income families.  We do offer some scholarships but…”

“Oh I get it.  Churches are into charity, but capitalism more than that.”  The words tumbled from her mouth, then she realized what she was saying and flushed bright red.  “I’m sorry.  I just mean…”

Father Stone merely laughed, holding out a hand.  “My dear, you aren’t wrong.  Corruption spreads its seed wherever there is man.  To think ourselves above sin is, in itself, the sin of pride.”

She bit the inside of her cheek as she regained her composure.  “Well I don’t um… have a teaching certification so…”

“Unnecessary for the position.  As I said, it’s extracurricular.  You’ll find the students eager to learn, and from what I’ve seen, you have a lot to offer.”

It wasn’t often Dorian was praised.  Yes, professors had lavished compliments on her, praising her skill, her perspective, her technique, but it didn’t matter when her skills yielded her nothing more than a part time job working at a diner for overnight shifts.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Father Stone nodded.  “Absolutely.”

“Aren’t you nervous at all?  Asking me to work with children seems like an unnecessary risk.”

He let out a surprised laugh and leaned toward the desk.  “Do you think you will put those children at risk?”

She let out a puff of air.  “I don’t know.  I want to say no, because it’s been almost four years since I had any issues.  My medication is working great, I got through college without any trouble.  I’ve had my shitty diner job for two years now and not one infraction.  But my record speaks for itself.”  She paused for a second, then blushed.  “Sorry for swearing.”

He regarded her for several moments before he answered, a small smile on his face.  “True.  Your record
does
speak for itself.  But I’m hardly a man to hold childhood mistakes against an adult who has been working hard to prove herself.”

She couldn’t help the bitter laugh which escaped her lips.  “I’m sorry, but schizophrenia is
not
a childhood mistake.”

“No,” he said slowly, “it isn’t.  However, stopping your meds because you felt better
is
.  It’s not a mistake you repeated.  You’re a very responsible girl, Ms. Hawthorne.  Your track record has proven that.  A lot of people in your position don’t make it this far.”  He clasped his hands on the desk next to his coffee and looked into her eyes.  “You have a lot working against you.  A troubled past, no family to speak of, very little stability, and yet you managed to finish school, finish college, maintain a home, a job, and your mental health for four long years.  I’m not sure what else you need to hear in order to start believing in yourself.”

She couldn’t begin to process the emotions hitting her all at once.  Her hands were shaking and she was smiling in spite of the fear rushing through her body.  If she took this step and she lost this, if she couldn’t maintain, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to recover.  But Father Stone was right.  It was high time she gave herself the chance to try.  She deserved it, and she was determined.

Chapter Four

“…just lay here.” A warm hand closed around her wrist and guided her into the center of the room.  The symbol on the floor was scraped across the brown carpet in pink sidewalk chalk.  He shoved her a little, and she swore a tingle raced up her legs as she sank down to her knees.

“Will it hurt?”  Her voice sounded weak, afraid, but the promise of being healed was too great to stop now.

He looked down before he answered.  “I don’t know.  It might.”

“I thought you said you knew what you were doing!”  Panic gripped her and she tried to stand, but his hand shoved her back down.

“I do.  Trust me, I grew up in this world.”  The confidence in his voice was soothing more than anything, and she felt like a fool for trusting him, but he was so sincere.  So sure of himself.

She closed her eyes, but as he began to paint the symbols up and down her arms, darkness began to close in.  She tried to scream, but her throat was paralyzed.  She struggled, but claws dug into her ribs and as he began to whisper the unfamiliar words in her ear, the figure in white, sitting tucked in the back of her mind, threw its head back and began to laugh.

Sitting up with a gasp, Dorian found herself tangled in the blankets, halfway off the bed.  The light streaming through her window was bright, and when she peered one eye at the clock, she saw it was only ten minutes before her alarm.  Her heart was racing too hard to go back to sleep.

Sitting up a little, she tried to get her heart to go back to normal, but something felt off.  In fact, things had been feeling off for a while now.  This dream wasn’t the first she’d had this week.  It had been happening more frequently.  She’d wake up with her adrenaline racing, no memory, but an echo of fear rushing through her body.  And it wasn’t just that.  Things were getting strange during her waking hours.  A few days prior she’d been looking for her attendance book for her class, and it came up missing.  She had her students help her, but it was like it winked out of existence.  Hours later, when she finally got back to her apartment, it was sitting on the bathroom counter.  And that book never left her classroom.

She tried to write it off as nothing, being forgetful.  It happened from time to time.  Misplaced keys or cell phone, books or money.  But she couldn’t shake the pressing feeling that all of this was building up to something.

As she detangled her feet from the bedsheets, she felt a breeze of cold air brush across her neck.  Whipping her head around, her heart jumped into her throat when she saw the window sitting open.  Her hands began to tremble as she jumped from the bed and ran over, pulling it shut with a hard slam.

This was the third morning in a row she’d woken up to the window open.  Her routine should have prevented that.  Before bed, she walked through every room of her tiny apartment making sure all windows and doors were secured and locked.  There was absolutely no way she had forgotten the one near her bed.  No chance.  Not even the strongest of her meds could counteract that fear of open rooms.

Breathing against her nausea, she sat back on her bed and tried to calm herself down.  It was a silly fear, she reminded herself.  The window itself was too small for anyone to climb through, even if they
could
pry it open.  Of course, that wasn’t the issue.  Her fears of open doors and windows had been around as long as she could remember.  The very thought made her spiral into a violent panic attack if she wasn’t careful and controlled.  There was no explaining it, and the doctors always labeled it a symptom of her condition.

They asked her once as a child why it bothered her so much, and she rambled on for twenty minutes about unfinished spaces, doorways, and monsters breaking into her safe space.  They assumed it was the product of system abuse, and wrote it off as such.

Now she modified her daily routine, took anti-anxiety medication, and tried to cope as best she could.

Finally calm, Dorian rose from the bed and went to the dresser to get her clothes for the day.  She knew a shower would help, washing off the sweat from nightmares always took away the last bit of lingering anxiety.  She set everything on the bed and walked to the bathroom, loving the feel of the cold tiles on her bare feet.

Closing the door with a firm click, she walked to the shower and turned it on as hot as she could stand.  Steam immediately fogged up the mirror, which gave her a sense of relief.  Mirrors weren’t as bad as open doors or windows, but the sense of unease they gave her was hard to cope with.  Even on her strongest medication, she couldn’t shake the feeling that in the void of her reflection, something was watching.

She stripped, stepping under the hot stream, and washed away the sweat from her adrenaline-induced nightmare.  The images were foggy, fading fast.  The drugs she took made it almost impossible for her to remember anything after waking up, but this one lingered.  Like a far-off memory, but the feeling of fear and pain was slipping away as she washed the lather down the small tub drain.

Stepping out, she stood in front of her fogged mirror and squinted.  She could barely make out her reflection as she ran the comb through her dark hair.  It didn’t really matter that she couldn’t see herself.  She never wore make-up, kept her hair simple, dressed in earth tones to blend in with the crowd.  She’d spent too much time sticking out from the norm, and all she wanted with this new job was to go unnoticed.  To do her tasks assigned to her, go home at the end of the day, and get through her life without any more incidents.

Checking her watch, Dorian knew she had time for a quick cup of coffee with Father Stone before heading out.  She had a few errands to run, some supplies to pick up before next week’s classes, and she wanted to get her weekend obligations done early.  The garden was inviting, the weather perfect, and she was craving time to sit under the shady trees and draw.

Life at the school wasn’t as bad as she assumed.  The job came with a few perks, namely an apartment to herself, meals, and a small expense account partially funded by her government benefits, and partially funded by the church.  It wasn’t totally on her own, but aside from her curriculum, she didn’t answer to anyone.  She came and went as she pleased, so long as she adhered to the class schedule, and followed the basic rules of the campus.  No overnight guests, all visitors had to check in at the main office, and only people on the approved list.

Not that Dorian’s list of friends and family was a long one.  She had one single contact from her time in foster care.  They’d spent a few years in a group home together, graduated together, and maybe it wasn’t so much friendship as it was solidarity, but Dorian liked her.  She was a sprightly woman named Jemma who now ran a tattoo parlor a few blocks away from the church.

They weren’t close, and she hated hanging out on church grounds, but it was something.  A contact with the outside world, and Maria told Dorian those were important.  So they hung out from time to time.

Otherwise Dorian’s days were occupied between the afterschool classes, painting, and meals with Father Stone which had become, in themselves, a sort of therapy.  He was nice.  Dorian hadn’t really expected to feel as connected as she did to him, but she was starting to feel more comfortable with him than with her team of therapists and doctors, and that was saying something.

Down the hall, Dorian stopped at Father Stone’s office and knocked.  There was a small pause before she heard him call out, and she pushed the door open.  Like usual, his desk was laden with a tray of coffee, fruit, and a few croissants from the kitchen.  They had a few ladies from a Monastery in Paris who had transferred and they brought with them their amazing baking skills.

Father Stone gave her a small smile as she lowered herself in the chair and helped herself to one of the small, porcelain cups.

“You look tired.  Is everything okay?”

Dorian sipped on the hot, bitter brew as she nodded.  “Oh yeah.  Just some weird dreams, but when I get really into an art piece, that can happen.”  She left out the part about the window, knowing he wouldn’t understand the phobia.  The last thing she wanted to hear was how she probably forgot to close it the night before.  She didn’t know how to convey to people that windows and doors were something she never forgot about. 
Ever
.

“You want to talk about it?”

Shaking her head, she reached out for a slice of orange and set it on the side of her plate.  “I don’t remember them.  My meds keep everything kind of foggy most days.  It’s probably better.  When I was a kid, I used to have these horrible dreams of this man…”  She trailed off, feeling her throat tighten.

The dreams had been more than that.  It was in her file.  The thing in her dreams was an imaginary friend, and Dorian had vague memories of being able to see him when she was small.  He was a monster, one that used to sing her to sleep at night.  Tall and lanky with shadowy claws and fangs.  He was pure white, but somehow managed to be the absence of light, like a walking black hole.  In her early years he comforted her, but as she got older, he became more terrifying.  More controlling.

Dorian’s greatest relief was when she couldn’t see him anymore.  When the myriad of pharmaceuticals kept her brain a twisted mess and nothing became permanent. “…Dorian?”

Her gaze snapped up and she gave him an apologetic smile.  “Sorry.  Just lost in thought.  Anyway, my point is, I don’t remember the dream.  Just feeling a little loopy is all.”

They ate the rest of their breakfast in silence, and after, Father Stone walked her to the main gates.  “Big plans?”

She smiled and shoved her hands into her pockets.  “Not really.  Just need to pick up a few supplies, get to the bank, might visit with Jemma for a bit but then I’ll be back.  Probably curl up in the garden for a few hours.”

A strange expression crossed his face, then he smiled and gave her a one-armed hug.  “Call if you need anything.  I’ll be here all day.”

Though she’d only been there a few months, and couldn’t say she knew the Father well, the sense of wellbeing he provided was something she craved.  She’d only been offered that level of support and comfort, the idea of family, a few times in her life.  All of them ending in blood and violence.  She was afraid now, but she was also confident.  She couldn’t walk through her entire life believing everything was going to end the same way.  She had to find peace somewhere, and maybe this was it.