At Jess' request, another excerpt from my current work:
I woke calling out, “No!”, tears blurring my vision. Three words pulsed in my head, an anthem I couldn’t disprove or silence.
Avery is dead.
I felt strongly it had come to pass. Had I stalked her in what was actually a waking dream? Had I stabbed the girl I loved, the one who traveled with my parents to Maine to visit my hospital bed?
My eyes tried to establish my surroundings. I sat up in bed, not sure I was still in the hospital. My sight burned and blurred and I wasn’t sure if it was my tears or the pain of the dream.
Avery is dead.
A soft voice I didn’t recognize said, “You’ll be OK.” It was light, female, and confident. It also came off, maybe in my confusion, as presumptuous and arrogant.
My sorrow turned on a dime and I was out of bed to my right in one fluid motion. It was the act of pushing off my elbows that told me I wasn’t in the hospital, or even in a bed. The softness beneath me didn’t have much give – like cushions spread over a cement floor. Only then did I smell remnants of a full night of incense burning. I was in Ms. Twilight’s lair.
“I won’t be OK,” I exploded. It poured out and scared me a little, but not enough to stop what I was doing.
“Calm down,” the voice pleaded and I placed it, but that didn’t stop me either. In less than two seconds I crossed fifteen feet of pillowed floor and took Bianca, the other-Avery, down with a right cross. She never saw it coming and never had a chance.
Bianca called out in surprise, but I didn’t let it go farther than that. I fell to my knees on her chest and clamped both hands on her throat.
Avery is dead. I both heard and felt the phrase and took it as a taunt. It was as if the girl beneath me, with no oxygen reaching her brain, was now mocking me. Her face was screwed up, trying to suck air past my clenched fingers. Was she mocking Avery’s pain? My pain? Was she trying to crack a smile at me, even as she died?
Now, as I write this account with fifteen years to reflect, I know Bianca wasn’t egging me on as she gasped for one last breath. I’d describe it all now as the thought process of a crazed lunatic. And on that night, that’s what I was – a crazed fucking lunatic.
After all, it seemed as if my dreams had already decided my path – that of a killer – and Avery Brodeur, who I professed to love, wore a bull’s eye. I tried to tell myself none of the subconscious bullshit mattered. I wasn’t CT and I didn’t know his blond victim. Shit, I didn’t think I could wield a knife with the calculated precision of either dream. And I certainly wouldn’t – couldn’t – hurt my Avery.
Why, then, all the signs? Why did I hear Avery calling out to me on the car ride to Maine? Why had I been seemingly drawn to Bianca, Avery’s dead ringer? Then there was my first encounter with Ms. Twilight and what she’d seen me doing in her vision. Finally in this heap of (was paranormal the right term? I still don’t know) evidence was my dream in which I stabbed Avery, herself.
Before Bianca’s death, I was so sure all those things didn’t matter. They didn’t have to matter. But in the wake of her death – of my murdering her – vague shadows of an undesirable future started to solidify, if only a little. Hadn’t I taken the first step toward fulfilling the other visions? Would there be other victims? Would more of my loved ones be those victims?
My hands retreated slowly from her throat. My white knuckles offered a heavy contrast to the red finger lines already forming across Bianca’s neck. I fell to my left, rolling off the body and pushed up to my feet.
There was no stumbling this time. I complied with the only thought I had. Run. I burst out of Ms. Twilight’s front door and sprinted past the carousel, turning left up Old Orchard Beach Road. For all I knew at that moment, it could have been the same day Ms. Twilight had visited me in the hospital or it could have been a week later.
The carnival area was deserted and I assumed it was after midnight. I’d never seen this area so empty of life and the silence, beyond my footfalls, frightened me.
A handful of cars took up the metered spots running west up the slightly inclined road, less than a quarter-mile long. A shout in the distance, behind me and to my right, nearly made me jump out of my shoes, but I made it for a few drunken revelers getting all they could out of another summer night in Maine.
With no idea where I was headed or what my immediate objective was, I turned left at the top of the hill onto Route 5, which led to downtown Saco and Interstate 95. I settled to a walk, realizing I should probably try to look just a hair less panicked.
Headlights came up on me from behind. A dark Ford Taurus passed, likely making their way back to their hotel. I spotted what seemed to be stationary headlights ahead and to my left.
Rounding a slight bend, I saw the source and my stomach tried to make its way up my throat and into my mouth. An Old Orchard Beach police cruiser was parked in the otherwise empty BeachSide Drug and Pharmacy parking lot. The drug store was dark, except for track lights running along the signage over the sliding doors.
I had to figure the officer had spotted me. It was a near certainty unless he was asleep, so I had no choice but to continue at my leisurely pace and pass right in front of his car.
I gave his car another glance and saw he was, in fact, upright and awake. I averted my eyes to the front, following the quiet road as Route 5 made another bend to the right and toward a series of run down motels. I thought I might whistle, as everyone knows that whistling equals innocence - or maybe, just the opposite. Sadly, I can’t whistle. For whatever reason, I was never able to pick up the intricate skills required of the lips and tongue, working in tandem like brass and percussion sections of an organic orchestra.
As I passed through the beams of the cruiser’s headlights, my mouth in a silent circle to feign a whistle, the transmission groaned. The officer backed out of the parking space and went for the exit. My heart raced, but really what could I do? If I took off like a bolt, I’d be fleeing on foot in an unfamiliar neighborhood. I might as well write a confession. Without halting my forward momentum, I wagered a glance back toward the parking lot entrance. I thought if Bianca’s body had been found this quickly (and that was very unlikely), that he’d open up with a siren and flashing lights and I could at least watch him make the right back down Old Orchard Beach Road before I ran for it.
No lights, no siren. In fact, the officer turned left out of the parking lot and moved in the same direction I was headed, passing me without a glance. The only downside was that he’d be able to recall me as someone leaving the relative area once the body was found.
Frankly, I didn’t care. He would have no idea who the hell I was in a tourist town and, ideally, I’d be back home before much of an investigation could be mounted.
I kept my pace, casual but steady, and came upon a darkened Getty gas station and service shop. There was very little parking lot here and no lights at all, save for a small white and blue bell insignia over a tilting payphone.
For a moment, I thought I’d try to reach my parents. If they were still in Maine, I could catch a ride at the very least. If they were still in Maine, I assumed they were staying in Biddeford near the hospital, probably along Route 111. That would be a long walk from where I was. It would take hours and I felt a mounting pressure to get off the streets. Then again, if murder investigations in small Maine towns were as sophisticated as television made them out to be, a call made so close to Bianca’s time of death could ultimately be traced to them.
No. It was better to at least get to Route 1 in Saco before trying to get a ride.
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