Cast & Fall (2 page)

“
It
wasn‘t real. It wasn’t real!” I repeated the words
in my head several times before I could fully comprehend my own
words. I saw mom’s pictures as I focused on the objects across
my room, trying to convince my mind that it was only a nightmare—a
nightmare of a thousand nightmares that ended the same way. It always
left me vulnerable. Weak. Confused.

I
placed my hands on top of my forehead, trying to brush the sweat of
my fears. I leaned forward to catch my breath. Still trembling at the
shadows of the vanishing pictures inside my head, I concentrated on
the warmth of the presence I felt right before I woke. It always made
me feel better—safer.

I
twisted myself to look at my night stand. Next to a lamp, was my
alarm clock. It’s six forty five.

“
Oh
crap! I’m going to be late.”

Innocence

I
t
was a
crackling month of September, the wind shifted; no sign
of the blazing heat, thick air and sweat that seeped through my skin.
It was unusual to have a chill in the air this very early in the
season, as if somehow it knew that something strange was on its way.

I
love the south. I love South Carolina. I love the sun as much as the
splashes of rich, green, earthy leaves turning to patches of
different red hues; the blushing trees and golden leaves as they
prepare for the coolness of the air; the breathtaking colors of fall
seemed to have fought for its right against the early winter.

Despite
the beauty, there was a couple of things I hated—the kind that
I should be used to—the kind that is associated with living
here; I hated the
lightning
and thunder. Living here, had not made me immune to the crazy weather
of the south. I always felt like I lived in a war zone; the constant
sharp bright lights right before a massive roar of thunder—the
constant clash of the
gods
;
I feared them both.

I
Layered myself in my blue coat, clutched my bag, slid into my car and
headed to my favorite coffee place/juice bar, sandwich shop and
bakery all in one. La Patisserie & Café
is
across Madison High. I had been going to this place about two years
now, maybe even three, I couldn’t be sure. There was something
special about the place that I instantly loved it the first time I
had gone in and bought my first cup of mocha. Though the décor
was definitely
fr
ench
chic,
the
people and atmosphere hinted more toward casual and friendly.

They
offer many
varieties of gourmet sandwiches as well as one of a kind baked treats
and all the coffee and juice combinations you can imagine. I loved
the smell of the morning rush. The aroma of ground fresh coffee
beans, banana nut muffins, cinnamon rolls, and macaroons always drew
massive crowds of people at any given day.

As
I sauntered my way into its crowded front, I raked my eyes to the
familiar glass windows that were adorned by intricately detailed
carvings and classic Parisian wall sconces. Bistro chairs and tables
draped in pristine white linens stood next to the tall lamps in rows,
along with massive pots of topiaries. The cobblestone walkway paved
the outside, curving all the way inside the restaurant; there were
small rounded tables throughout the room, as well as corners for
light reading. A massive Victorian fireplace separated the east side
into two cozy sections. The elongated glass counter which displayed
different types of desserts and pastries, separated the room. Behind
the counter—on the back wall, hung, menus written in swirling
black sign boards. Waiters and baristas stood behind, eagerly
awaiting the morning mad rush.

As
I rushed in, a line had already formed. I didn’t usually mind
the wait. This was the one place I felt deserved it. But today, I
only had ten minutes to spare if I wanted to make it to class on
time, so I was a little more anxious than usual.

As
I was waiting to place my order for my usual morning mocha and warm
cinnamon roll, a man ahead of me, wearing a perfectly smoothed dark
suit twisted to ask me what the time was. I stared at his stoic face
and smiled to my usual morning greeting before lifting my wrist to
check. “It’s seven thirty,” I mumbled softly.
“Thanks,” he smiled briefly. He tugged at his goatee
before setting an agitated look on his
face.

I
concentrated my thoughts on him for a moment—looking at him
from the corner of my eye as he twisted his head from side to side. I
found it interesting that someone who wore a suit not to have a watch
nor have a cell phone. Though, I‘m sure there was a simple
explanation. He seemed very anxious and agitated about getting
somewhere on time. He fidgeted his fingers and stomped his feet
subtly that made his tantrum a bit acceptable for a man his age
rather than an impatient toddler. But from the looks of the crowd,
it’s possible he won’t be making it to his appointment,
or worse he’ll be late for work.

Well,
I couldn’t really blame him. This place is amazing. That’s
why I’m still here, risking detention. They have the best
coffee and all their fruit juices were made fresh with no added
sugar. The food and atmosphere is a definite five star, but the
prices are more than reasonable which made it popular for students
like me.

The
barista on the counter was always friendly. She had been working here
for the past two years. They all wore black polo shirts with black
aprons with a miniscule coffee cup logo on the side. She gave the
biggest smile as she took the order of a tall voluptuous woman—or
more commonly known to the students at Madison High as Ms. Becky, the
principal—who wore a lemon-custard-yellow sundress with a black
cardigan in front of us.

When
my turn came and I had placed my order, I immediately looked for a
place to sit and squeezed myself out of the line behind me. Grabbing
one of the black metal with striped cushioned seats, I placed my
black leather bag on top of a small rounded table, unzipping it, to
grab my notes for Physics.

I
skimmed through, rustling the pages, wishing I was more than
prepared. But the truth was, I couldn’t really be certain. My
nightmares seemed to dull my memory. My nightmares were always so
vivid that I always had the hardest time concentrating even on the
tiniest bit of information. The dreams themselves seem to be clearer
right before I wake, then fizzles out into a distant memory. I’ve
had nightmares for years and decided that I couldn’t allow it
to interfere with my life any longer.

But
as hard as I tried not to let the scary pictures in my head swim
around in my subconscious, I was always left with the fear—the
fear of something unknown—that part I couldn’t truly
escape.

I
was determined to be busy and wrap most of my mind and energy in
school—like I had been doing since we moved here about eight
years ago. Getting into medical school is a dream that I realized
only a few years back. It wasn’t something I thought about when
I was younger, but I knew now that, that’s what I wanted to do
and didn‘t want to jeopardize my chances of ever getting in.

Celebrating
my eighteenth birthday didn’t feel different. For some reason,
I was expecting some huge change—a change that is somehow
significant. With High school graduation approaching though—a
few months sooner than I realized, I decided that I needed to earn
some extra cash. With College applications all lined up, I figured, I
could use better time and work part time to stash some extra
savings—though, for what job was still undecided. It was a hard
decision and I was half determined to get a job at all, but I wanted
to save a little to invest on a new car—something I desperately
needed If I wanted to invest in my long term goal. With my beat up
beetle on its final stages of retirement, I was more than lucky to
have been able to have kept it for as long as I did. I was still
unsure about the scholarships, grants, and crossing my fingers on the
hopes that I wouldn’t need to borrow my whole tuition.

Sure,
most people in College live in dorms or have roommates, but I was
glad, I will be living with my dad, Steve. Moving out was not an
option that I really considered. Steve probably preferred that I
stayed, though he never forced the subject matter either way.
Although, if I did move out because I decided and have been accepted
to some out of State University, he would’ve been happy just
the same.

Staying
was more of my choice. I applied at several Universities in the area
so that I could live at home—Andrews being my number one
pick—not only based on location but also, It had a great
pre-med program—which was purely a struck of luck. Steve was a
single dad and as much as I didn’t want to leave him—the
truth was; I really didn’t want to leave—
my
Mother;
Steve
had kept so many of her things and leaving was something I wasn’t
prepared for…at least for now.

I
grew up here. Steve is a Forest Ranger and occasionally volunteers at
the Saint Lucia hospital near downtown. We have lived west side of
the state when I was born. My mother inherited a large land, along
with an almost palatial nineteenth century renovated Greek plantation
home that became a bed and breakfast that eventually became our home.
Many wondered if we were a family of means for acquiring such an
enormous property

Entrance
to our home was Grandeur. The house was a two and a half story,
rectangular structure with twenty six soaring classic columns with a
generous fourteen foot veranda extending from the wall with white
railing. Inside, the open ceiling towered twenty feet high. There
were tall
french
windows that swung in that let the soft light
in filtered by wooden shutters. Cornices and bold, simple white
moldings generously adorned the whole house. The west side of the
first floor was a massive library with an enormous collection of
books and many antiques that my mother inherited with the house. But
despite the size of the home, our life was rather simple.

Outside,
the angel sculpted pediment towered over the house, giving it an old
world southern charm. My mother said it
protected
all of us. I used to believe that. Eventually, I gave up on the whole
idea.

I
was ten when my mother was murdered.

She
was killed at our home and I was the only witness. The horrible part
was, I couldn’t remember anything at all—not one memory,
not one clue to cling to. Not even a flashback. Everything completely
vanished, like every single memory of that night was snatched from
under me.

Steve
found me next to her body and even that part was hazy. I had no
memory at all of that night—of the horror—of everything.
Many said I was lucky for not having to live through the memories. I
didn’t feel lucky. I wanted to know. I needed to know.

After
her death, I was sick for a while. I couldn’t focus in school.
Steve couldn’t really stay home. The doctors weren’t able
to find anything else wrong with me besides the fact that I had
repressed some of my memories. I also suffered from fainting spells
that kept me from going to school for a while and definitely from any
rigorous activities. I felt very much alone.

Eventually,
I knew I had to move on somehow. I couldn’t let myself be a
victim and leave Steve to his pain. It took a while for Steve and I
to get over the loss. Though we haven’t completely healed, we
eventually found a way to cope.

A
few months after my mother’s death, Steve found it necessary to
move us to a smaller place west of Charleston. There was really no
point in keeping such a large home that required a lot of maintenance
and costly expense. In more ways, our lives started over. I
eventually went back to school. It bothered me for a while that I was
a year older than most students in class. I naturally connected with
older kids.
Sue
was an
exception—she was my first friend. Finally, I was able to build
friends and eventually—a
new
life.

Lost
for
Words

“
K
at,
large coffee mocha with whip!” That was my morning
alarm
clock
calling my name.
Since Junior year, I had been reliant on drinking coffee every
morning that I didn’t feel awake until I got my boost of
caffeine.

I
hung my bag on my shoulder as I huddled trying to get by five people
who were also getting their morning pick-me-ups. I snatched my cup
and grabbed a sleeve on the counter, a couple of napkins and headed
for the exit.