Pretty Dark Nothing (8 page)

A pair of scissors gleamed from her dressing table. She grabbed them, examining the smooth, sharp edges. She put her fingers through the holes, opening and closing them, listening to the soft swish of metal grazing metal. Trembling, she dragged the cold tip across her forearm, evoking an angry red scratch. Now her flesh reflected the angry scars on her heart. No one would care, and there wasn’t anyone there to stop her. Alone. Always alone.

She stood and stared at the full-length mirror on the back of her door. Her long hair shone under the lamp. She grabbed a handful and opened the scissors wide, feeding her hair to the hungry blades. The weight fell from her, and she cut faster, clumps of blond hair floating to the floor.

“Quinn?” Her mother shoved the bedroom door open.

“Leave me alone!” Quinn screamed.

“Your hair!” Her mother dropped her briefcase on the floor and fumbled to turn off the music. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing that concerns you. Why don’t you leave?” Quinn fed another long chunk through the blades.

“You’re my daughter, of course it concerns me. Mrs. Chin said you fainted at school. Now I find you with a pair of scissors, chopping all your hair? My god, Quinn, what’s gotten into you?”

“I told you, I just want to be left alone.” Quinn slammed the scissors on the dresser, stomped over to the radio, and turned the music back on.

Her mother yanked the plug, and the music cut off mid-note. “Honey, please talk to me.” Her mother scanned the mess on the floor. “What’s this?” She picked up the check, painted red lips turning into a frown. “How dare he. A bribe?” She snatched a crumpled sheet from the floor, smoothing it across her thigh and paused to read. “Quinn?” Her mother looked up, her eyebrow an arching question mark.

“A bribe. He wants to pay for school, wants me to go to UCLA. He’s calling him pumpkin.”

“What are you talking about?”

Quinn fished the last page from the trash and threw it at her mother. “Read for yourself.”

Her mother caught it and read, her face reddening with anger. “I can see why you’re upset.” She balled up the letter. “I know you’re hurting, but cutting your hair isn’t going to help.” Her mother stroked her shoulder and tried to pull her into a hug.

Quinn stiffened at her mother’s touch and jerked away. “It’s my hair.” Quinn busied herself with picking up the shorn locks.

“Talk to me.” She squatted to help, eye level with Quinn. “You have to face your problems, Quinn. You can’t run away from them.”

“Why not? Everyone else in our family does. I’m just doing what you and Dad taught me.” Quinn spat the words like venom, throwing a handful of golden hair in her mother’s face.

Her mother stiffened and brushed the strands from her blouse. “Fine. I came home to check on you because I was worried. I skipped out on a meeting with a client, and for what? To be greeted by a four-year-old in a teenager’s body. I’m sick of this tantrum.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“How can I? You won’t even talk to me. You don’t think that letter hurts me too? You can talk to me.”

“It’s a little too late to play the caring mother.”

Her mother yanked the top flap of her briefcase open, grabbed her wallet, and threw six twenties on the floor. “That’s to fix your hair. I’ve got to get back to work.”

“That’s right, mother, go hide at your office! Drown your sorrows in your new career!” Quinn plugged the radio back in, and the music exploded.

Her mother slammed the bedroom door, and Quinn fell into a heap on the bed. All the anger poured out of her, leaving her limp and empty until exhaustion overwhelmed her. She crawled into bed, moving the decorative pillows to one side, and curled into a ball beneath the cool sheets.

One long sigh escaped her lips, and she saw her breath, a cold gray fog expelling from her lungs. The lights flickered, drenching the room in darkness. Her heart jumped as shadows gathered around, inching forward. She needed a caffeine pill and another energy drink. But resisting the soft, warm, comfort of her bed wasn’t possible. Completely drained, her body refused her command. Even her mind slipped free of her control, drifting into unconsciousness. Five minutes. Just five minutes. Nightmares couldn’t really hurt her. That’s all they were. She could let herself sleep for five minutes, right? She tried to clear her mind, thinking only good thoughts, but the events of the day played over and over in her head. The shadows, the voices, the fog—all tumbled out of the recesses as the dream reeled her in.

Kerstin stood over her bed, red hair curling like worms around her pale face. She cocked her head and breathed out. Smoke slithered from her lips, filling the space around her until she disappeared in the swirling gray. Beside her, Quinn sensed the shadows gathering, but couldn’t wake. Sleep paralysis had gripped her as her body shut down to enter REM sleep. Desperate to sleep and powerless to wake, she tried to influence the dream instead. Alone among the swirling gray where Kerstin had previously stood, she filled her lungs and blew against the fog. Her breath grew into a mighty wind, forcing the dull smoke away as she focused her thoughts on something beautiful. The lake in Colorado where she used to summer with her parents, her favorite place, appeared before her.

The darkness howled as she pushed it further to the edges of her consciousness. Now free of their influence, her mind relaxed, and she sensed a shift in the dream. For the first time in months, she was in control.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Aaron turned the key in the lock, glad to be home. He dropped his backpack and helmet on the table by the door.

“Dad?”

The smell of Wild Turkey hit him as he walked into the living room, burning his nose. “Hey, Dad, I’m home.” Aaron turned the light on and opened the bay window. “Did you remember to pick Josh up from school?”

James Collier groaned and turned over on the couch. An empty bottle fell from his hand. “Turn the light out and leave me alone.” He pulled a pillow over his eyes. “And close the damn window. You know your mother hates the cold.”

Aaron covered his father with a blanket and picked the bottle off the floor.

“Guess that means I’m making dinner. Want some coffee?”

His father groaned.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

The small, bright kitchen was a drastic contrast to the stuffy, dust-filled living room. He opened the blue, retro refrigerator (retro being a euphemism for ancient), and rummaged through out-of-date milk, moldy cheese, and some leftovers that now looked like moss-covered wood.

“Hey, Superman.” Josh, thin and lanky, appeared at the top of the stairs, his long, curly black hair hanging loose around his shoulders. He slid down the wobbling oak banister, sticking his landing with a thud. He raised his hands above his head, bowing and blowing kisses to an imaginary audience.

“Five point five from the Russian judge,” Aaron said.

“Oh, come on, I earned at least a six. Way better than your lame attempt this morning.”

“How’d you hear about that?” Aaron placed the last filter in the coffee maker, adding two scoops of grounds from the canister on the counter.

“You mean the Superman incident? That’s what Xander’s sister’s calling it. She witnessed every heroic moment. You’ll be getting a call from the commissioner any minute; I hear there’s a cat stuck in a tree over on Elm Street.” Josh swung one of the mismatched dining chairs around, sitting with his arms folded over the back.

“Very funny.” Aaron put the lid back on the canister.

“You’ll need to make it stronger than that. I found another empty bottle in the trash.”

“Today’s their anniversary.” Aaron added another half-scoop and left it to brew.

“I forgot. So?”

“So, it’s been hard on him, raising us alone.”

“Oh, come on. It’s been over three years. I’ve gotten over it. Why can’t he? What’s for dinner, anyway?”

Aaron looked at him. “Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Gotten over it?”

Josh hung his head, hair falling over his eyes. “I’m thinking pizza.”

Aaron watched his little brother. There was no denying they were related. Both resembled their mother: same green eyes, same full lips, long dark eyelashes, even the one dimple on their left cheek. Ruth had the same dimple too, but she had copper hair, not black like the boys. Ruth.

The image of Ruth’s shining eyes disappearing into murky darkness was the only memory of that night he never had to fight to recall. That one stayed with him, etched forever in his mind. Aaron clapped his brother on the shoulder. “I miss them too, you know. But Dad’s still here. And me, I’m here.”

“Like you were right after they died?” Josh kicked the empty chair next to him so hard it spun in a half circle before crashing sideways to the linoleum. “You ran out on us. You tried to follow them. I wish you would’ve succeeded.”

“Keep it down! Your sister’s sleeping,” his dad called from the living room.

“Man, eighth grade is hard enough without a drunk for a father and a psycho for a brother,” Josh mumbled.

Aaron clenched his fists, counting to ten as rage swept over him. “Say what you want about me, but like it or not, he’s the only father we’ve got.”

“Whatever. Can you take me over to Xander’s?”

It amazed Aaron that Josh could go from cynical to casual as quickly as Hyde turning back into Jekyll.

“Ask Dad.”

“Like he’ll even notice I’m gone.”

“Yes, I will.” James Collier pulled himself up over the edge of the couch and pointed a rough finger at them. “Nobody leaves the house tonight. We’ve got some celebrating to do.”

Aaron poured the coffee into a mug and walked over to the couch. “Drink this. It’s strong, just the way you like it.”

His dad sat up and took a sip but missed his mouth. Dark liquid twisted its way down his white undershirt, creating a brown amoeba stain as the mug crashed to the floor.

“Josh, get me a towel. And bring the trashcan.” Aaron bent down, picked up the pieces of mug, and placed them on the coffee table.

“Get it yourself.” Josh buried his head in his arms, keeping his back turned from the living room.

“Hey!” Aaron yelled.

“Aaron, go to the store and get the biggest bunch of pink roses you can find. Pink are your mamma’s favorite. Pink, not red. Hurry, she’ll be home soon.” His dad fumbled in his pocket for his wallet. “No expense is too great for my Katy.” Their wedding album lay open on the floor. His dad looked up at him from a photograph, smiling, sober.

“Dad, look at me.” Aaron touched his wrist, but his father jerked away, patting his back pocket.

“I had it a minute ago,” his father mumbled.

“Dad. Please.” Aaron grabbed his father’s hands and braced himself. “Remember where you are.” Looking into his father’s forlorn eyes, he opened a crack in the barrier. The familiar tingling gathered in the back of his head as their minds touched. Alcohol clouded his father’s emotions. He’d been thinking about their wedding day. With the help of his powers, Aaron saw through his father’s memories. His mother stood before him, young and beautiful, her dark hair piled and twisted on top of her head. Her wedding veil flowed down the back of a lacy train. He felt what his father felt, awe that Katy had said yes. An overwhelming mix of love and desire flooded him as they joined hands to say their vows.

Aaron held on to this emotion, increasing its intensity and feeding it back to his father, trying to override the underlying grief. His dad jerked his hands away from him and scrambled backward on the couch, his eyes wild.

“Who are you? Stay away from me! Leave me be!”

Aaron grabbed his father’s hands again, pushing truth through the alcohol, fear, and confusion. “Dad, she’s not coming home.”

As if stabbed, his dad sank onto the faded orange couch, deflated. He stared at Aaron, fear and hate etched into the lines of his wrinkled face.

“You’re not my son.” Aaron’s face burned. He looked at the floor and clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to punch him. It was the alcohol talking, and hitting him wouldn’t even begin to erase the sting his father’s words had left on his heart.

The front door slammed.

“Josh!” Aaron yelled after his brother.

His dad wrapped himself in the blanket, turned away from Aaron, and wept. Aaron’s anger crumbled as he watched his father’s pain engulf him. He stroked his gray hair the way his mother had stroked his until the weeping turned to snores. Then he went upstairs to nurse his own wounds with the strings of his guitar.

In his room, Aaron lifted his acoustic guitar from its metal stand. He plucked the strings, listening to the tone of each note. Placing his right foot on the edge of his bed, he rested the guitar on his knee to adjust the tuning knobs and strummed. Satisfied with the sound, he paced the length of his small room, working on his newest composition.

The whirlwind comes

and there you are

broken pieces of your life

again they’re scattered near and far

and you wonder why you try

to pick them up again and again

when the whirlwind comes again and again

I’ll tell you this la la la la.

Aaron leaned the guitar against the wall and flopped down on the end of his bed.

Grabbing a small spiral pad from the bed stand, he flipped to an empty page.

Whirlwind. Wind, bend, din, end, fin, gin, in, pinned, Quinn. Quinn, Quinn, Quinn. He took the pencil from behind his ear, tapping the eraser in a random rhythm on the page.

He hadn’t asked for her number, but Teresa had given it to him anyway. “In case you want to check on her,” she had said, winking as she’d saved Quinn’s number in his cell. Grabbing his phone, he scrolled through his contacts and pressed SEND. It rang once, and he hung up.

Chicken.
Frustrated, Aaron tossed the phone to the floor.

He needed to focus. Jenna would be annoyed if he didn’t bring a new song to tomorrow night’s rehearsal. Jenna. Now there was someone he should ask out. She was perfect: feisty, gorgeous, and witty.
And
she’d been hinting for weeks now that she wanted to be more than friends. Aaron enjoyed flirting with her, but that’s as far as it went. Singing softly, he worked through some possible lyric to go with the new melody.