He smiles back at me, and I watch the way his eyes crinkle in the corners. I love that. I like to think that I’m responsible for most of the laugh lines around his eyes. “Did I tell you how proud I am of you, Evie?” he asks, his voice soft with affection.
I feel a blush creeping into my cheeks. “Oh, once or twice,” I reply. “Anyway, with me out of the house, you can focus on all of those things you’ve been putting off—maybe check out the Internet dating scene. But…don’t do any background checks on your dates, it takes all the mystery out of it,” I tease him.
It’s sad that I can’t even remember his last girlfriend’s name. Uncle Jim hasn’t had a date in a while. I believe I know the reason for this and it has to do with his line of work. He’s sort of a computer nerd. Working primarily for private investigators, Uncle Jim handles mostly divorce cases, specifically, cheating spouses.
He gains access to the alleged cheating spouse’s computer and clones the hard drive, always with the express permission of the suspicious spouse, since it’s usually considered joint property. Then he delves through emails and bank accounts at his leisure. So, one can make the argument that infidelity keeps our little family afloat, if one is so inclined. I like to think that it’s the reason why he doesn’t really date and not that he took himself out of the game to raise me.
Taking my comment in stride, he replies, “Just for that obnoxious crack, I’m turning your room into a home gym. You’ll have to sleep on the weight bench when you come home to visit.”
“How dare you!” I reply with mock outrage, but I’m trying not to let him see my anxiety. He will be leaving soon and I will be staying here. It has always been just the two of us; I’ve always had him to count on. Tears immediately spring to my eyes at the realization that things will be different.
“I miss you already,” Uncle Jim says, seeing my tears.
I begin to panic at his words, so I run down my own parental checklist. “I did the grocery shopping yesterday, so you should have enough food to last you at least a week. I bought you new razors, and I put them in the drawer in the bathroom. Oh, and I took your suit to the dry cleaners. You have to remember to pick it up on Wednesday because you have to be in court for the Henderson’s divorce case on Friday.”
“I’ll remember,” he says with an indulgent smile.
Inhaling deeply so that I can hold in my tears, I whisper, “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he replies. Seeing the hint of anxiety in his eyes, he adds, “I want you to call me, you know, if you start having those nightmares again.”
Looking down at the floor, I mumble, “I think now that I’m here they’ll go away.”
“If they don’t, I want you to call me,” he replies, touching my cheek.
“Okay,” I reply in a small voice, and he drops his hand.
“I should get on the road now—I want to avoid the rush hour traffic near Ann Arbor,” he says with forced cheer in his voice. “Everything’s going to be great here. You’re going to love it at Crestwood, Evie,” he says with a reassuring smile.
“Yeah, you’re right. It’ll be stellar,” I reply with forced enthusiasm. “Anyway, you should go—beat the traffic. I’ll walk you out,” I say, pretending that I’m not about to bawl my eyes out.
Holding his hand, I walk with him out to his truck. He gives me a huge bear hug before getting into it. “I’ll come for Homecoming, okay?” he asks through the window.
“Can’t wait,” I say with a ghost of a smile.
As he starts the engine, I bite my lower lip so it won’t tremble. Seeing him smile at me through the glass, my heart accelerates in fear. Uncle Jim gives me a small wave, and I mirror the action, although my hand shakes just a little. When his car drives out of sight, I walk slowly back upstairs.
Turning the key in the lock to my single room, I push the door open. About to step through the doorway, I freeze when I see a shadow move quickly across the wall. It startles me. “Hello?” I inquire, but no one answers me.
Rubbing my eyes, I blink a couple of times before I close my door. I hurry to the windows on the far wall, looking for someone outside my window on the fire escape. It’s empty; the heavy iron grate of the landing is rusty in spots from disuse, appearing as if no one has been out there in a while.
Sighing, I turn from the window and scan the room, taking in the bare walls and empty shelves—it can belong to anyone. It’s like looking at a blank canvas; as if the person that I was prior to this moment with all of the vibrant colors, intricate shapes, and textures that were painted on that canvas throughout my life has no voice here—no future. I just need to unpack my stuff, so I can feel normal, I think to myself.
I choose a box near the sink and begin unpacking it. As I set a picture of Uncle Jim and me on the bedside table, the clock tower of Central Hall scares me by loudly tolling out the hour. Bong…bong…bong…three o’clock. The deep timbre of the bell churns the air ominously. I hope it doesn’t do that all night because that could get really annoying, I think before trying to synchronize my clock to reflect the clock tower’s pronouncement.
Unpacking some of my clothes next, I finish putting them in the drawers. I have more time to kill before I have to walk to the Sage Center. Freshman orientation starts at four o’clock. My plan is to get there just in time to slip in the back of the auditorium and find a seat because the thought of milling around alone in the lobby before the orientation seems very awkward and unappealing.
After making my bed, I feel a little bit better as I lie on the soft coverlet, smelling the scent of home that clings to the blanket. Yawning tiredly, my eyes droop because I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I avoid sleep. When I sleep, I dream, and my dreams make me feel like I’m drowning. Yawning again, I push myself up, looking for another box to unpack so I won’t crash yet. I want to be utterly exhausted when I sleep so that there will be less of a chance that I’ll remember my nightmare.
Finding a small box by the sink, I pick it up and wrestle with the sticky packing tape, trying to rip it off. The tape sticks to my hand as I carry it to my desk, setting it down near the lamp. Pulling the box cutter from the pocket of my denim skirt, I expose the blade.
A shadow darts in front of the window, blotting out the sunlight for a moment. It distracts me so that I look up. In the next second, searing pain registers in my mind as blood runs onto the box. I hiss in pain, dropping the stupid box cutter with a clatter on the desk. As I inspect my finger, blood wells up from a deep cut. Walking to the sink, I run it under the cold water.
It’s not too deep. Maybe I can get away with just putting a bandage on it when I get it to stop bleeding, I think to myself. Finding a small towel to wrap around it, I open the medicine cabinet over the sink that I had stocked earlier. As I fumble with a box of bandages, I apply pressure to my cut. It’s throbbing like I had opened an artery while splotches of red soak through the bone-colored terrycloth.
Ignoring its pulsing ache, I go over to the windows again to see if someone is out there. I examine the fire escape again; I am on the second floor, and the grating is at least twenty feet off the ground. The ladder has to be pushed off of it, so no one can just jump onto it. Sticking my head out the window, I look up, but there is no way to enter it from above either. Feeling shady about it, I close the windows and lock them.
I’m so tired that I’m seeing things, I think, rubbing my eyes with my good hand. I cross back to my bed, flopping onto it to stare at the freshly painted white ceiling. Yawning, I turn my head, reading the clock. My eyes close for a second, and I feel for a moment like I am floating. I jerk my eyes open before pulling one of my pillows to me and hugging it for comfort. Watching the clock in front of me again, I try to stay awake.
Why is my room so cold? I wonder as I turn over on my side. It’s freezing… Opening my eyes, I stare hazily at the vinyl tiles beneath my damp cheek; they stretch out in a checkerboard pattern of muted beige and taupe into a desolate infinity. Touching my fingertips
to my aching jaw, I lift my face from a sticky pool on the floor. Thick, red lines of blood slip down my neck to rain like tears onto my elegant top.
Beautiful music of the sweetest resonance sways around me, but it is punctuated by a grating, buzzing sound that is making my head dizzy. Disoriented and nauseous, I look toward the sound of the music.
My eyes fall upon the most beautiful face I have ever seen, but his perfect features are covered in gore. Large streaks of blood mottle the sides of his mouth, running in trails of horror from his face. A slow, sensual smile curls the corners of his lips as he sees me watching him.
Fear, like a choking noose, steals the air from my lungs, forbidding me to turn away from him. Gently, he lifts my hand while softly prying my fingers open. Small silver pendants dangle from a worn brown leather strap in my palm. They catch the light as the beautiful monster takes them from me.
A voice that sounds like my own whispers, “Unravel the life force and lose a soldier, a lover, a friend. Always been there…always there…” Bong… “Can’t stop it from coming…” Bong… “Can’t stop…”
Shelly Crane, Consume
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