Clarity



  Copyright 2014 Loretta Lost

  Cover art by Sarah Hansen of OkayCreations.com

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  More important than the quest for certainty is the quest for clarity.

  -Francois Gautier

  Prologue

  Clutching the wall for support, I slide down to collapse gracelessly on the stairs. What’s wrong with me? I stare forward into the darkness that is my world, gripping the edge of the cold metal step beneath me. I am having trouble breathing. My chest is heaving with short, abrupt gasps; I think I might be crying, but there are no tears staining my cheeks. I have no idea where I am. The dark has never frightened me, but now, staring into the infinite expanse of nothingness... I can’t help thinking about death. My mother’s death. My own death. Placing a hand on my chest, I try to mentally force my pounding heart to settle down.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Come on, Helen. You’re tough.

  They all said it would take time. They said that I should give myself time to grieve and get past this. But as usual, I rushed in headfirst, thinking that I was stronger than everyone. I conquer such huge obstacles on a daily basis. What’s one more? Of course, I was wrong. I’m always wrong, lately.

  “Miss, are you okay?” asks a gentle male voice.

  I lift my head at the sound, surprised that I hadn’t heard this man approach. He sounds young and innocent—there is genuine concern in his tone. Of course, my tears would choose now to start spilling over. I completely lose all grip on my resolve as my body begins to shake with sobs. I gasp and clutch my knees, trying to fight against my misery.

  Just breathe in. Breathe out. You can handle this. You can handle anything.

  I feel a large, warm hand resting on my shoulder, and it’s instantly comforting. Why is this stranger being so kind to me? It only makes me cry harder. I have been holding on for so long, and keeping this all inside. I just need to be weak for one moment. Just one moment. There is a secret organ gathering pain like a balloon within my chest, and it has been threatening to explode for the longest time. I just need a little cry to let some of the pressure out, to deflate it and keep it from destroying my insides with a near-nuclear detonation.

  “What’s wrong?” the young man asks. “Can I help you? Anything. Anything at all.”

  “I’m just...” My voice sounds pitiful and wretched. I take a deep breath and try to speak again. “I don’t know where I am.”

  “You’re blind?” he asks me.

  I bite my lip and nod. I’m ashamed of the fact, and I generally try to navigate without using the collapsible white cane that rests tucked away within my backpack. It feels like a badge of disgrace, announcing my disability to the world. I don’t like being treated differently. I don’t like being considered abnormal.

  “What’s wrong?” he prods. “You look like someone died.”

  I try to resist, but another sob shakes my body. I am crying again. Just like that; just so easily. I don’t have time to mentally insult myself, or try to give myself a pep talk to be strong before I feel the stranger’s arms wrap around me.

  “Shh,” he says, holding me against his chest. “You’re okay.”

  I dissolve against him, completely vulnerable and hopeless. I am not usually this needy, but in this moment, I need to fall apart. I need to accept how brokenhearted I am before I can even try to mend. Just one moment. All I need is this one moment, and I can get back to being me.

  That’s enough, Helen, says my ever-cautious inner voice. Get it together. Stop. Stop now. Breathe!

  “Can I help you, honey?” he asks me again. “Anything I can do. Just say the word.”

  “I don’t know where I am,” I say again, in a small voice.

  “This is the engineering department,” he tells me. “Are you an engineer?”

  I release a burst of derisive laughter, and it cuts through my tears. “Do I look like an engineer? Gosh. I’m more lost than I thought.”

  He chuckles. “Let me help you,” he says softly, as he caresses my hand in a soothing manner. He slips my backpack off my shoulders, as if taking the entire weight of the world away from me. “C’mon! I’ll guide you wherever you need to go. You need to hold onto my elbow, right? Is that how it works?”

  “Yes,” I say, inspired by his infectious enthusiasm. “Thanks. My name is Helen, by the way.”

  “Helen,” he repeats, testing it on his tongue. “Helen. What a pretty name. It suits you. You’re such a pretty girl.”

  I smile and wipe my sleeve across my face to remove the moisture. “You’re just trying to make me feel better,” I accuse as I allow him to help me to my feet.

  “Is it working?” he asks.

  “Maybe a little,” I answer. I’m lying; it’s not working. But I do appreciate his efforts. I feel him take my hand and wrap it around his elbow. I am surprised by the size of the bicep that I am grasping. “Do all engineers hit the gym as much as you do?” I ask.

  “Only the ones on a football scholarship,” he says proudly.

  I force another smile. “That’s impressive. I’m just a psychology major.”

  “Psych? Nice. Do you plan on being a doctor or something?” he asks.

  “No. I’m going to be a writer,” I tell him. “I just like to understand people. For some reason, I have a class in this building—but I never come here, so I’m not that familiar with the layout.”

  “It’s kind of tricky,” he tells me. “Even people with perfect eyesight get lost in this labyrinth. Here, I think I know where the psych class is. Let me take you there.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him faintly. I grip the man’s solid upper arm as he guides me off the stairs and through a pair of double doors. He walks at a comfortable pace as he leads me through the halls. Not so brisk that I have to powerwalk to keep up, and not so slow that I feel like a stupid child. I had been a little more than just physically lost, so it is reassuring to feel the strength and warmth radiating through the sleeve of his shirt.

  My fingers tighten around his elbow as we make some twists and turns through the building. I am so relieved to be with a competent guide; as prideful as I can be, it does make things easier to be able to rely on someone.

  After a few minutes of walking, the boy finally comes to a stop. “Here we are,” he says.

  I make a face in puzzlement. “I—I don’t hear anything. It’s so quiet. Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

  “Sure. It’s just through this door.”

  Something in his voice gives me chills. My body shudders. I hear the door being unlocked, and there is only a deathly silence on the other side. Run, my inner voice tells me. Run! But it’s too late.

  Just as I’m turning away, a hand clamps over my mouth. I lift both of my hands to try to pry it off, but another hand fiercely clinches around my waist. The boy roughly drags me into the room. I try to scream, and violently push away with my legs, but I am held fast.

  “Be quiet,” he whispers. “No screaming, or I’ll rip your tongue out. I’m going to release you, but keep your mouth shut, okay?”

  I nod. The silence in the room is deafening. My skin is prickled by rising goose bumps, and my heart furiously pumps hot blood through my body. As soon as his hands release me, I swivel and smash my fist into his face. He roars in pain, and I fling my foot outward, letting my heel connect with his knee. Feeling his leg beginning to buckle and crumple, I quickly duck away from him
and lunge for the door. Grasping the handle, I pull the door halfway open before I feel it being slammed shut. The boy grabs a fistful of my hair at the back of my head and uses it to smash my face against the door. I cry out at the sharp pain in my nose, and my lip splits open against my teeth. I taste a bitter, metallic liquid against my tongue. My head spins and I grow dizzy. I feel my body being hauled away from the door and thrown to the ground amid boxes and other debris. I struggle to raise myself onto my elbows to fight against my assailant, but there is suddenly a heavy, crushing weight on top of me.

  A large hand clamps around my neck and squeezes. He is suffocating me.

  “I can make you feel better, Helen,” he says in a tender voice. “Shhh. Just relax. Relax and let me take care of you.” I feel his hand reaching down to slip under my skirt. “Relax and spread your legs.”

  “Are you insane?” I hiss, clawing at the hand he’s holding over my throat. He’s too strong. Tears flood my eyes once again. “I thought you were nice.”

  “I guess you missed one too many psychology classes, huh?” he says with a laugh. He leans down and puts his lips very close to my ear. “Just don’t worry, sweet thing. You can’t see me, so I’m not even really here. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “You monster!” I scream hoarsely, struggling against him. “How could you...”

  He removes his hand from my neck and hits me across the face. My already bloody lip is swollen and pulsating. I am afraid for my life. Maybe I should stop fighting and let him do whatever he intends to do? My sister and father need me, and I can’t die. It would destroy them. They’ve lost too much already. I can’t seem to stop sobbing. I think of my mother. Maybe I should fight with the two-hundred-pound football player, and hope that he kills me so that I can be with her? My mind is a mess. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know if I’m going to survive this.

  “Think about calm ocean breezes,” the man on top of me says in a soothing voice. “Shhh. My sweet Helen. Think about soft waves of the ocean. Shhh. That’s all we are. Soft waves of the ocean.”

  His sadistic banter chills me to the bone. Why is this happening to me? Why is this happening to me now? Why, at my lowest moment, has the universe found a way to drag me down even further—into an even deeper pit of despair? Is this some kind of sick joke? I must be dreaming. This can’t really be happening.

  But his thumb and forefinger continue to press down painfully on either side of my windpipe. I gasp for breath as he steals the life away from me. This is very real.

  “Helen,” he coos in a singsong voice as he moves on top of my body. “Helen, Helen, Helen. Such a pretty name, for such a pretty girl. My sweet, sweet Helen. The things I’m going to do to you.”

  I am not sure what this man looks like, but I imagine that if I could see him, I would be staring up into the face of pure evil. Perhaps I should be thankful that I will never have to behold something so hideous. If I survive this, I inwardly promise myself, I will have to get stronger, somehow. I can never let something like this happen to me again.