Meet Me in the Middle

Chapter 7: Cassandra

The morning sun streamed through my bedroom windows, casting a gentle warmth upon my still drowsy figure, its light caressing my skin with an otherworldly radiance. Rubbing my sleepy eyes, I sit up from my sheets; basking in the glow that fell before me.

Luke still hadn't come out of his house, and keeping myself occupied was a challenge as my parents had become busier with some preparations for enrolling me as an 8th-grade student. I wasn't the most thrilled to be going to 'normal school', as my Dad would call it. Afraid that the kids wouldn't welcome an outsider let alone someone who was kept from an environment like theirs for the first time.

Finally getting out of my morning slump, I went to the bathroom to freshen up. The cold water from the sink woke up my senses with each drop. I couldn't help but notice the fresh claw marks that were scattered across my arms, a distant reminder of my nightmare just a few days ago.

I sighed in frustration. Mom had been worried sick since then, and Dad was regularly checking up with Mrs. Mckenna on how to tackle our current situation with the utmost effectiveness.

Gently cleaning my scratches, I noticed older ones along with them. Not quite noticeable, but to the trained eye many were visible. I traced them, feeling the familiar lines that brought me back once again.

I ran to the fifth floor.

Well ran was an exaggeration, it was mostly a speedy stumble. My hands used the hand railings as I made my way up, sweat dripping down my back as the bandages that decorated my back didn't help to insulate me.

It was the night after they took Patricia.

I didn't stop looking, she had got to have been hidden someplace in the building.

On the final flight of stairs just beyond my feet, I ascended. Opening the door to the rooftop wasn't the easiest task for an 8-year-old but I managed to push it just a little bit for my little frame to squeeze into. I felt the morning breeze whizz past my face, my hair flailing widely against the strong force of it.

Walking towards the ledge, I contemplated jumping. It would be easier this way, I thought.

The younger version of me knew the worst that had happened to her. I damn well knew that she wasn't gonna come back anytime soon, or at all. We've both feared the rumors that circulated about the missing girls and promised each other that if worst came to worst we would stick by each other's side.

It wasn't that I had felt betrayed.

I wished she just left any sort of remnant; a remembrance of her belonging here.

Looking out into the void of grasslands and distant buildings, I screamed. I couldn't remember how long I'd been up there, venting my pent-up emotions. Anger? Betrayal? Sorrow?. Once my voice ultimately betrayed me, only exhausted gusts of pants coming out of my parched mouth, it was just then that I let my tears flow.

Just then, a nostalgic idea popped into my hazy mind. Looking around the rooftop area, I searched for a specific object to aid my suffering. A piece of metal. You'd think cutting up your wrists is pretty counter-productive given the environment we're exposed to on a daily. Adding more fuel to the fire, per se. It wasn't all that rare or unusual for a coping mechanism. An unwritten rule in this institution is to somewhat have control over what we suffer over. Given the circumstances of us being constantly abused against our own free will.

So it became quite the tradition for both of us. It was a miracle we didn't contract any sort of disease or get an infection. But after every session, we'd feel just a tad bit better. A semblance of our humanity, with the throbbing of the cuts we'd have committed; made us feel something rather than pain.

The cold blade felt warm, dare I say comforting. A broken cry left my lips as I continued, befuddled thoughts dawned on me. Of relief that I escaped for just a little bit. Of pain that I never really got the answers I had been looking for.

I endured many that faithful day. The disappearance of my friend. The looming threat of surviving all alone. My trembling hands; far from any immediate repair.

But it was then that I hadn't felt alone. It was as if Patricia was with me to bare all of it.

-

I opened my bedroom window to find Luke's open. He seemed to be fiddling with something, his attention caught by the motion as his hands moved gracefully. Seeming to not want to break the peace that had been here a couple of seconds before I opened my window, I waved my hand to try and catch his attention.

His eyes caught my form, and he smiled. I cheekily waved as he adjusted himself to better face me.

"Watchu doin' there?" I asked, crossing my arms and gesturing to his busy hobby.

"I'm painting" he replied, adjusting the canvas for a better view toward my direction. I furrowed my brows, not quite getting the whole art piece he portrayed. He seemed to notice and said

"Wait, let's talk downstairs so I can show you"

We both walked to a hill just atop of both our houses. He seemed to be carrying canvases in all sorts of sizes, from an amenable palm-sized one to a big, wide canvas that was almost as tall as he was. Settling down, I placed the picnic blanket I'd sneakily taken from the pantry when I went out. Its red plaid design adorns the green, grassy land.

"I'm not an expert yet, so don't expect much," he said as we both sat, our legs criss-cross apple sauce.

"I think showing someone who really can't see well, isn't an expert critique itself" I sarcastically replied, paying attention as he positioned each one.

Holding up a medium-sized painting he mused, "This was inspired by the Christmas tree we had last year, I made it more minimalist so it'd be easy on the eyes"

I tried to properly get a good look at the piece. He had great abstract work, but I felt like something else was missing.

"Color," I said, after a good long silence passed by us. His head tilted towards mine to the painting and back again.

"What?" he asked, confused by my choice of words.

"I said color. I don't see any color" I stated, putting my fingers on the canvas' surface and feeling the brush strokes that line the piece.

"What do you mean? There's grays here and blacks here, and I even added a brown one right here" he retorted, trying to get his point across.

We skimmed through the other works her did. One with a deer with a space-esc background. Another consisted of him and his parents, a somber approach to a family portrait if you ask me.

"Everything's so dark, though" I spoke, looking at each one.

"Isn't that how it's supposed to be?" he asked, confusion painted on his little face. "So I assume you don't like it then"

"No, it's not that" I said, sitting up straight and holding up a smaller canvas beside me.

"Look at the sky" I said, pointing at the scenery in front of us. "That is color, all the blues and whites of the clouds compliment the world; they harmonize"

He seemed to have had a revelation that day.

It was a silly thought, seeing that he had the best vision out of the both of us.

Well, not the creative kind at least.