Chapter one: Scarred Reflection
Seconds turned into minutes, minutes into hours. Hours melted into days, while the days grew to be a lifetime for myself and Ben. It became days before I heard back from the police station about my parents condition. They called almost a week after the accident and to tell you the truth, I had almost completely forgotten about everything that didn’t involve the attack.
I’d just walked through the door with Ben after school when the phone suddenly rang. The shrill sound made me jump. Ben handed me the phone, but some part inside me refused to give in. Ben, comprehending that I was in no state to answer the phone, pressed the receiver to his ear.
“Hullo,” his almost baby voice mumbled. He glanced at me as the person on the other end spoke. “It’s for you,” he told me after a moment. I took the phone out of his tiny fingers.
“Hello,” I said calmly.
“Good afternoon,” a man’s voice replied. “This is Officer Smith with some information about your parents, Alexandra.” He paused, waiting for an answer. It became clear that I wouldn’t be giving him one, so he continued.
“Apparently,” he began. “Your parents were indeed attacked but by what or whom, we have no idea. Well, of course we have theories but most center on fictional creatures that wouldn’t be of any use.”
My breathing began to shake, sounding ragged as I listened.
“We took the bodies over to our secluded facility for some testing and what they find was rather odd.”
Sucking in some air, I waited for him to continue. Still, I couldn’t help but think I know what he’s going to say. I can feel it.
“It seems that the bodies had no blood left inside. The outside was scratched and torn, but the inside was almost completely empty. The veins had been ripped and the throat…”
Closing my eyes, I whispered, “What about the throat?”
The phone line was silent for awhile as the officer contemplated the best way to share the information.
“The throat had been completely ripped out. Your parents were bleeding what little blood they had left and we had to keep it from spilling. So what we did was…”
I blocked out the rest of his words and hung up the phone with a loud Slam! The receiver crashed to the floor as I clasped my shaking hands to my face. Tears rolled down the side of my face, free-falling to the wooden floor, staining my eyes and cheeks. I wept until I had no more water left inside. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried so much; it felt foreign to be weeping, and yet it was still happening.
I’d been so caught up in my tears that I had almost forgotten Ben’s presence. He lay curled up in a ball on the grungy old couch, his eyes big, waiting for me to tell him what to do.
“Ben”, I whispered to him. “We can’t stay here anymore.”
His eyes widened even more, if that was possible, and asked “Where will we go?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know yet. But I will find out soon.”
With that said, I strode to the dining room, pulling out two chairs as I went, and said “Come, Ben. Let’s do your homework.”
♦ ♦ ♦
The following week was all a blur as I struggled to take care of all of my parents abandoned duties that mostly revolved around taking care of me, Ben, the house, etc. So, it wasn’t much different than before. I mean, it’s not like I had to worry about paying the bills or anything too extreme, seeing that we’d be out of that place within a few weeks. Plus, my parents always made sure to have everything in the house that we might need in case they weren’t home: first aid kit, plenty of food in the pantry, clean clothes, and money in our take-out food jar.
My daily lifestyle, though, had changed rapidly. Now that my parents were deceased (I couldn’t bring myself to actually use the less scientific term because it still didn’t seem real enough, since they didn’t actually die; I killed them. Gulp.) I wasn’t able to roam around town with my friends or get into the kind of trouble that gave me the adrenaline I always yearned for. I had to grow up in a matter of seconds, to be fit to take care of Ben, and to be mature enough to show him that I’m taking care of everything. If I couldn’t do that, he would no longer be my brother. Well, he would in some sense. He just wouldn’t be living with me. Instead, he would be put into foster care where hopefully a nice family with a nice reputation could take proper care of a disoriented eight year old. And I would never see him again.
So, which choice did you think I made? Well, let’s put it this way. Which would you choose? He’s my brother and it’s now my job to be there for him especially since our parents are no longer with us. He needs to have no doubt in his mind that I will always be here to help him get through this difficult time.
Each day beginning right after school, I made multiple phone calls to relatives across the nation, explaining the current situation involving my parents’ murder and our lack of hospitality. See, my parents never bothered to leave the name or number of our guardians in case something were to happen to them. So, it was rather difficult to find a place to live when everyone we called was already too old to take in two children or just didn’t want to deal with us. As you can see, I was beginning to lose hope, until I saw a name on my little list that I’d constructed weeks before. The only promising home I found was with a wealthy young woman named Maggie Jones, who claimed to be our aunt.
I, being a teenager and all, looked her up on the one place I knew everyone would be listed on: Facebook. And there she was, Miss Maggie Jones, a current single at the age of 40, who was living in the state of New Jersey. Maggie had three cats whom she adored and was looking for someone who loved cats as much as she did and was interested in adopting (she’s not too keen on the idea of “Doing It”). I had to laugh at that, of course. Maggie seemed like the kind of person I could envision myself and Ben living with until I graduated so I decided to give her a call.
The day after Officer Smith had “released the bomb”; I drove down to the police station. The two deputies, Smith and some other guy”, requested I fill out a form, regarding the murder. No doubt, they wanted to know if I’d found someone to take myself and Ben in until I graduated. So before I left for the station, I called the strange Maggie woman. This is how our conversation went:
♦ ♦ ♦
“Hello,” a sweet, cheery voice had answered.
“Hi,” I’d said. “This is Lexie Kenzington, the daughter of your brother James and your niece?”
I heard her gasp on the other end. “Oh,” she cried in bewilderment. “Hello, dear. I haven’t heard from your family in ages. How is everyone?”
“Well, that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about. I have some depressing news and I’m not sure how you’re going to take it.”
Maggie waited for me to collect myself, since I was starting to tear up; my voice betraying my mourning.
“My parents,” I continued. “Are dead. And my brother and I need someplace to stay for awhile and…”
“Say no more,” my young aunt squealed. “Catch a flight down here this weekend and we’ll get you both settled in.”
My sobs and words were caught in my throat as I took in everything she was saying. I’m moving to New Jersey, I thought, without my parents or any other memory I have of them. I actually have somewhere to go, someplace where I was actually welcome.
“Hello?” Aunt Maggie said into the receiver, uncertain. “Lexie, dear, are you there still?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Thank you. Ben and I will be down by Saturday at the latest. I’ll arrange a ride to and from school, and a school for both me and Ben to attend and…”
“Sell that car of yours,” she said, cutting me off again. “You’re already set for school, and your rooms are waiting for you.”
And without another word, the line went dead.
♦ ♦ ♦
By one o’clock, I’d packed everything Ben and I would need for the big move. I had also cancelled our enrollments at our old schools, to let them know we wouldn’t be with them for the rest of the year.
Now, I was in my shiny car, driving to the station. Rock ‘n’ roll music blared from the speakers, though I didn’t pay it any attention. Instead, I tried to focus on the trees, and the leaves falling from their strong branches. I inhaled the autumn breeze, exhaling feeling relieved. At least I would be getting away from this place. I mean, it’s not like I had many friends. I always felt I was fine without them.
After all, I had everything I could possibly need inside my tattered messenger bag. My bag contained a torn notebook, my iPod touch, my razor cell phone, a “skeleton” key that had been passed down from my grandfather, my usual textbooks (which I needed to drop off before Saturday), and my private scrapbook.
My car whizzed by my brother’s now “old” school; small four and five year olds hung from the monkey bars, while their parents stood nervously underneath, their arms spread wide.
A tear trickled down my cheek as I pictured Ben’s reaction when I finally told him we were leaving. He would be so hurt to leave his playmates, but I knew he’d soon adjust.
We were used to moving from place to place after something bad happened. The first time was because my golden retriever, Harold, died when I was eight. The second time, my grandfather had a heart attack. Last time, my house burned down after some foolish, drunk teenagers lit a cigarette and threw the butt into our bushes. Little did they know that they didn’t actually throw away only the butt; they also threw out the entire box of cigarettes.
I watched them through my window, as the “gangster” boys shoved what looked like at least fifteen cigarettes into their mouths. After about a minute, they decided they didn’t like the taste and “threw them away”. What complete idiots! Within minutes, the bushes went up in flames, and spread into the yard. The flames made their way towards the lower end of our two-story apartment, where my parents were doing the dishes.
I sprinted down the long stairs, yelling as I went. “FIRE, FIRE! THERE’S A FIRE IN THE BUILDING!” Grabbing my parents’ hands, I pulled them out the door. Racing back inside to find Ben, smoke caught in my lungs and I fell to the floor. Remembering what my school had taught us about fire drills, I tucked my legs close to my chest and rolled into the less-heated part of the fire. Once I reached the steps, I ran as fast as I could to Ben’s room.
He sat stock-still in his bed, as if in a trance that couldn’t be broken. Picking him up, I swung him over my shoulders. He covered his mouth with his sleeve, but still he made uneasy choking sounds. All I could think about was I need to get him out of here! Fast!
Eventually, I made my way out of the apartment to where my anxious parents and the firemen were waiting. Throwing theirs arms around us, mom and dad cried loudly at the sight before them. Our house is gone. It’s gone. Oh god, its gone was all my mother could say. She kept screaming about where the hell you guys were while you were inside, my dad kept telling me. We were so worried.
My face and clothes were tinged with black, and I reeked of smoke. As my lungs cleared from the smokiness, I was taken to the hospital. Ben sat crying in my mother’s lap, but it was from joy of being alive. He had never taken his life for granted, even as a small child. He knew the value of living, and how every day was something important that we may never get the opportunity to experience ever again.
My eyes blurred as I gradually brought myself back to the present. While lost in my daze, I hadn’t noticed I had already arrived at the station. It was a miracle that I hadn’t gotten into an accident; instead, I had parallel-parked right against the curb, which I had no idea I knew how to do. How weird. Still, I shrugged and walked inside.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Why,” Ben wailed. “Why, why why?” His arms flung down to his side at the end of every “why” and raised again to scream some more. He kicked the couch; smacking it with such force it seemed to shake the entire house. His green and yellow stool had been tossed across the room, nearly smashing into the wooden cupboard. Of course, I caught it in record time but still Ben continued to cry.
I sat in a chair, hoping to wait out his temper tantrum. Eventually, he gave up on making his point and plopped down on the floor, his head in his hands. Can you believe he’s only eight?
“Look, Ben”, I tried to comfort him, but nothing worked. He was too stubborn. “We’re just going to visit Aunt Maggie for awhile.”
He just looked at me in a way that made him look older. It startled me to extreme measures. He’s only eight! “Please, Ben,” I said quietly. “Maggie is a nice woman and she’s so excited to see you again. You’ve always loved her when you were little.” He simply shook his head in defiance. One little shake of the head was all it took for me to realize: it’s going to be hard raising him.
Ben’s whole fragile body was shaking: his lips trembled; teeth chattering. Tears stained his baby face, as he stumbled into my open arms. For awhile, I just held him, unsure of what else to do. His head lay on my shoulders; sleeping, as far as I could tell. I slung him over my back, and proceeded up the short staircase.
Rain pattered down on the windows, as I lay him in his racecar bed. Stuffed animals lay in a large pile in his overflowing toy box; their glassy eyes watching me. I shivered. Plush animals had always freaked me out as a kid, and my fear wouldn’t be cut short, even at the age of seventeen. My fear was something like everyone’s fear of, let’s say, spiders. They look harmless to other people, maybe even fun to play with or even study. But once they get you alone or you watch some documentary on Animal Planet, you’re entire opinion changes rapidly.
Maybe I’m being melodramatic, but I’m just trying to be honest. I hate the way stuffed animals are made. I hate how they look, with their clear eyes that show you your reflection when you look close enough. The way the people who build them make them look so adorable and friendly, so that kids will see them at the toy store and go, “Ooo, mommy. Can we get this one? Please, oh please, can we buy it?”
It sickens me the way that kids are fooled into believing that little plush “stuffies” (as Ben calls them) are anything but dangerous. They are only sweet, soft and cute. Yeah, right. What kind of idiot do you take me for?
Anyway, with me being tired and all, I decided to call it a night. My feet, slowly and ever so quietly, carried me to my room, where I fell onto my bed, half asleep. Thank god it’s the weekend, I thought wearily, just as my eyes began to close. Thunder crackling was the last thing I heard, and so it melted into my dreams.