I'm awake,
Flannel sheets. Not my sheets. Smell like dirt. And iron. In bed. But not my bed. Small. I can feel the edges. Not a king. Maybe a twin,
"Hungry, sweetheart?" The lady at the register smiles. A triple-decker display rotates slowly on the counter.
I nod, but say, "No. No, thank you." This place smells like strawberries and thick cut steak fries. My mouth waters. A booth in the corner is occupied by a an old shaky man moving food around his plate. He keeps staring at the empty seat across from him and sighing. He looks so sad. I recognize that look. My heart tugs my eyes back to the display.
"Are you sure," she asks. She sees me eyeing the glass. "Best in the county. Been a family recipe for years," she says. "Just one won't kill you." Her smile falters. A memory creeps into upturned eyes. She shakes it away. Just a passing...
Fog. Awake again.
Same bed. On my side. The pillow is new. It crinkles when I move. It's damp where my eyes rest. My feet shift. Cold sheets brush bare skin.
"It's not often we have someone come in here to not eat," she says. "You lost?"
I nod my head yes and say, "No. No, ma'am. I'm, um, I'm..." I stare at the menu behind her. "Why is that painted over?" I point to paint that doesn't quite match the rest of the board. Three letters and an exclamation point. The first letter is definitely a "P".
"Oh," she says without looking. "We don't sell that item anymore." Her smile fades.
"But," I look back to the carousel.
"I mean, we don't advertise it anymore. Those who want it bad enough can have it, you know what I'm sayin'?"
I nod my head despite my confusion. "I need help."
"Lawd Jesus, we all do," she laughs. It's genuine. It's contagious.
He's contagious.
I'm awake. Sitting. Feet dangling off the side of this bed. The rocking chair moves beside me. Outside the storm is raging. Inside my clothes are wet. I push hair out of my face. My hand smells like fireworks.
"Normally I charge people for help," she laughs. "But that look on your face tells me you're in a real pickle. What can I do for ya?"
"This," I pull three sheets of paper out of my bag and place them on the counter. "I just wanted to know if I could hang these in your window. It's ... it's...,"
She picks up the paper, turns it in her hands and frowns. "Oh no, sweetie. You know this girl?"
My face mimics hers. "She's my sister."
I'm standing.
Awake and standing. My back to the room. In a hallway. The chair creaks behind me. In front is a silent room. A silent room with windows, a big bed, and a tree that scratches.
"How long has it been?" she asks still looking at the paper.
"A few days or a few weeks or months. We don't really know." I reach for the other two. "I, um, don't know much. I haven't seen her in awhile. I'm just doing this for my parents."
She puts a warm hand on top of mine. "You're doing this for more than just your parents," she says. "I can see it in your eyes." She looks over my shoulder to the man in the booth then back to me. "I'll put two up on the main windows. You can put one on the door on your way out."
"Thank you," I say.
I'm shivering.
It's cold. No. I'm cold. This room is hot. It's radiating. I'm standing in front of the glass. Blue and red flashes through the window. Blue and red lights blinking outside. Blue and red eyes.
I tape the paper to the inside of the glass door. My finger lingers on her cheekbone. The red ink smudges through her hair. I push my way to the outside, but before the door closes I hear, "Good luck. I'll pray for you and her. Ain't nothing worse than breaking the bond between siblings."
I give a small wave and let the door close. I turn to go to my car when I hear the sound of paper ripping.
"She's right you know," a voice hisses behind me. "About the siblings thing. Breaking that bond is...," his voice lowers into a whisper. "Oh so delicious."
I turn. A shower of confetti rains down on a man shadowed by the diner's awning. Tiny white pieces float around his head like moths around a flame. His eyes glow from beneath an arched brow.
"Why would you do that - ?" I start to say, but a fog slips into my head.
I'm turning.
Away from the window. Back into the room. A wide bed with old indentations. A door left ajar. The smell of grief and fear. One set of muddied footprints leads straight to me.
"Hello? Dan? Hello?" The phone screams in my ear. I blink. The street in front of me looks blurred, like watching life through a dirty television. "Dan? Are you there?" I blink again and realize I'm sitting in my car.
"Hello?" a voice says from my mouth. "M... Marcia?"
"Jesus, Dan. Are you okay?"
"Am I?"
"I don't know. You called me." Her voice is cracking. She's been crying. "You called me and you didn't say anything coherent. You just breathed in the phone and mumbled something."
The world is darker. Street lights are flicking on. I wonder how long I've been sitting here. Someone else's thought crosses my mind. "I have to go."
"Where? Dan? Where do you have to go?"
"A house." My fingers find the key and turn on the car. "I think I know who has her."
"Dan? Who has her? You mean your sister? You can't go there alone. Tell me where it is and I'll send the closest officers. Dan?"
I hear Noah crying in the background. Little Noah. My son. The brother without a sibling anymore. Just like me. "What did I say?"
"What? Dan? You're not making sense. Tell me where you're going and I'll send a patrol."
I turn on my headlights. A flicker of a shadow walks away from the car. "Marcia, what did I say?"
"When?"
"When I was mumbling."
A long pause. I put the car into drive and pull out of the parking lot. Cruise control isn't on, but it's clearly on autopilot. I glance in the rearview and see the old man picking up pieces of scrap paper and clutching them to his heart. I feel nothing. I'm numb. She lets out a long sigh. "You...," she fumbles over the word. "You kept saying 'He's smiling at me'."
The phone falls out of my hand and lodges itself between the seat and the console.
I'm in the hallway.
Faded squares dot the walls where pictures used to hang. I touch one of them and leave fingerpaintings of red. My head turns as if studying the wall, and my feet walk away from me.
"You can't park here," he says. He's old. Not as old as the man in the diner, but old enough. Fat cheeks splotched with broken blood vessels wobble when he talks. A stringy, grey goatee frames thin frowning lips. "Pull your car down the street. Park in front of that house down there. You can't be parkin' in the driveway, man."
I nod and put the car into reverse. He seems to recoil from the headlights as I pull away. I park, lock the car, and jog back. He's entering the house. "He's upstairs," he says over his shoulder and then disappears off to the right.
"Who is?" I call after him. No response. I walk through the door and up the carpeted stairs. Thunder cracks outside and the smell of the coming storm fills the house.
I'm at the top of the stairs.
Looking down. Naked brown footprints muddy the stairs leading away from a heap on the floor. I follow the path. Thirteen steps. Thirteen feet. Thirteen shades of red drying to brown. Wind and rain and black limbs creep through a broken window.
"Hello?" I say. Two rooms to my left and a voice comes out of one. Or out of my head. Or both. It's hard to tell.
"One second," it says. "Just finishing up."
I follow the sound around the corner. I stand between the two rooms staring at the wall. I hear whispering to my left, and a baby whimpering to my right.
"Come in," he says, and I turn towards his voice. A young man brushes by me, his head down, a vacant smile twisting his face. "Don't mind him," the man in the room says. "Boys have always been a handful at that age." He laughs. It's contagious. "Have a seat."
He's sitting on the bed and standing at the window. I sit beside him as he looks down at me from across the room.
Confusion becomes a lighthouse in the fog. I shake my head. "Why am I here?"
He's no longer beside me or at the window. He's crouching in a corner. His back is to me. His shoulders are heaving. He's giggling.
Standing above the heap.
It doesn't move. Neither do I. A mirrored pool of red creates islands of us both. A thick Persian rug squishes beneath my feet. The Glock 19 on the heap's back blinks in and out in the red and blue strobe.
The giggle turns into a cackle, the cackle into a roar. I clamp my hands on my ears and squeeze my eyes shut. I count to thirteen and open them.
He's standing in front of me. His head is tilted sickenly to the side like he's trying to peer through the tops of my eyes. His body is still facing the corner.
Vibrations tease the corners of his mouth. They pull horizontally like they've been hooked with fishing line on each side and stretched. His red lips turn purple, then black, then white, and then crack. Red seams slice through in vertical caverns. The corners shoot up and gather globs of skin in lumpy handfuls of flesh until cauliflowered cheeks swim in stretched bulges of pale pink.
He pushes his head forward until our noses are touching. Arms roll on dislocated shoulders as slimy hands pull mine from my ears. "I need," he whispers with breath that reeks of sulfur. "I need to borrow your body for a few hours." His eyes widen; tiny black dots swimming in oceans of blue and brown. His smile grows and I feel the fog pushing its way back in.
I'm awake,
Flannel sheets. Not my sheets. Smell like dirt. And iron. In bed. But not my bed. Small. I can feel the edges. Not a king. Maybe a twin.