Table Of ContentNever Alone
The rough bark of the tree bit into my back as I pressed against it, terror
forced my heart into a frantic staccato rhythm. The wan moonlight from the
crescent moon above filtered through the bare branches above me, allowing me
enough light to see shapes and forms, but nothing in detail. I tried to control my
gasping breath, knowing the slightest sound could give me away and lead to my
death.
I was being hunted. I was the prey.
I heard something approaching, thrashing noisily through the dry leaves
behind me. Only my hunter would be so careless as to make so much noise.
Stealth was no longer to his advantage; I knew he was coming for me and we
both knew he wouldn't stop until I was dead. I could stay still and hope he
passed me by or I could make a run for it and hope to outrun him. Fear won out
over reason and I launched myself away from the dubious security of the tree.
Maybe the noise the hunter was making would drown out the sounds I made as I
fled blindly through the trees.
It seemed like the very forest was conspiring against me. Branches smacked
across my face as brambles grabbed greedily at my clothes. I tripped and
stumbled over roots that were seemingly thrust between my feet. Each time I
fell, I doggedly bounced back to my feet and continued running. I knew I was
bleeding, I could feel the warm liquid running down my face, mixing with the
cold sweat of panic, but I felt no pain. I had no room for anything but fear and
the will to survive.
Suddenly, I burst into a clearing. My mind barely had time to register the
rectangular hole gaping obscenely in my path like a grave waiting eagerly for its
grisly occupant. I veered to the left in an attempt to avoid it, but I came too
close, my foot fell at the edge of the opening and the soft earth crumbled,
sending me crashing into the black void.
It wasn't as deep as I'd thought; only a couple feet at the most. I struggled to
get up again, but this time agonizing pain shot down my leg and I collapsed back
to the earth. I rolled over just as a dark shadow fell over me. I looked up to find a
figure looming over me, silhouetted against the sky, his features cloaked in
darkness. The hunter had caught his prey. I knew with a sudden grim certainty
that this was to be my grave.
*
I awoke with a start, my heart pounding and my T-shirt wet with cold sweat. I
sat up, pushing my damp hair away from my face and took deep, gulping
breaths. Calm down, I told myself.
It was just a dream -- the same dream I've been having periodically for years
now. I used to wake the whole house up as I came up out of the nightmare
screaming and crying. I'd learned to control my reaction somewhat, but it was
still no less terrifying.
Eventually, my heart rate began to return to normal and my breathing evened
out. I was wide-awake now and knew from experience I wouldn't be getting
much sleep for the rest of the night. I glanced over at my clock radio and saw
that it was almost four o'clock in the morning. It could have been worse, I
thought with a sigh. The last time I'd had the dream a couple months ago I woke
up at two-thirty. I'd barely made it through the next day at school I'd been so
tired.
I slid out of bed and peeled off the clammy T-shirt. Unlike my dream, the sky
was brightening with false dawn and my room was lit with the ghostly
illumination. I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror on the back
of my door and stopped. I looked awful. My shoulder length black hair hung
damp and limp, framing my face with its sticky tendrils. Dark circles surrounded
my deep brown almond-shaped eyes, set in a broad face with high cheekbones.
No one ever had any trouble guessing that I was of Native American heritage. I
fit the Hollywood stereotype perfectly, even down to my less-than-average
height and lean, fit body. Throw a loincloth around my narrow hips and I was
ready for my close-up.
My looks came to me naturally. My mother was a member of a local tribe
called the Mocatans and my father was a Lenape Indian from New Jersey.
They'd met at a Powwow back in the days when Dad was a championship
competitive dancer and were married a year later. I was born less than a year
after that and, in a fit of Native pride, I was named Jacy, Native American for
`moon'.
I may have looked like your typical Hollywood Indian, but my life was far
from it. Instead of living in a wigwam in a serene village, I lived with my family
in a two story farm house in a small town in Maryland - and our home life was
anything but serene. I was the oldest of six kids, and at sixteen, I was expected to
take on a lot of responsibility. I didn't really resent it, but my parents were pretty
strict and their expectations were maybe just a little high. Between school, my
part-time job at the Dairy Queen, and my family responsibilities, I didn't have
much time for myself.
I moved away from the mirror and groaned softly as I remembered what day
it was: Sunday. See, my family is very religious. Before you start conjuring up
images of me in a sweat lodge, it's important to know that shortly after I was
born, my parents “found the Lord” (who knew he was missing?) and became
born-again Baptists. This meant that in a few hours, we'd all bundle into the
family van and set off to Sunday School. Don't get me wrong, I don't really have
a problem with God or church or whatever, but I haven't really decided if it's all
for me just yet. I resented being told what to believe without being allowed any
say in the matter.
I walked over to the window and lightly touched the painting sitting on the
easel. Still wet. Art was my therapy. Whenever I needed to get away for a while,
I'd lock myself in my room and paint. Oil paintings were scattered around my
room, leaning against the walls, propped up on my dresser, and stacked under
my bed, even in my closet. I guess if I had to categorize my work, which I was
loathe to do, I would have to call it abstract. Some of the images were
recognizable if you used your imagination, but some were just designs that held
significance to no one but me, expressions of my emotional state at the time they
were created. Only a few close friends had ever seen my paintings, and none of
them had known quite what to make of them. Not even my family had seen
them. I bought all my own supplies, which was the main purpose of my part-
time job.
I moved the canvas on the easel off to one side and propped up a new one; its
crisp whiteness a little intimidating at first. I'd prepped the canvas already, so I
could just start painting. I squeezed out some fresh pigment onto my palette,
dipped in my brush, and began to paint. I'd chosen dark, brooding colors to
match my mood.
I slowly got lost in the creative trance I seem to slip into when I'm painting.
I didn't notice as the room started to brighten with the sunrise, or when the
sounds of my family waking up began. The next thing I knew, Mom was
banging on my door. “Jacy, are you up?” she called, causing me to jump as my
concentration was broken.
I blinked in confusion for a second before answering. “Yeah, I'm up,” I called
back.
“You'd better get a shower now or you won't have time for breakfast,” she
said. I listened to her footsteps retreating down the hall as I stared at the almost
completed painting before me.
Consciously, I hadn't been painting anything in particular, but apparently my
subconscious had been busy. The painting was all dark blues, purples, and black;
dark vertical stripes against an only slightly lighter background. It was very
foreboding and it didn't take much imagination to recognize this painting; it was
clearly the setting from my dream. With a sigh, I dropped my brush in the jar of
paint thinner and painfully forced my cramped fingers to open. I'd been painting
for hours without a break and my hands were complaining bitterly.
I picked up the painting and carried it to my closet, where I carefully set at
the front of the stack of paintings I kept there. I called them my Nightmare
Series. I had one for every time I'd had the nightmare since I started painting
about a year ago. They all bore a striking similarity but only a few were finished,
and those had been painted all in one sitting. I never went back to them; in fact, I
never looked at them again once they were put away in the closet.
I closed the closet door and went to get ready for church.
*
Isn't it funny how you can look back on your life and see how, if certain
things hadn't happened exactly as they did, your life would have turned out so
drastically different? Things that seem so terribly insignificant at the time turn
out to be major life altering events when looked at from the right perspective and
the things that seem of such great consequence often lose their importance with
time. One thing I've learned is that it's the little things you have to watch out for.
It was a couple days after I'd had the last nightmare and I was working at
Dairy Queen after school. I was at the front counter, which meant I was taking
orders, serving ice cream, making milkshakes and so on. It's always busier at the
front counter during hot weather and today wasn't an exception. I'd just served
up two ice cream cones when they walked in.
I'd seen the girl around at school. She'd been in a couple of my classes, but I
couldn't remember her name. She was an attractive girl, dark chocolate skin,
glossy black hair that she now wore tied back with a colorful scarf, warm brown
eyes behind small glasses. It was her friend that caught my attention however.
He was tall and thin, short dark hair that he wore carefully messy, dark brown
eyes under impossibly long, dark lashes, and his skin tone was the same as mine.
I knew immediately that he had to be an American Indian as well. I'd never seen
him before, I was sure I would remember him if I had.
I couldn't seem to tear my eyes away from him as they approached the
counter. What was going on with me? I'd seen better looking guys than him
before, but they'd never captured my attention like this. There was just
something about him, something that I couldn't look away from. Thank
goodness, neither of them had so much as glanced in my direction; they seemed
to be caught up in an argument of some sort.
“I don't know why it's such a big deal,” the girl was saying in a very annoyed
tone of voice.
“All I said was that I didn't want to meet him,” he snapped back, his eyes
flashing with barely controlled anger. “You're the one making a big deal out of
this.”
“Two chocolate chip cookie dough Blizzards,” she ordered, still without
looking in my direction. As I made the desserts, I continued to shamelessly
eavesdrop. Hey, if you're going to have a loud argument in a public place you
should expect to be overheard.
“Why don't you want to meet him?” she demanded.
“Why do I have to give you a reason? Why can't you just accept that I don't
want to? Maybe I have reasons I don't want to share with you.”
“I thought I was your best friend.”
“Oh for God's sake, you're such a drama queen.”
“I'm a drama queen? If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black!”
“It's not like you tell me every little detail about your life.”
“I practically do. I just don't understand why you can't tell me why. He's such
a nice guy.”
“I didn't say he wasn't a nice guy.”
“Then why won't you meet him?”
“Can we just drop this? Please?”
They fell into an uneasy silence as I thought about their words. Could he be
gay? It sure sounded like it from their conversation. I didn't know any gay guys
personally, although there were a few at my school. I'd certainly never
considered myself gay. I was attracted to girls even though I'd never dated -- my
parents thought I was too young. I'd never really been attracted to guys…at least
before now.
I glanced over my shoulder to find him watching me appraisingly. I felt a
blush immediately spring to my cheeks as my head snapped back around.
Luckily, my skin tone is dark enough that a blush doesn't show easily. He
probably knew I'd been listening now. How embarrassing. I concentrated on
their Blizzards, which were almost done.
“It's because he's chubby, isn't it?” the girl snapped just as I was turning
around with their finished desserts.
The guy gave a huge beleaguered sigh. “Look, he's just not my type, ok?” He
gave me a smoldering smile and I almost tripped over my feet. “Unlike him,” he
said deliberately locking his eyes with mine.
If I hadn't set the Blizzards down already, I'm sure I would have dropped
them. As it was, my mouth went dry and I suddenly couldn't seem to remember
what to do next.
The girl gave me an exasperated look. “How much do I owe you?” she asked
slowly, as if she was talking to a mentally challenged child.
I shook myself a bit and quickly rang them up with a shaking hand.
“I'll get it,” the guy said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wallet. He
counted out the exact change, his fingers scraping suggestively against my palm
as he handed me the money. He smiled again as they turned to go.
“I don't know why you do that,” his friend hissed.
“Do what?” he asked innocently, shooting me a final glance over his
shoulder.
“Mess with poor boys' heads like that.”
“Don't start.”
I watched as they left, still arguing as they went. I wondered if that was how
they always were and, if so, why they were friends in the first place.
I took the next person's order, but kept an eye on the two of them as they
walked across the parking lot. I was filling a cup with soda when I felt the hairs
on the back of my neck suddenly stand up. I spun around to see the guy and girl
still arguing. She'd stopped walking and he was slowly backing away from her,
gesturing angrily with one hand. While I watched, he reached the curb without
realizing it and stumbled off…right into the path of an oncoming bright red car. I
watched in horror as the car threw his body into the air like a rag doll. I couldn't
hear from inside, but imagined the sickening thud as he slammed into the ground
and lay there unmoving.
I gave a strangled shout and dropped the soda. I couldn't believe no one else
even seemed to notice what had happened right outside. I leaped over the
counter and ran for the door, exploding out into the intense humidity of the
September afternoon. I came to a skidding halt as I realized they were both
standing in the middle of the parking lot, still arguing. What was going on? Had
I imagined that whole scene?
Their words were lost to me as I stood there trying to figure out if I was
losing my mind. I rubbed my face and when I dropped my hands, the guy had
started slowly backing away from the girl, gesturing angrily with one hand. I felt
a chill sweep over my entire body as the hair on my neck once more stood up on
end. My mouth worked for a few seconds but nothing came out.
Just as he was about to step back off the curb I found my voice. “Hey!” I
yelled.
He stopped and his eyes met mine as the girl turned to give me a look that
clearly said, “Drop dead.” The red car drove by harmlessly behind the boy. I
registered all this with half a thought, since most of my brain had stopped
thinking about anything else the second his eyes had met mine.
“What?” the girl demanded.
“I…you…” I had no idea what to say now. My mind went completely blank.
“Be careful crossing the street,” I finished weakly.
The guy raised one eyebrow as a slow, sultry smile spread across his face.
“We'll do that,” he said, his voice making the words sound impossibly sexy.
“Thanks for the reminder.” He turned and made an exaggerated point of looking
both ways, then turned back to me. “How's that?” he asked.
My face was burning in what I was sure had to be a visible blush this time.
Great, now he thought I was a complete nutcase. And maybe I was. I still didn't
understand what had just happened. Of course, why did it even matter what he
thought of me. I'd probably never seen him again. Instead of answering, I turned
and walked back inside. My manager was waiting at the counter.
“What was that about?” she asked, sounding rather irritated.
“I…” Once again I was at a loss for words. What was I supposed to say? That
I'd had some weird psychic moment, seen the future, and rushed out to save a
life? Yeah right. I didn't even buy that one. “I thought I was going to get sick,” I
managed to say. Come to think of it, I just might.
I must have looked as bad as I felt, because she seemed to accept my excuse.
She really wasn't a bad boss at all. She pressed a hand to my forehead. “Maybe
you should just go home for the day, get some rest.”
I nodded gratefully and slipped off my apron. That sounded like a great idea.
“What are you doing home early?” Mom asked brusquely as I came through
the back door.
I sighed. Mom was okay, but she wasn't the most maternal woman you'll ever
meet. She could definitely be a little controlling at times. I was basically a good
kid so it didn't bother me too much, but she often gave my younger brother
Michael a hard time.
“I was feeling sick at work so they sent me home,” I said.
Mom's eyes narrowed. “Then you'd better go on up to your room,” she said
quickly. “I don't want some virus going through the whole house.”
I wasn't about to argue. I climbed the stairs to the second floor and quickly
shut myself into my room. Being the oldest had its advantages. I'm the only one
with a room to myself. My two younger brothers, Michael, who is fourteen, and
Raphael, eleven, share one room. So do my three little sisters, the twins
Gabrielle and Ariel were nine and the baby of the family Dina, who is five-
years-old.
