Dawn's Abyss

Why would I blow everything I’ve worked for on a boy? I kept my secrets for a reason! I liked being an individual. I didn’t want to be part of a group, however small it may be. I built up my silent exterior so that I wouldn’t get hurt. I always figured that if you don’t have friends and you don’t make enemies, then there’s no reason to ever be let down. And now, some Australian stalker has broken me down.

I’d thought I was stronger than that. Sitting here, all alone in my little deserted house, as Ashton has so kindly pointed out, I realized that I didn’t have anything to lose. He seemed to be genuinely interested in me, and by the way he spoke, I knew that on his second day of school, he felt that same sensation I had this morning when looking out my window. Would that be considered a connection with him? I’d never had anything with anyone before.

I got up from the wooden desk in my bedroom and began pacing, looking out the window every other time I passed it. My homework was finished. The laundry was in the dryer. The dishes were going through their last cycle. It was only 6:30. Usually, at this time, I would go out and buy groceries or watch TV on the ancient, static-filled television downstairs. I’d already gotten milk on my way home from school and somehow, Wheel of Fortune didn’t sound all that appealing right now.

I decided to shower early instead and was making my way to the bathroom when something stopped me. A green, hardback book with the words HAZELWOOD HIGH ACADEMY YEARBOOK stamped across the top in yellow letters. Those were the school colors: green and yellow. I hadn’t even opened my yearbook yet, but now seemed like a good time. We’d gotten those weeks ago, but it was better late than never, I suppose.

The sophomore class only had 92 students in it, so I decided to look through the 10th grade, starting with Mila Abraham. I remembered something Ashton had said about me acting like I didn’t think anyone else existed. That was only halfway true. I could name each person in all my classes, I realized because I was unnaturally attentive, but I could put a face with only two of them, other than my own: Loraine and Ashton.

Fifth period, I had Biology class. I saw the name Eric Grady, and knew he was in that class. I’d had no idea what he looked like until just now. He had black hair that was far too long for a guy and orange glasses. I continued looking at each of my classmates, not recognizing anyone until I got to Loraine Marshall. The only class we had together other than lunch was 7th period Art class.

In Loraine’s picture, she looked like a crazy hippie in 80’s workout clothes. When I’d said she was eccentric, I’d meant her personality, but I guess her style was that way, too. I wondered what we looked like sitting by each other at lunch, me in all of my dark glory, and she in her . . . colorfulness. An image of a big glob of bright pink bubblegum lying next to a cinderblock came to mind.

Then, I found the one picture I’d really been looking for. Ashton Voss was the second-to-last name and picture in the sophomore class. His blond hair looked overly perfect and he was wearing the same I-know-something-you-don’t-know smile that he’d given me right before I left him at lunch time.

The very last picture was mine. I had on the same hooded sweatshirt I’d been wearing all day. My hood was over my head but my face was turned down so that my eyes were peeking out from under it. The corners of my mouth were just barely turned up in a poor excuse of a smile.
I’ll tell you one thing about me per day.

The words kept ringing in my ears even though they hadn’t been spoken. I knew there wasn’t much to tell about me. After a while I would have to get down to my family life and my dark past. That was valuable information to me and I’m sure it would make a nice headline for the school paper. “Quiet girl Abandoned by Parents and Living Alone off Monthly Fortune,” it would read.

Nobody knew that about me, but based on what Mrs. Kurl had said to me, a lot of people were waiting on some fantastical secret to blow them all away. They’d probably just be disappointed anyway. My life wasn’t exciting; it never had been. Today was the most eventful one that I could remember, and I’d only said five words. I guess that was a lot, though, considering my daily average was a whopping zero.

I closed the notebook and returned it to its rightful location on my desk. Next to it were a stack of envelopes. That reminded me that I hadn’t gotten the mail yet. Hence, I meandered downstairs to the front door and opened it. I noticed a red mini-van parked across the street that had never been there before. It looked like there was a figure in the driver’s seat, but it was dark and I’d taken my contacts out after school. I couldn’t see anything without them in.

Despite the unsettling notion that there might be someone watching me, I walked out to my mailbox and opened it. The car roared to life and I almost jumped out of my skin as its headlights blinked on. Then it turned into the street and sped away. Well I guess tat answered my question about whether someone was in there or not. I didn’t believe in ghosts, so I was fairly certain someone had just been spying on me.

I shivered in the autumn breeze and hurriedly grabbed the mail. It included a package, and an envelope. I never got mail except my $600 twelve times a year. Bills never came in the past, so I supposed my parents had set that up so they would be sent to them.

Things like that always frustrated me when I got to thinking. If my mother and father cared enough to provide for me, why weren’t they with me? Why didn’t they communicate in some form or another? Maybe I wouldn’t be so socially screwed up if I’d had a mom or dad around to remember. Instead, I was left friendless and secluded from everyone and everything because nobody ever taught me how to act like a real human being. There was only one person to blame for that, but I found it easier to make the two that I never knew the scapegoats.

I looked down at the package and envelope. I knew it was from them because my address was typed on both of them. They didn’t even want me to know their handwriting? I guess they just didn’t want their daughter to have any sort of connection with them.

I opened the envelope first. It contained the money. I brought that up to my room and stacked it atop the rest of the envelopes. I brought the package to a different room. It was a room I hadn’t dared set foot in since I was ten-years-old. I’d made a pact to myself that I wouldn’t re-enter my parents’ old bedroom until it was the right time. When I’d made the personal promise I had no idea how I would know when that was. Now, I was sure.

The room was exactly as I remembered it six years ago. That didn’t seem right. Shouldn’t there be dust and cobwebs and mold or mildew everywhere? The room looked recently cleaned. It must be some of that special magic only a parent could instill in a room . . . after they deserted their only child. No, that could be right either because neither of them had ever been a real parent to me.

Nonetheless, I went over to sit on the spotless Queen-sized bed. All that was left on it was a single beige sheet and two bare pillows. I looked down at the package in my lap, and then let my eyes roam over the walls. I wasn’t actually seeing anything though, because I was deep in thought. I loved the quiet almost as much as I loved music. In the spare room, I ad shelves piled with CD’s. Right now, however, I embraced the silence. I closed my eyes and relished in the feeling. Closing my eyes was such a relief sometimes. It gave me a break from righting to keep everyone out and allowed me to hide behind my stubborn exterior.

My hands traveled over the cardboard box and I found myself opening it. Through a faint burst of hope, I wondered if my parents were finally contacting me or even just writing a note. Maybe it was a present or a passport to their hideout.

I felt packing peanuts beneath my fingers and looked down with my eyes open. There were a lot of packing peanuts. I didn’t see anything else, so I dug through them for a moment. When I expected to feel the cardboard bottom, my fingers brushed something paper instead. I grabbed it and pulled it up out of the box, little Styrofoam pieces spilling onto the shiny hardwood floor.

It was a movie poster. Why in the world would anyone send me an ancient movie poster? Then I read the title. “Watch out for the Kurl,” and there was a picture of a witch-looking old lady with claws for fingers and teeth like razors dripping with gore. Confusion smothered me as I realized this was another puzzle to figure out. Did that mean Mrs. Kurl? I already knew to watch out for her! Along with the overwhelming bewilderment came disappointment. If this was my parents, what did they know about Mrs. Kurl and why were they sending cryptic warnings to me about her?

I was tired of thinking so hard, so I put the poster back inside the box and left the room, closing the door behind me. Why was everything changing now? Why was I making connection with a popular boy and why were my mystery providers suddenly sending more than just cash? I believed in karma and destiny, so it seemed that fate had dealt me a strange card.

I showered then and read The Diary of Anne Frank until 10:45. I went downstairs to make my lunch for the next day, wondering if Ashton was going to follow through on his word and sit with me again. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to or not and uncertainty killed me so this was not a healthy situation for me to be in. Another reason for my seclusion from the world was that I couldn’t stand drama. It was so pointless and just gave people a reason to obsess about one thing or another.

I was in bed at my usually punctual 11:00. I was always timely, and liked to be right on the dot for anything and everything. My eyelids shut but drowsiness didn’t engulf me like it always did. I laid awake for hours on end, tossing and turning. I think I eventually fell asleep somewhere around dawn and possibly had a really weird dream. When I woke up, I couldn’t hold on to the dream anymore and it was swept from my memory.