She Said, She Said

I've been told that I have a wonderful imagination, that I can think up the most bizarre things possible. When I was little - around six or seven years old, I think - I used to pretend I was a bird with a broken wing. I don't remember the exact details, but I do have a vague approximation of how I got the idea. I remember thinking about people being hurt after I'd visited my grandmother in the hospital, for she had fell down the stairs and hurt her back. When I was there - at the hospital - I was looking at all the machines that were hooked up to Grandma Gretchen, some beeping and others making odd noises. It didn't make sense to me: how could all these...robots keep my grandmother alive? Doctors ought to have been caressing her forehead, or giving her syrup that tasted like bubblegum, like my mother had done to me whenever I'd get a cold, not shove needles in her hands or her arms.

I'd asked my mother this and she'd laughed, a bit sadly, at my questions, fussing up my hair and telling me that I'd understand when I was older. That, however, did not stop my interrogation on the subject, and I'd find myself envisioning tiny fairies, holding in their hands small jars filled with magic dust. I'd imagine them hovering over sick patients - their beautiful skirts fluttering in the wind, their wings shimmering - sprinkling the dust on them and making them better. It was such a beautiful dream that these "images" started getting more and more wonderful.

Being at that tender age of innocence and jokes, I'd never seen an animal get hurt. I hadn't even known that they could get hurt, that they cried out when they felt pain, or that they also bled, like humans, when they got a cut or some other similar injury. I did find that out, however, but not necessarily in a good way.

My mother had always been the kind of woman who couldn't stand being in the house all day. In the summer, she would take Brandon and I to the pool, or the park to play on the swings, so we could go high, high, high and maybe touch the sky with our little toes. When I found myself taking a walk with her one autumn evening, I told her about the fairies that had a cure to everything. My mother looked at me and smiled, fascination painted on her face.

"Imagination is more important than knowledge," she'd declared, smiling. "Albert Einstein."

This was not the response I'd been looking for, so, disappointed, I'd instead started looking at the fallen leaves around us, the colors so bright, and the trees hovering tall above us, bare naked, their branches shivering. Then, something happened. I heard a gun off somewhere in the distance, and, immediately, as if I'd been the one getting hit with the bullet, I stopped dead in my tracks - as did my mother - a look of horror on my face. I clung to her leg, and started bawling my eyes out, telling for her to pick me up. My mother, also quite terrified by this point, cradled me in her arms, and started walking towards where the sound had come from.

"No!" I'd screamed, pounding on her back with my small fists. The thought of hearing that noise again petrified me, but my mother was set on finding out what was going on, so, clutching me against her body, she continued forward, the leaves under her smothered by her sneaker-clad feet. Finally, when I'd gotten over the shock, I'd started peering around, curious. Jumping from my mother's arms, I grabbed her hand in mine and we kept walking. Standing in the distance, we saw a large man with a burly moustache, a rifle of some kind resting on his shoulder.

"What's going on?" My mother's hand tightened on my own.

The man turned to look at us, surprised. "Nothing, miss," he slurred with a heavy Scottish accent lingering in his voice. "Just shootin' me up some birds." And then he turned around and walked away, never looking back once.

None of that concerned me, however, when I saw a beautiful white bird on the floor, its color standing out against the orange and the yellows of the leaves. Its feathers were covered in red, and its eyes, which were a glossy black, were fluttering open and close continuously.

"Oh my," my mother had whispered, crouching down to take a closer look. The bird - which I later found out was actually a pigeon - had been shot by the rifle in its wing, and, when my mother picked it up carefully to take it home and somehow nurse it back into good health, we both knew it was too late. The bird went limp in her hands with a weak cry of pain, and died.

The realization was like a bomb exploding in the pit of my stomach. I'd always thought that animals were these wonderful creatures, full of power and magic powder: never crying or bleeding or fighting. So when I'd seen that pigeon dying, I'd started unraveling things I'd only had nightmares about. I was even more depressed when I realized that animals couldn't speak, so letting others know they felt pain must've only made things harder for them.

From there on, I'd always had a soft spot for animals, oohing and aahing when we went to the zoo, or wailing and crying when I saw a stray dog. I'd also found it calming to pretend I was a bird with a broken wing, flailing my arm around and not talking, but rather squawking or cooing when someone tried to make conversation with me.

This was why when Caleb opened his mouth to talk to me it seemed that everything had been paused by a certain someone who was watching this on a screen. Suddenly, all these grotesque pictures started flashing in the back of my head, like I was watching a movie on a black and white projector, the images flickering and blurring: Caleb flicking out a knife from the back pocket of his jeans and stabbing a small boy in the heart; Blood pouring out of a woman's eyes as Caleb kicked her in the side; Caleb, with a unruly moustache, shooting at thousands of flying pigeons as they fell down, one by one, their wings crimson.

I blinked suddenly, my vision blurred. There was Caleb, sitting still, but not doing any of berserk things I had imagined. His eyes – which, I noticed, were sunken into his face, bordered with dark brown circles - bore right through me. I could see that he was trying not to make it obvious that he was searching my face for any clues of interest, but I made my face as clear as possible, not showing any emotion whatsoever.

His voice hoarse, he opened his mouth: "Well, I -" And stopped, his lips clamped shut tight, as if he was afraid that if he didn't close the space, words would come pouring out, words he wished would dig themselves deep into the earth and never come out again. Although he was trying to make it seem like he didn't want me to know, his glazed-over eyes betrayed him. He wanted to tell me, I knew it, so why wouldn't he just spill it?

So, we weren't exactly best friends - okay, so not even close to actually being "friends" - but he obviously needed someone to talk to, someone who could understand him. And - I was certain of this - even if I wouldn't be his first choice to share this moment with, I didn't care. He needed to tell me before he would explode.

The seat squeaked uncomfortably beneath me and the warmth that was recently in my body seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

"What is it?" I asked, nervous. "Just tell me."

"No." The word echoed throughout the room. Caleb looked at me again, like he was just realizing where he was, what he was doing.

"Why not?" The question popped out before I could stop it. It was none of my business, really, to ask him this. If he didn't want to tell me I shouldn't have been forcing him. But I had to know.

"Because you don't care." His lips curled into a sneer and his frame sunk deeper into the mattress of my bed.

I shrugged, letting him know that the comment did not bother me, although I felt a dull pain in my chest as if someone was constantly poking my heart to see if it was working. He was right, of course. I didn't care. Right?

I stared out the window and blinked several of times. The sun was covered by heavy, dark clouds, making the world appear black and white.

"I have a home, you know." The sound pierced a hole in the silence, and I looked up, startled. Caleb stared past me, as if I wasn't there. "It's not like I have nowhere to go, because I do." He nodded to himself, satisfied with the words. "A nice house. On the corner of the street. Pale yellow, I think; I don't quite remember. Which is odd, really.” He took the white sheets in between his fingers and rubbed the fabric. “I’ve only been here for a month or so.”

“Who did you live with?” I asked, my voice wavering. I was afraid that if I spoke too loud he might stop talking.

“My mother, of course.” He let the words fall off of his lips like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My father left when I was kid, you know? Didn’t want me – the bastard. He said he could do better without us. Haven’t heard from him since.” He shrugged, his shoulders bobbing in the air for a little too long. “You would think I turned out all okay. I mean, I had everything I needed: a nice mother, a roof over my head, friends. But the world is fucking stupid. Nobody can stand it when someone else is happier than them. Nobody.” He looked up suddenly, his eyes watery. “Not even you.”

I didn’t know what to say. I kept quiet.

“What else do you want to know? That I killed someone, that I’m a heartless asshole?” Abruptly, he stood up. “Then you should know that you’re as heartless as I am. Always whining, pushing people away when they try to help. You know what?” It wasn't a question; I knew that much. “Screw you.”

And then he was gone.

*

“Valerie.” It was the voice again, calling me, telling me to come over. Who was it? Show yourself!

The stars scattered across the night sky twinkled and winked. For miles and miles, I saw nothing but land filled with grass, its tresses swaying softly in the wind. Tiny birds danced and sang, their voices small whispers at the back of my mind. I picked up my hand in front of my face to wipe the tears running down my cheeks. But my hands – they weren’t there! I turned around and tried to see myself, looking like a dog chasing its tail.

“Help me!” My voice – where was it? I didn’t have a voice. “Please! I can’t speak!” I tried to say something, anything, but no – my voice wasn’t there.

“Valerie, baby, come to me,” a hushed tone entered my ears. A pale hand curled around my shoulder, its warmth instantly enveloping my body in heat. “I love you. We love you, Val.”

“Mom?” I screamed, but, again, no sound escaped my raw throat. “Mom, please!” I yelled in my head. “Help me!”

“It’s okay, baby.” I felt arms wrap around my body. “We’ll help you.”

Before I could thank her, I saw faces floating in the distance. They were too far away to see, but I had a feeling I knew who they were. “Brandon!” I silently laughed to myself, the sound only audible to my ears. “Sabrina! I’m here. It’s me, Valerie!”

Tinkling bells, giggling. “Valerie,” the voice tickled the side of my face. “Won’t you come with us?”

“Yes, yes!” I guffawed, my mind whirring.

Far away, I could see lights – two of them. They were approaching fast. “Please help us, Valerie,” Sabrina whispered, her face crumpled in pain. She flailed her arms, and tried to reach out. The lights were coming closer now, and I could now make out the shape of a big square. “Please, Valerie!”

The object got closer, and closer, and – finally – I could see it. It was the truck, and it was heading right for Sabrina and Brandon!

“No!” I screamed.

But it was too late. Sabrina and Brandon laughed and the truck smashed into them, leaving behind nothing but a puddle of blood.

The room was spinning. I forced my eyelids open and woke up with a jolt, sobbing. The sheets were tangled around my body, my hands in fists. The visions from the nightmare still lingered at the back of my mind: the truck approaching, the pale hand on my shoulder. It had all seemed so real. I wiped at my cheeks furiously, my pupils raw.

When I finally calmed down enough to untangle myself and climb onto the wheelchair, I peeked at the clock; it was four o’clock – I’d been asleep for more than an hour. The green shirt I was wearing now looked dirty and smelled bad. Before I could drift back to bed, I forced myself into the bathroom and took a quick shower. After dressing in a simple shirt and pajama pants, I found myself out in the hallway, the door shut tightly behind me.

I knew Sylvia was probably still in the Resource Room. Steering myself there, I couldn’t help but think about the nightmare. Was it a reminder of my family’s death? It was true that I had been avoiding the topic for the last few days. I didn’t want to think about it – that would only make it all the more real.

I stopped outside the door, wondering if I should go in or not. Shrugging my shoulders, I pushed open the door to be greeted by a dark room, the only light coming from the TV. People were sitting in small groups, some on the couches, others on the floor (and, of course, their wheelchairs). It took only a few moments before my eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I found myself closing the door quietly, looking around for a familiar face. Sylvia, Noel, and Lacey were sitting on a couch in one corner of the room. I frowned – there was no more room for me to sit there, and I really didn’t feel like sitting in my wheelchair for the next two hours.

My eyes flicked over to another corner of the room, and I saw an empty space on a large loveseat, big enough for two. I looked over to the side – to where the other person was sitting – and found myself frowning all over again. It was Caleb, leaning back like he was the most relaxed person in the world, with no worries whatsoever. But there really was no other place to sit. I grunted to myself quietly and wheeled myself over. Without making eye contact or even acknowledging his presence, I sat myself down on the plush cushions, my body sinking into the soft material. I scooted over as far as I could, and settled back to enjoy the movie.

My eyes, however, seemed to have a different plan. Before I could stop myself, the tiredness took over and I closed my eyes shut, the warmth of the room welcoming me to sleep.