Harbinger (The Bleeding Worlds) (7 page)

“Well, I guess I don’t have many friends. Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“You are very welcome. Good day.”

With that, she turned and crossed the road.

Gwynn waited for the light to change and continued on to Sophia’s.

Crossing Dixie, he made his way through a walkway and turned right when it came out to a residential street. He kept walking until he came to another walkway. Through this, left at the street, and down three houses. While most of the houses in the subdivision were an average family home, the ones on this street were all custom builds. Sophia’s home would fit at least two of his house.

Gwynn took a deep breath and started walking toward the front door. His forehead dampened and his stomach knotted. The constant throbbing in his arm and head didn’t help. Several times, he considered turning back. So many times, that the walkway to the Murray’s door seemed miles in length.

When he reached the door, Gwynn gulped another breath and rung the doorbell.

Several moments passed. Gwynn figured he should give up when the door echoed with the sound of locks clicking open. The door opened to reveal a grim, middle–aged man whose eyes fell disapprovingly on Gwynn.

“I’m sorry to disturb you sir.” Gwynn stammered. “I wondered if Sophia was home.”

Thinly veiled anger filled the man’s eyes. “She’s not seeing anyone right now.”

“Oh.” A pit gnawed at Gwynn’s stomach. “Can you please let her know Gwynn came by to see her?”

The man hesitated. “Did you say you were Gwynn?”

“Yes, sir.”

The man, Mr. Murray, Gwynn assumed, inspected him.

“The same Gwynn that went into the Cameron house after Sophia?”

“I am.”

Mr. Murray’s eyes softened. “I heard you were badly injured. I figured you’d still be in the hospital.”

“I’m not sure what happened. I guess I wasn’t as bad as they thought. I got out two days ago.”

“Gwynn, Sophia’s not here.” Mr. Murray shuddered. “But I think it’s important you see her. She keeps asking for you.”

Despite his dark suspicions, Gwynn’s heart raced. “I’d be glad to come back when she gets home.”

Sophia’s father’s face fell. “I don’t know when that’ll be Gwynn.” Her father’s eyes misted. “It’s not very good. Sophia’s back in the hospital.”

Gwynn
sat on his bed, inspecting the scarred mess covering his right arm. It burned and itched. The markings played across his flesh from the elbow and onto his hand. They held some meaning, but it eluded him like the whispers of a dream. When he stared at them long enough, the answer seemed so close, something he could reach out and take. But it always danced away before actual comprehension set in.

“We’re not too sure how,” the doctor at the hospital had said, “but you appear to be completely healed.”

“So? Why’s that a problem?” Jaimie had asked.

“Ms. Roberts, please try to understand.” Doctor Saduj huffed. He pushed his heavy glasses further up his nose and scratched at the wrinkled skin of his forehead. “When Gwynn arrived in hospital, he had several broken ribs, a punctured lung and obvious head trauma. He remained comatose for four days and we had every reason to believe the possibility of extensive brain damage. Now, after a total of seven days, he is completely healed.”

“Again, what’s wrong with that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it” Doctor Saduj made a poor attempt to hide how flustered he’d become. “Except that it’s impossible. Not only has he healed at an accelerated rate, there isn’t even evidence that the injuries ever existed. Even when bones heal, they leave evidence of previous breakage. None of that exists. It’s as if the injuries never happened.”

Fire filled his aunt’s eyes. She hadn’t birthed him, she might not have been ready to be his mother, but neither of those facts kept her from a fierce defense. “That’s not really our problem. Is it safe for him to go home?”

“Well, yes.” Doctor Saduj spluttered. “We would like to do some more tests to try and understand just how—”

“No. There will be
no more tests.
” Jaimie turned to Gwynn, her small form full of power and determination that towered over all others in the room. “Gwynn, get dressed. We’re leaving. Thank you Doctor, I’m sure Gwynn’s speedy recovery is due to your outstanding care.”

Doctor Saduj shrugged. The doctor didn’t think for a moment his care had cured Gwynn, but the droop of his shoulders and the distant look in his eyes spoke of defeat at Jaimie’s hands.

Seven days after admission with life threatening injuries, Gwynn left the hospital. He should’ve been ecstatic, felt blessed. But doubt, cold and gnawing at his innards, kept a simple question ever–present in his mind; why am I alive?

When his parents died, he felt angry. Why had they died? Why did his dad have to switch jobs anyway? If they had just stayed where they were…

To ask why he had survived never occurred to him. At the age of eight you expected to live, death seemed odd. Being older, he understood people died for far less. How many people sidestepped the reaper twice? If this was luck, how long would it hold?

Life had changed. His room, exactly as he’d been comfortable in for years, today seemed cold and foreign. The white walls, barren of posters and color, loomed high and seemed too close.

Gwynn pulled a long–sleeved shirt over his head. It did nothing to cover the scars on his hand. He couldn’t recall a time when the opinions of others meant that much to him. But the scars were private. The thought of someone else seeing them filled him with uncertainty, like a dirty secret. Gwynn searched the room for something to cover his hand. Nothing on his floor or the small desk with his computer proved of any use. His eyes fell on his dresser and inspiration took hold. The top drawer held socks and underwear, the second sweaters, the third, and bottom–most, drawer held clothes he classed as other. He rooted around the drawer, digging to the bottom. A search rewarded him with a pair of biking gloves. The black gloves had leather sewn to the palm and the fingers cut off. Aunt Jaimie had purchased them. But Gwynn preferred to feel the rubber of his bike handles, so the gloves had been retired. Gwynn slipped the right hand glove on. He flexed his hand a couple of times and left the bedroom behind.

The smell of breakfast cooking awaited him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” He asked Jaimie as she stacked pancakes on a plate.

“I took the day off. I thought, maybe I should be available. You know, in case…”

“I go postal at school?”

She gave him a strained smile. “I just thought if you decided that it was too soon to be back at school, you might appreciate a friendly face at home.”

Gwynn threw his arms around her. Her body stiffened with surprise, but then relaxed and she returned his embrace.

“Thanks, Jaimie.”

She sniffled. “Come on, are you telling me you don’t like having pancakes ready for breakfast?”

“Fresh cooked instead of nuked? Yeah, I’m not going to complain.”

Complaining around the warm, syrupy morsels stuffed in his mouth would've been impossible anyway. Jaimie gave him a warm smile. Her eyes fell on Gwynn’s gloved hand and her face hardened.

“Aren’t you going to get a hard time about that?”

“Better than people staring at the scars.”

“You don’t have to go in you know. Take a few more days off.”

Gwynn shook his head while he chewed. He swallowed loudly. “I’m going to have to go back eventually. Besides, I’ve got a few days of work to catch up on already. I don’t need to fall any further behind.”

“You’re hoping to see Sophia?” Jaimie wore a sly smile.

Gwynn caught her eyes for a moment, and then mumbled around a mouthful of pancake, “Maybe.”

With breakfast finished, Gwynn thanked Jaimie and grabbed his backpack.

“You want a ride?” She asked.

The offer tempted Gwynn—November had arrived wet and cold. But something in him wanted to feel the wind biting his skin. He wanted to smell the oncoming snow. Mostly, he didn’t want to arrive at school looking like an invalid.

“I’m good. Thanks.”

Despite the doubt that crossed her face, she didn’t press him.

“Anything you want for dinner?”

“Homemade breakfast and dinner in the same day? I should get blown up more often.”

Her face told him he shouldn’t joke, but he couldn’t help it. He had faced his mortality, and if he couldn’t laugh, if he couldn’t force it down into the dark places where the loss of his parents lived, he’d lose his mind.

“Sorry. I’m good with anything. I’ll trust you.”

She shook her head. Jaimie hated it when he was noncommittal.

“Have a good day Gwynn. If you want to come home—”

“I’ll call. Promise.”

Out in the morning air, the cold wrapped around Gwynn and prickled at the exposed flesh of his face. The grey sky cast odd shadows and washed out the finer details of the world. Dark clouds filled the sky. They filled him with a dread he couldn’t explain.

Gwynn arrived on the school grounds. Small pockets of students clung together in clumps, seeking shelter in each other’s company. Were they seeking shelter from the current chill or from the threat of something worse?

No one gave Gwynn a second glimpse. There were no whisperings, no fingers pointed. He moved through the halls, through his classes, like the phantom he had always been.

Lunchtime.

Nothing obvious about the cafeteria had changed, but it felt like a sinister energy undulated beneath the surface. Gwynn found his way to his seat. It still stood empty. Had it been sitting here waiting for him all this time? Would it still stand empty when he’d left this place behind?

He scanned the cafeteria for Sophia. He’d looked for her all morning. Laughter drew his attention to the far corner where Eric Haze held court with his cronies. Gwynn’s arm throbbed—partially due to how hard he clenched his fist. Gwynn was halfway to their table before being aware he’d even stood up.

He reached the table. Why was he here? Did he hope for some form of apology? Would Eric be remorseful? Would he tell Gwynn where to find Sophia?

All hopes shattered with the grin on Haze’s face. Still the hyena.

“Gwynn! Hey, how’s it going?”

Haze stood up and put his arm around Gwynn’s shoulders. Gwynn’s fist gripped so hard, only the glove prevented him drawing blood.

“You all remember our man Gwynn, right? The AH–MAAAAAH–zing exploding boy?”

The others didn’t know how to act. But when their lord and master belly laughed, they all soon joined in. Haze turned his malevolent eyes on Gwynn.

“Hey buddy, didn’t I tell you Halloween would be a blast?”

Eric flew to the ground, his nose a fountain of blood. In horror, Gwynn realized he had drawn back his fist to deliver another blow. Confusion, maybe even fear, had Eric’s cronies paralyzed. A tangible silence gripped the cafeteria. No one stirred. Their faces were a mixture of confusion and shock. Had the phantom unmasked himself?

One face he didn’t recognize. It wore an expression different from the others. Her long, straight brown hair framed a pale, heart–shaped face. Unlike the others, she showed no confusion. Her dark almond shaped eyes held determination and a readiness to act. His insides churned in ice. A huge shadow enveloped him. He tried to block the image from his mind, instead focusing on the dumbfounded Eric.

Something went wrong with his vision; Eric appeared blurry. At one moment, he appeared solid, the next, a phantom duplicate image appeared. The ghost moved out of sync with the solid version. While the solid Eric sat on the ground avoiding eye contact with Gwynn, the ghostly image locked its eyes on him. But the ghost had catlike eyes, and as it opened its mouth, a series of long teeth descended. The ghost tensed, and then it leapt at him. He threw his arms in front of his face to protect himself. When nothing happened, he lowered his arms to see Eric still sitting on the ground.

The eyes of the cafeteria weighed on him. The silence gave way to hushed murmurings. The girl he didn’t know, the one tensing for a fight, appeared as confused as everyone else. Gwynn’s right arm throbbed, a sharp hammer and nail pain pounded on his temples. Phantom echoes of everyone in the cafeteria appeared. The solid versions remained seated. Some of their ghostly counterparts laughed, while others growled and prepared to pounce and devour. Only the girl remained free of an echo. No ghost image of her moved or acted in ways opposite of Gwynn’s world.

His stomach lurched and he ran from the cafeteria, slamming hard into the doors, throwing them aside and fell into the closest washroom where his stomach gave a violent heave.

He fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone. He stared at the keypad for a while. “Should I? Shouldn’t I?” He didn’t want Jaimie to worry, didn’t want her to hear what he had done. He didn’t want to admit that she’d been right. He should’ve stayed home. He slid the phone back into his pocket and moved to the sink. The acrid taste of sick burned the back of his throat.

Cold water cleansed and soothed his mouth. Clean, simple, and pure. He splashed some on his face, hoping it would wash away whatever illness caused his head to sting and his arm to throb. Soon, he had to admit defeat. No amount of cold water could cool the burning of his flesh or soothe the deep aches.

A shadow moved.

He had caught a brief glimpse from the corner of his eye. A large, hulking mass that shifted from the wall and passed behind him. He took a hesitant glance in the mirror, but nothing was there except for his own, mad–looking, face. He made a slow three–sixty, and again, the shadow moved. It never remained in his direct vision where he could get a clear look. A bead of cold sweat burned down his neck. He threw himself against the wall, so that he could view the whole washroom. He saw nothing else.

Gwynn shut his eyes tight. He counted. Then he opened his eyes and returned to the sink. He tried to muster a sane and steady look in his eyes as he confronted the haggard young man in the mirror. “It’s just a dream, just stress. Some left over thing from when I got hurt.” He ran his hands down over his face. “Maybe I just need my eyes checked.” No one offered a different opinion.