The Unwanted Winter - Volume One of the Saga of the Twelves (3 page)

The news had been
difficult for Ricardo to take as well. As it turned out, they’d had
their first argument over the situation - a situation neither of
them could change. He had been crass and mean, while she’d been
defensive and hurt by his inability to see how much this pained
her. She had to say good-bye to him and, with that, watch some her
of innermost hopes simply “pop” out of existence, like a soap
bubble in a harsh wind.

Maybe he had sensed some
of the feelings she had growing inside of her, those deep-seeded
emotions for him. Maybe he too got a glimpse of their future
together and became so disappointed by her inevitable departure, he
couldn’t control himself. Maybe he didn’t know how to control such
intense emotion and he allowed his sorrow to turned to
anger.

She would never know
though. After they’d made up, a short while later and talked
through the problem as grown-up as they could manage. She could
sense something fundamental had changed between them. It was
something they couldn’t recover or renew. The simplicity and
originality of their time together had altered at its’ most basic
level and could no longer represent what it had been before news of
her leaving had changed it. It was like losing their innocence.
There would be no future now. There would be nothing long-term
between them. They were too young and powerless to do much else
other than flow with the currents of their lives and make the best
of the short time they had left together.

I miss you, Ricardo. I
wish I’d had the time to tell you that I loved you.

The strange cloud became
more distinct, detail coming forth.

Now, here she was twenty
days later, on the I-40, on her way to Los Angeles of all places,
having left the only hope she had of finding love - true love. It
was all behind her now. Everything she’d wanted in life had
evaporated into thin air.

She pulled her gaze from
the landscape. Not caring to notice it had begun to change as the
elevation of the high plain increased the closer they came to the
outskirts of Flagstaff.

She blinked away tears,
forcing herself not to give into her emotions and breakdown.
No!
She wasn’t supposed
to be this sad. She wasn’t going to cry!

The thought had just
crossed her mind when her eyes caught a hold of the huge geological
formation of San Francisco Peaks, the dead volcanoes of a bygone
age. She watched as the clouds played about their slopes,
stretching well over twelve thousand feet into the
atmosphere.

Ahead, the sun was setting
behind the mountains, their cumuli-nimbus playmates moving about
them. The glare of the sun magnified for a second. This iridescence
grew in intensity with blinding speed, until it became a flare of
luminance behind the gossamer billow of the clouds.

Then, she saw
it.

It was highlighted within
the wispy structures in the air before her, towering, incredibly
immense. It was the cloud she had noticed before. It had a face
now, in the clouds, eyes glowing malevolently, from miles away,
across the great distance. It stared at her with such unadulterated
hatred. She gasped a loud, her hand coming to her mouth.

I see you, you little
bitch. You won’t escape the likes of me, not ever.

Lady Gaga
was long forgotten.

There’d been a
voice
IN HER HEAD!

Ricardo was a distant
thought.

It took all of her will to
stop from yelping with fright.

In the front seat, her
mother turned around to see what was wrong with her.

Her father looked at her
through the rear view mirror, concern on his face.

She ignored them. Because,
the moment the sun’s glare vanished, it’s light no longer capable
of illuminating the clouds, the vicious, leering face seemed to
smile. It was a slow, knowing smile.

It was gazing straight at
her!

I’m going to kill you, you
worthless human!

Oh god!

A blink of an eye passed.
It was gone.

An overwhelming sense of
dread befell her, so deep, so thorough, she could feel it in her
bones.

Something terrible is
going to happen… in Los Angeles…

Whatever she did to try
and escape the thought, it was fruitless. She knew now. He had
spoken to her in her mind. No matter how fantastic it may sound,
she knew it for truth. There was no mistake. Not now. Not
ever.

He was coming.

~~~~~~~~<<<<<<{ ☼
}>>>>>>~~~~~~~~

…
For, Frosty the snowman
had to hurry on his way, but he waved goodbye saying, "Don't you
cry, I'll be back again someday."

Thumpetty thump thump,
Thumpety thump thump, Look at Frosty go…

~Steve "Jack"
Rollins

Winter either bites with
its teeth or lashes with its tail.

~Proverb

~~~~~~~~<<<<<<{ ☼
}>>>>>>~~~~~~~~

Winter’s Friend

Thursday, November
18
^th
,
8:09am…

Mikalah sat in her
3
^rd
grade class, waiting for the first lesson of the day to
begin, twirling her shoulder-length, dark brown hair with her left
index finger.

At eight years old,
Mikalah had long ago grown out of the pudgy, stubby - if not
square-ish body type – she’d at a much younger age. Her form had
lengthened and thinned, revealing a slender girl of medium height
for her age. Her once wild hair had straightened and shone darkly -
even in sunlight. As the years passed, it remained as thick and
course as it had when she was a baby. Because of this, her hair
wasn’t easily styled, since no amount of curling or crimping could
bend or shape it. It remained absolutely straight, hanging down
from the crown of her head in all directions. Despite this, her
hair held its’ own beauty. It shone brightly, reflective, a soft
vibrancy, even the harsh fluorescent lights of her
classroom.

She had the typical
Hispanic complexion – dark. Growing up in Los Angeles, with its’
long summers and short winters, had deepened its’ the tone to a
deep russet. The sort many an actor would spend hours in the salon
attempting to duplicate, but couldn’t’ quite achieve. This was a
thing too natural to manufacture. Any cosmetic attempt at its
duplication would come out looking overly tanned, too dry and
tight, as if drained of all moisture. Their skin wouldn’t retain
the succulent depths of her native skin.

She was of average build
with strong legs and arms. Her eyes were dark brown, matching the
color and sheen of her hair. Her gaze was always alight with
intelligence and wit. She wore the usual attire required by her
school - white polo shirt and navy blue pants held up by a Little
Mermaid belt with matching shoes upon her feet.

She was like so many other
eight-year-old women across the country, in any given city -
playful, outgoing, occasionally sarcastic with a keen ear for humor
and always ready with a gigantic peel of laughter.

Inwardly, Mikalah was
different in her own way. She was an individual with her own
idiosyncrasies and preferences. She liked cuddling and hugging
whatever “grown-up” was around. More often than not, she preferred
the “warm spot” on the couch next to her mom or dad just so she
could feel secure. She liked feeling snuggly.

Juxtaposed against this
basic level of intimacy, she could turn towering confidence one
moment into a calculated look of shyness, even weakness, as she
became that helpless little girl so many would underestimate. It
was at these times, she was actually paying complete attention to
the world around her, when no one was looking at her. She would
watch everyone else intently. It was in these times, she learned,
understood what was transpiring around her. She masked
comprehension skillfully against meek body language and a shy sort
of inquisitiveness. It was her way of extracting information on
multiple levels in the most innocuous manner. She became subtle and
circumspect, but under-lined it with downright forward, if not
aggressive, intent.

In full, she was a complex
little girl, whose emotions ran very deep – feelings and
convictions that attempts at dissuasion often proved fruitless. She
could be doggedly determined when the need arose.

So, there she sat, idly
playing with her hair with one hand, twirling her Tinkerbelle
pencil in the other, it’s writing end floating crazily over the
blank sheet of paper. Before her, with only her name and date
written in the upper right hand corner of the sheet - per Mrs.
Smith’s format - she waited.

Silently, she wondered why
her teacher, hadn’t begun the lesson already. By this time
yesterday, with the directions already given, the students had been
off writing in their respective journals, describing their own
versions of the up-coming Holidays and the onset of yet another
Southern California winter.

Today, though, things were
different.

The class wasn’t doing
anything at that moment, but fidgeting about, as would any bunch of
third graders would after having to wait patiently for an extended
period.

Instead of holding her
customary chalk, Mrs. Smith was casually leaning against her desk
at the front of the classroom. Her legs were crossed at the ankles,
arms crossed below her ample bosom, over her wide mid-section,
smiling at the ever-stretching silence permeating throughout the
classroom.

Mikalah glanced two rows
across from where she was seated, gazing toward where her sister,
Elena, who was staring right back at her, with eyebrows raised in
question. Like with most close sisters, a silent message passed
between the two girls. W
hat is going on?
Why was this taking so long?
Mikalah could
only shrug, which Elena returned with a twist to the left corner of
her mouth. It was her habit. Mikalah knew it to mean she didn’t
like having to wait for things to get started.

Elena never liked to wait
for anything.
She was always SO
impatient!

Like Mikalah, Elena
Soledad Herrera was dressed per the school’s dress code, though she
wore a white blouse with a pleated pair of mini-skirt shorts and
long, white tights to keep her legs warm from the growing cold of
the season. On her feet, she wore her favorite shoes, a glittering
pair of Sketcher tennies that sparkled with a myriad of flashing
lights every time she took a step. Unlike her sister, Elena wasn’t
the transcending Hispanic stereotype that was Mikalah.

Rather, she conveyed more
of an Iberian complexion and cast to her visage. It was reticent of
the otherwise recessive genes simmering here and there through her
family’s tree. She had light brown hair with thick, looping curls,
forming without any aide, but looked as though they’d been sculpted
by a professional team in a world-class salon. Her skin was light,
but not opaque. It would tend to brown versus burn, if she were
playing in the sun overlong. At times, in high summer, especially
if she’d been camping for a spell, she could develop a golden hue.
Combined it with the lightening of her hair by the sun, would give
her a truly exotic look.

She was of a thinner, more
delicate bone structure than that of her sister. She weighed a
little less as well, though Elena stood an inch and a half taller.
Her fingers were longer, while her palms were smaller than
Mikalah’s. Her limbs were longer and leaner of muscle. While
Mikalah was power when she ran, bowling forth like a thoroughbred
horse. Elena was fluid, lithe-like, much like her father had been
many years ago, when he’d run competitively in college. This was
before his injury and the subsequent weight that had
followed.

They were
definitely
not
peas-in-a-pod. They couldn’t have looked any more different
and still be recognized as sisters.

With only eleven months
separated the sisters in age, it was the time of the year they’d
been born that saw them placed in the same grade together. Elena,
being born in mid-December, had been forced to wait a year before
she could start Kindergarten. Thus, she and Mikalah had begun their
school careers together.