Memories, may be beautiful and yet….
A bonus chapter this week because Chapter 6 is such a wee one.
This novel, 3 Lives in Jury, is delivered, chapter by chapter, every Thursday. There will be mistakes because self-editing is a fool’s game. I apologize in advance but experimentation has a price. I’d love to hear what you think. I can be reached at terryfries.edit@gmail.com or leave a comment.
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Chapter 6
Whit strained to lift his body out of bed. Three days ago, they broke into Dr. Kappens' office and he hasn’t been able to face the light since. Get up, they’ll be checking soon and he had better pull himself together before they did. His mom, his dad, Lucy, even Samay Singh, the neighbour and Frank stuck their heads in the door yesterday. Stop this and get up already, he screamed at himself.
He begged off school yesterday and the day before blaming headaches, but if he missed it again and slept through the day, his mom the super nurse, would insist on a closer examination, and probably pressure him to see a doctor. He lugged his body upright and swung his feet around to touch the floor.
He was no closer to the truth than he was before their discovery at Dr. Kappens’ office. Hearing the voice on the recording lit up darkened portions of his brain where he’d unconsciously hidden away unsettling memories. Best to leave those buried, he thought. He shouldn’t have to live with the horrible images from his 32 missing days.
He was sure the voice on the recording was the monster who had taken him. It was Horseface. John King was Horseface. He recognized the childish whine, heard it pleading with him, “Why don’t you eat, boy?” it said. “Clean yourself up.” And, “Don’t fight me and you might learn to enjoy it.”
Whit pieced together a face, the one from the trail where they told him he had first disappeared. A 30 to 40ish looking man, clean-shaven with a long face and jowls that hung like saggy brown bags under both cheeks.
He also had visions of a striped sunlight as it fell through a roof constructed of wooden poles; black-white, black-white, the beams fell across his face. That was all. He was blocked off from the rest. Clouded memories floated out of reach whenever he tried to arrange the pieces. It was better to turn it all off. At least then a guy could think, get on with things.
He rose at last, popped up quickly, hoping to jar himself into a brighter state, feeling weak but angry and committed. He’d find Horseface, although he wasn’t sure how yet.
He showered, scrubbed, and turned the cold tap up at the end for shock value. He dressed and strode into the kitchen, a day like any other, told his mother he was feeling “fine and funky” in a cringe-worthy display of overacting, although she appeared not to notice, and headed out to school with Lucy and Frank.
“Are you really feeling OK, Whit?” Lucy asked. “That was a terrible performance back there, by the way. I’m surprised your mom didn’t think you were too stupid for school and order you back to bed.”
Whit held up his hands for her to stop. “Please don’t. I’m over it.”
“You’re over it? What do you mean you’re over it? You were abused, Whit. You’re a victim and you can say it. It’s fine to say the words. You were abused. It’s not your fault. You, me, your parents and this whole fucking town should shout it out so we can close the wound and heal the scar.”
She slapped him across the back of the head.
Whit flashed his middle finger and it began to rain.