Haze (Ch. 1)

A/N: Rating is meant for the entire novel, as things get progressively darker--part of the reason I've been obsessively editing the first chapter rather than continuing on. Otherwise, I'm really focusing on showing rather than telling, which I had a problem with in this project, so feel free to tell me how I did, yeah? Of course, that goes for everything. Enjoy?

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CHAPTER ONE

Indistinct

 

NOW

 

        

Jacksin Pelley sat in the corner of a bathroom, a bathroom trashed in the midst of repair. The bathroom was all shattered salmon pink tile, an awkwardly placed slab of granite, an old toilet that was also pink, and a crooked hanging mirror. To add insult to injury, plaster dust and cobwebs hung on everything, highlighting the dead bugs, paint drips, and shredded and stained bathroom rug. He thoroughly hated this place, but he needed it. He needed the isolation. The quiet. The forgotten bathroom was the only quiet place in the overly large house, the last thing left unrestored because of money drying up.

Everything else about the 1970’s house had been turned into suburban blandness, from the kitchen to the bedrooms to the den. The only places left somewhat untouched was the attic and this tiny half-bath, and the latter was the only place with air conditioning.

Of course, that didn’t mean the place didn’t make Jacksin’s nose run like crazy or make him cough, but it was better than feeling like his head might explode, or like he might explode outward and enact a reign of fear better than the one he’d already prompted.

So he sat, staring at a drill mark in the wall, and he listened as his uncle, Thomas, and aunt, Marisol, came in the door. The dogs’ leashes metal catches and hooks jangled together and one of the dogs, the chocolate-and-tan dachshund, barked with excitement and anxiety. He heard his cousins laughing and then barking at the dogs and then his aunt, Gianna, picking them up off the floor to give them hugs and loud kisses to their cheeks. He heard Thomas and his other uncle--Sampson, Thomas’s older brother--talking in low voices that didn’t carry well but soothed Jacksin’s frayed nerves slightly. He then heard Marisol’s voice. She told Gianna she’d brought cherry pie and then, in a whisper loud enough for Jacksin to hear in the room full of echoes, asking Gianna whether or not Jacksin planned on staying in his room and working on late school work while they were over.

Jacksin heard Sampson’s answer of, “No, why would he?” and Marisol’s reaction of “He’s not safe!”

Jacksin sighed and rubbed at his face. His stubble was rough and his calloused hands were rough, a nearly matching combination that none of his soft skin enjoyed. He blinked at the crooked hanging mirror and thought about his once vivid blue eyes had turned to quicksilver gray. He thought about the new scars by his eyes and mouth and the largest scar, an older one, that cut across his forehead.

       

His hand started to shake and he pulled it away from his face. He let out a breath and a tiny tornado of plaster dust stirred up off the ground.

       

He knew he’d have to face his guardians, Sampson and Gianna. He knew he’d have to face his aunt and uncle, Marisol and Thomas. He knew he’d have to face the dogs. He knew it was absurd this bothered him in comparison with everything else that had happened to him, but he couldn’t help it. For seven months, seven decades, he’d learned to live one way, and now that he had to live the way he’d lived before, he felt like he was drowning in ice water circled by sharks.

       

He wondered how everyone who came back from war or came out of prison didn’t kill themselves.

       

He heard a knock at the bathroom door and he got to his feet. He pulled at his sweatshirt’s sleeves, pulling them down over the bones of his wrists, and then he opened the door.

       

“You look like a homeless man,” Gianna informed him.

       

Jacksin merely nodded and she brushed the plaster dust out of his hair.

       

“Why do you do this to me, boy?” his aunt continued.

       

He shrugged.

       

“Well, come on out. Everyone’s waiting on you.”

        

Everyone would prefer me to hop on a bus and never come back. But I can’t. I just can’t. Why can’t I?

        

“I don’t know why I have to visit. Can’t I study? I’m sure Derby and Sara can play well enough with whatever toys they brought--”

       

“Barbies this time. Thankfully not Legos.”

       

“--Thomas and Sampson can talk sports and rock climbing. You and Marisol can talk about cooking and crafting and she can complain about you not having had kids yet.”

       

Gianna’s dark eyes narrowed to slits and she brushed her black silk hair over her shoulder. She then adjusted her gray sweater and fixed her wire glasses.

       

“Are we going to have a problem?”

       

“Of course not.”

      

 “You’re lucky Sampson and I took you in, rather than just letting you go into the system. We could’ve left you to be toyed around with your parents.”

       

“I know. I’m grateful.”

       

“You leave for seven months and don’t tell us where you’ve gone or what happened. That’s a nice way to repay us. Come and eat a turkey sandwich and eat some cherry pie. Pretend it makes up for you missing Thanksgiving and don’t kick the dogs or break the children’s toys.”

       

“I wouldn’t do either of those things.”

       

Gianna merely turned and started to walk down the hall, expecting him to follow. Jacksin let out a long sigh and then followed her.

 

***

He spotted Derby and Sara lying on their stomachs on the plush shag carpet, Derby playing with a painted-upon Ken doll and Sara with a Barbie who appeared to have had neck surgery. A stuffed dalmatian dog sat next to them, their two real dogs curled up with it. It was a peaceful, nice thing. The sort of thing a person wanted to eventually come home to. Of course, Jacksin didn’t exactly feel like that was something he’d ever get. Like a choke collar around his neck, he felt the weight of Marisol’s frozen lake gaze. He looked into the depths of her bottomless eyes and shivered. He looked at his feet.

       

“How’s school going, Jack?” Thomas asked. He was lounged out on the huge green sofa, a beer in hand. 

Jacksin swallowed hard. “Better. Uh, I have a C in Chemistry now. Making improvement and all.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “How are Derby and Sara’s grades?”

“They’re fine,” Marisol said, crossing her legs.

“Riiight. Um, I suppose I’ll go make myself a sandwich,” he mumbled, heading for the kitchen.

As always, he was overwhelmed by the light and plants. It was like the kitchen was secretly a greenhouse, only with a shiny stainless steel fridge and a granite island with a centerpiece of oranges. He looked at the mix of bamboo, cacti, and herbs and then made his way around tupperware in use as dog bowls and popped open the fridge.

The scent of raw meat hit his nose like a bulldozer and he had to slam the door.

“You okay in there, Jack?” Sampson called.

“Fine.” His voice cracked. “Um. Just stubbed my toe.”

His knuckles were white where he grasped the door handle. He took in a sharp breath and held it.

 

***

       

“You want any pie?” Sampson asked, through a mouthful of the aforementioned pie. 

A baseball game, either life or recorded though Jacksin couldn’t quite tell, played on the living room’s television. Jacksin sat to Sampson’s right on the floor near the door and the corner full of white-flowered toxic plants in artsy-looking pots that Gianna kept. Holly bushes dotted the front of the yard and Angel trumpet plants dotted the dirt around the mailbox. Gianna had a green thumb, but apparently only for poisonous or madly hallucinogenic plants. It made Jacksin distinctly uncomfortable. Then again, so did the pie. It looked like pastry full of fresh blood and dog eyeballs. The topping of whipped cream did nothing. 

“No thanks,” Jacksin said. “I’m fine.” 

“Seriously, it’s delicious,” Sampson said, gesturing to the rest of the pie that Derby and Sara looked at closely over in the dining room, both wondering if they could have seconds Jacksin presumed. The dogs were at their heels, which made the idea of getting any of Marisol’s cherry pie unappealing.

She might stab him with her heel if he ate any.

That was always something to worry about. Unlikely, but nonetheless terrifying. Jacksin wanted to keep his own eyes in his skull.

“Don’t bother him, Sam. If he wants to be a picky eater, let him be a picky eater. When he’s hungry, he’ll eat,” Gianna muttered, stabbing a fork into her desert. 

Jacksin winced.

“Oh, and don’t spill beer all over Jacksin’s head, huh?” Thomas suggested, chuckling and taking away Sampson’s third beer.

“I’m chill, dude, but I gotta work tomorrow, so thanks for cutting me off, Mr. Bartender.”

“Stop, big bro. That was just in college. I got kids now.”

“Some bartenders have kids,” Jacksin mumbled.

“Sure. No good father is a bartender with kids, though.” Marisol sniffed and then leaned forward in her chair, silk sheet black hair falling in front of her face. “Derby, Sara! Get away from that. You already had apples on the way over here. You’ve had enough sugar.”

“Mom,” Derby whined.

“I don’t hear you when you use that tone, remember?” Marisol crossed her legs. “Come play, you two, or watch the game.”

“Can we go outside?” Sara asked, tugging at her dress that was now cherry-stained.

Jacksin’s heart lurched. He didn’t want them alone outside. Marisol wouldn’t let them watch them either. His fingers tightened on the fork and his mayonnaise-smeared sandwich plate, but they got slick with sweat and the plate fell onto the floor along with his fork. He bit his lip as the dogs ran over and hurriedly licked at anything they could get their pink, flicking tongues on.

He felt like he was covered in ants.

“Jacksin, get that away from those dogs,” Gianna said. “What were you thinking?”

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll wash everybody’s dishes?” 

“And rinse out the beer bottles and put them in the recycle bin,” Gianna added.

“Sure.” 

Jacksin picked up the fork and plate, pushing away the dachshund lightly and flinching when it growled at him. His back and neck felt too hot and sweat beaded on his forehead.  

“Go on. There’s sticks, you can play with the dogs,” Sampson said, waving his hand. “Yell if you need us.”

“I’ll go out with them,” Thomas interjected, brown eyes flicking to Jacksin. 

The younger boy ducked his head, finished stacking up the plates, grabbed three beer bottles by the necks, quickly slipped away to the kitchen. He could still hear what was said, but at least he didn’t have to feel all their eyes on him.

He wasn’t a goddamned pervert.

“We have a fence,” Sampson murmured.

“One of your nephews was stolen out of this house,” Marisol said, voice muffled but clearly somewhat sardonic. “I think it’s good if Thomas keeps an eye on our babies.”

“Of course,” Gianna said. “I imagine when I finally have a child of my own I wouldn’t want them out of my sight either.”

 

Jacksin knew it was gross, but he finished of Sampson’s beer in the kitchen, lower back pressed against the cool granite counter tops. It was less nasty than other things he’d done, admittedly. He needed the buzz. He then went to dishwashing, trying to ignore the fact that no one except maybe Sampson--maybe--even wanted him. Sure the guy would sometimes play video games with him and took all three of them, Jacksin, Derby, and Sara, to the art museum one day, but Sampson wasn’t Jacksin’s dad. He didn’t even really try to be. 

       

There was nothing keeping him inside, but he was too terrified to leave the house alone. It didn’t make any sense. It began here in the house. He pretended the locked doors, secured windows, and the spanking new alarm system could protect him anyway. 

       

If he stayed, he’d have to let go of the agoraphobia and go back to high school and go on to college. He’d wanted to do both, and he thought on them more now than he ever had. He thought about how he used to draw and paint, even in the darkest depths, and how he couldn’t now, because every image that came to mind scared him and he knew it would fully whig out even Sampson, the only member of his family except Laura who could hold a smile around him.

       

Why was he thinking of Laura?

Jacksin listened closer as he rubbed soap of the tines of the fork, the hot water a trickle as Gianna preferred.

     

“Do you think Laura’s mutts will be gentle with Stooge? He’s already had back surgery once--”

“I’ll get Michael and Laura to leave the larger dogs in the back if it becomes a problem, but Michael has his inherited pug. I think your wiener dog will be fine.” Sampson’s tone was full of humor until his next sentence. “And, of course, Jacksin’s scared of Murphy and Sally.”

Jacksin pulled his hand out of the hot water and rubbed at his face, at the teeth marks. He heard a heavy crack, a sound that only resounded in his head.

“You almost done in there?” Gianna called, too close, in the doorway. 

Jacksin nodded, back to her. He worked faster, finishing the last plate. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Good.”

He heard footsteps going away and he let out a breath. Then he quickly grabbed an apple once he turned of the water. He hoped it would be enough to insure any smell on his breath would be ignored.

The fruit was overripe, so he supposed he could claim fermentation if anyone asked. 

Why had he even--?

It didn’t matter. He needed it. To just get through this visit. But what would he use for tomorrow’s, when the whole family got together to celebrate the birthday of the now deceased matriarch of the family, Charles, Sampson, Michael, and Thomas’s mother?

He didn’t know.

Why did people have to celebrate the birthdays of the dead? Weren’t holidays enough face time for these people?

He only had two memories of his grandmother. Being whacked with her walking cane when he didn’t move out of the way quick enough which ended with him stepping on her cat’s tail and getting claw marks up his left leg--something the old lady had laughed at--and her coming up to him frail and wrinkled as a baby budgie, hands shaking, and asking him when she’d finally get to see her husband. 

Blaze, who’d been at the Easter party keeping Jacksin more or less sane, had said, “Tonight.”

If one believed in an afterlife, he’d have been correct. She’d died in her sleep. Jacksin still didn’t know how he’d called it, but his old best friend had informed him when old people got that desperate they were just asking for someone to give them permission to croak.

Jacksin realized he hadn’t spoken to Blaze in weeks.

He thought of broken ribs and cleansing fire and wondered if he’d ever get around to taking Blaze away from his suddenly motherly mother for a few hours, be it by phone call or invitation to Sampson and Gianna’s house.

When Jacksin dropped the bottles into the recycle bin outside--tomorrow was glass day--they shattered and Jacksin realized he’d left the house. 

He ran back inside the way he’d gone out, through the kitchen door, and slammed said door behind him, lungs acting like a stormswept ocean in his chest.

“No slamming doors!” Gianna called, but her voice wasn’t her voice and Jacksin slid down the mahogany plate behind him until his head hit the doorknob. 

The world turned to black-ringed modern art.

       

He wondered how sick he was.

       

He wondered if he should mention it, but how did a person even bring that up? 

       

I’m like Old Yeller. I’d never hurt anyone on purpose.