The Omitted Place Read online

  The Omitted Place

  Noelle Blanche

  Copyright © 2013 by Noelle Blanche

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2013

  ISBN-13: 978-1491252888

  ISBN-10: 149125288X

  Author Contact: [email protected]

  Dedicated to everyone who puts up with me, and all my friends. You know who you are.

  Also, my cat. I really love my cat.

  CONTENTS

  1

  storms

  2

  drunk

  3

  sleep

  4

  addict

  5

  home

  6

  rot

  7

  l/st

  8

  lies

  9

  hurt

  10

  covet

  11

  kill

  12

  deceit

  13

  hate

  14

  corrupt

  15

  naive

  16

  ache

  17

  panic

  18

  despoil

  19

  suffer

  20

  regret

  one; storms

  Thunder again. I can't help but flinch.

  I take a sip of coffee that lost its warmth long ago and the lights flicker, distracting me from the dreamlike memory of the last time I saw you. “There go the lights again. I hope we don't lose power,” mutters a waitress with graying hair and brown flecks on her face.

  “That'd be the third time this week. These storms have been brutal lately,” says another customer from under a trucker cap. At this early hour, there aren't that many people here. This diner is small and the food is nothing to get excited about. It's in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees, and the only people who come here are older folk on their way to work, the occasional traveler (usually lost), and me.

  I like it here. I never see anyone I really know and I don't have to worry about them looking at me. No one bothers me here.

  But still, I hate storms like this.

  Something in my coat pocket startles me and I realize my phone is vibrating. Who the hell would try to call me? The phone is only for emergencies; I don't even answer when my boss calls. I hit the button to stop it, without even looking. It can't be important. Nothing is important, anymore. I'll deal with it later. Maybe.

  In the bathroom the light buzzes and makes my head ache. It’s a bold but dark, nasty light that casts my skin a dirty shade of olive, but at least the room is clean.

  After making sure I’m alone, I relieve myself and move to the counter to wash my hands. Behind me, a stall door creaks inward—I can see it in the mirror—but I don’t think anyone’s inside.

  I turn and look to be sure, but the door isn’t open all the way. Someone could be hiding on the toilet. But why? No one would pull a stupid prank like that in a place like this. Still, I feel dizzy, and I think I might puke. A little black thing moves under the counter and I take a step back.

  But I've been here long enough, and the sun will be up soon. It always gives me awful headaches and turns everything a sickly yellow, so I leave the bathroom. “It's really coming down out there. Maybe you should wait til it lets up?” says a man by the door as I pay my tab and shake my head, avoiding all eyes before slinking out of the diner.

  The rain comes down in heavy sheets of needles and though my car is only a short walk away, I'm completely numb and wet by the time I reach it. My coat and skirt cling to me, trailing lazy liquid down my arms and legs. It makes me itch.

  The car starts with a violent, wailing screech and I back out of the parking lot as quickly as I can without skidding out of control. It's still perpetual black out, and I’ve got to beat the sun. All I can see is the barely-there winding road, and a river of evergreens on either side. The moon is hidden behind them, too low to see at this time between night and day.

  For a moment I feel like there's someone in the back seat and my heart stops, but I take a panicked glance and see that no, it's just me. I'd feel foolish but the feeling of being stalked lingers. I get that feeling a lot, these days.

  It's not exactly a short drive back home, and I find my thoughts turning back to you. I know, it's not much of a surprise, considering how many times you cross my mind in a given day. The therapist used to say it was a problem—back when I used to see a therapist. But as I'm sure you know, it hasn't helped, and it certainly hasn't shed light on anything.

  Officially, you died in an accident. Slipped and fell off the cliff by the old house while pulling your sick sister, a chronic sleepwalker, back from the edge. They never found your body, so clearly it must have washed out to sea. Right?

  What a crock of bullshit.

  They wouldn't leave me alone after that. The news, the teachers, the doctors, kids at school... everybody wanted to hear what I had to say—to know what I saw—but none of them wanted to believe it. They all had their own idea, and told me it must have been this or that, but it's not good to lie about your brother's death.

  That's why I don't talk about it, anymore.

  At home, Mom is watching TV in the dark again. I can barely hear it from the hall. She keeps it so quiet these days, I wonder if even she can hear it. She always stares at it with glassy eyes; maybe she can't see it either. Maybe she's not even there, anymore. Just a frail, hollow shell hiding nothing behind frayed white hair.

  The floorboards groan as I step onto them, and she turns with an agonizing slowness to look at me. “Oh... hello,” she murmurs an automated response. Ever since dad left, she's been this way. It doesn't matter, I guess. She never had much to say, anyway. “There's dinner in the fridge.”

  I walk past her, to the stairway. She sniffs and pushes her glasses up her nose, all premature wrinkles and shallow breaths, turning her eyes back to the washed out colors on the small screen.

  Though the dust is thick in the air, I feel the stress flowing out of me as I ascend the stairs. It's hard to see. The hall light must be out again; I'll have to pick up another bulb next time I go out, if I can bring myself to remember.

  I moved out of my room, you know. After you left. I can't stand to go in there, anymore. The door stays closed all the time. Sometimes I hear noises coming from it at night. Mom says it's nothing. They all say it's nothing. I don't know if I can believe that.

  Now I sleep in your old room. I kept all of your things in here, just the way you had them. That makes you happy, right? I took some things of my own, just the important things, and a chest for my clothes, which I keep at the foot of the bed. It's a mess, with books and candles and crap everywhere. But I'm happy here. In this room, I almost feel like you're still here with me. Like you’re not really that far, after all. It's the only place I truly feel safe.

  That old bear you gave me on our tenth birthday sits on the bed. Dad tried to throw it out once, saying that maybe it would help me grow up or something. Mom managed to get it back somehow, and I hit him as hard as I could and told him I hated him.

  He moved out shortly after that.

  Rubbing my eyes, I see something out of place on the desk. One of your books. Open, as if someone has been reading it. But it's weird; I don't remember getting it out. I hardly ever touch your books, and Mom doesn’t typically come in here.

  I can’t honestly say I remember ever seeing this book. The title and author ring unfamiliar to me. From the look of it, it’s some kind of thriller, with a stalker. Something to do with a woman who keeps finding roses around her house when she comes home. Putting the book in an empty slot in the shelf, I smile.

  You always had such mature taste.

  Stripping out of my sopping clothes, I hang them up on the wall above a towel to dry, and change into my pajamas before burying myself under the comforting embrace of the quilt. It's still storming; I wonder if it will ever stop. My hair is damp and wets the pillow, but there's nothing to be done about it right now.

  Shortly I feel overrun by fatigue, and my mind begins to flit about in preparation for dreams. I know it's foolish, but on rainy nights like these, I always wonder if you might come back.

  Of course, that could never happen.

  ###

  A fair-haired boy trailing black is fleeing. He's in a dark place, a place made of red. A red hallway. There's something long and thin in his hand that shines in white glints. Something is after him. It could be a person, but it looks a bit... off. The boy turns another corner but there's nowhere to go. The hall is being eaten by sludgy, writhing tar. The something closes in on him. He turns to face it, the black he trails whirling out around him. He tries to brace himself but he's so tired and something sharp comes close and the blood oh the blood and he's falling back, so much blood...

  I'm gripping the quilt so tight my fingers hurt. Slowly, I let it go. That boy, sometimes I like to pretend he might be you, but he's always in trouble. He always gets hurt or dies and I don't want it to be you. I don't want you to be in that kind of place.

  That boy, I see him when I sleep occasionally. It's been happening more and more. Every time I have his dreams I'm watching him from the third; I can't talk to him or warn
him or help him. I only watch him, it's all I can do.

  That boy, I never see his face. He's always running from something; always fighting for his life. I wonder if he dreams about me.

  The clock says it's after 3PM.

  Mom shouts into the phone as quietly as she can as I come down the stairs in my gray work uniform. Something about "handling it herself." She slams down the phone, then notices me and her face goes blank.

  That boy, there's nothing I can do, so I just silently cheer him on. I'm sorry I think about him so much.

  “Oh... I.. bought your favorite cereal,” says Mom.

  I go to the kitchen and reach for the milk in the fridge. Nausea boils up inside me. I know I saw it just now, it can't fool me. But even though I know it will be gone, I turn anyway. A face in the window. An inhuman, gaping face with a muted, screaming mouth. They won't be directly looked at. Won’t, not can’t. I see them all the time in my peripheral. I never told the therapist because I can’t trust her. She could be one of them. She probably is. They’ll fight back; they’ll drug me up, say I’ve lost it, and if I’m stupid I can't be ready. I can't protect myself. Now that you're gone, I have to. No one else will save me, Endon. No one.

  That boy, it doesn't really matter if he exists or not, as long as he's still there. I'm sorry, you probably don't want to hear about him.

  A bottle of hot sauce hits the floor and shatters, pooling reddish-orange at my feet.

  No, that's not right. I know nothing's there. It's not there but I still feel it in waves.

  Mom rushes into the kitchen, clutching at her sweater with white knuckles. “Radie, what happened? Are you okay?”

  It's been my shadow for six years—

  “I just... dropped it.”

  The rush of paranoia.

  ###

  Zeirn is watching me. He's always watching me, with his stupid gelled up hair and his leery brown eyes, whether he knows I know or not. He has no shame; his eyes all over me. You wouldn't like him, Endon. I tolerate him because I have to. Sometimes he tries to touch me—put his hand on my shoulder or something like that. It feels like maggots twisting on my skin. Dirty, so dirty, I don't want to be touched.

  “You're quieter than usual, today. What's on your mind?” He's grinning at me from the counter while I brew the coffee, and he’s messing with his phone. I don't feel like talking to him. I never do, but sometimes it's necessary, like when I talk to Mom or the waitresses. But he's just spouting invasive nothing; I don't have to say a word and he knows it, so he presses on. “Hey, don't be like that again!” Mock-hurt is in his voice. “Come on, if you don't say something today, I'm gonna die of boredom.”

  Why can't he just call his stupid friends on his phone, and leave me to myself? I mutter a couple of words and he laughs. “Wow, that's the most you've said to me all week! I'm impressed, Miss Radar.” How did he hear that? I turn to face him, frowning. “But a girl as cute and frail as you shouldn't say such harsh things, y'know. It's bad for your image.”

  My mouth twists into a scowl. You would show him, I know you would. You never let people mistreat me.

  I place the coffee on the stand and try to ignore him, but his voice is loud and grating. “Since we're off to such a good start, I'm gonna ask you out.” No. “A girl like you probably likes horror movies and weird shit like that, am I right?” No. “Why don't you come watch some with me after work? If you're scared, I'll put my arm around you. We can have popcorn and beer. C’mon, it’ll be fun.” No, no, no.

  I disappear in between a few aisles, where he can't see me. “What makes you think I'm into that mindless crap?”

  “Ohh, lighten up.” I rub my eyes and hear him leave the counter. “I'm gonna go take a leak. I'll be right back, so don't freak out if we actually get a customer.”

  I hate this job, Endon. I hate it so much and I hate having to talk to people and when they look at me but I don't have a choice, I have to be here, I have to help Mom with the bills now that dad is gone. I only work part-time, but it still wears at me. Sometimes I think I should just drive my car into one of those endless evergreens but then if you ever came back it would be pretty ironic, wouldn’t it?

  I hear something; a noise that shouldn't be happening. Zeirn is in the bathroom. It isn't him. No, I don't want this now. I know where this is going and I don't want this right now.

  I walk back out into the open part of the store. Turning sharply I look down the aisle, half expecting to catch something there, but of course there’s nothing.

  My heart beats with violence, pumping blood that feels like molten lead. I think my hands are shaking. I close my eyes. Maybe I can make it all go away. Maybe, if I am strong enough.

  I hear something dripping from above. Hot, thick drops. My skin will crawl right off of me if it doesn't stop. I open my eyes, make it go away, all of it, I can't deal with this right now.

  The lighting's all wrong. It's dark and green and doesn't light things up quite right. Things are moving, everything is swimming, it should all be still, why is it moving? There are eyes everywhere, in everything, staring at me, judging me. There's nothing there, there's nothing there, there's nothing there.

  But it is, it's all here and there's more and it won't go away and I'm terrified, please make it stop, please save me, I'm not strong enough, Endon, help me, there are insects everywhere. Needles, thousands of needles, digging into my flesh, piercing into my blood and brain and organs and there's viscera all over everything, when did that happen is it mine, oh god it's mine, please put it back, oh god please.

  Something is touching me and I am screaming. It's speaking words that say nothing and I push it away, but now it's Zeirn, not a something like what watches me when I can barely see.

  He reels back, letting me go with a small gasp. I scream at him not to touch me, bile threatening to come up and escape from my lips. He gives me a strange look. No, no, I've got to calm down. If he tells that I’m a freak they’ll get me fired, and I’ll have to deal with Mom. I can’t let that happen; I’ll lose my mind, then if you come back I’ll be a mess and you’ll go away again.

  “Maybe you should go home,” he tells me. “I can handle the last few hours by myself. It's always dead on our shift, anyway.” His face looks different. He must be afraid of me. Good. He might not touch me anymore.

  “I'm fine,” I snap back, “I just saw... a cockroach.” Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. I’m not entirely sure, though it’s a fitting enough excuse. They are sick and they are big and they have little skittering legs and they're always crawling for the shade, where you can't quite see them and they might even crawl on you if you're close enough, and get their sick all over you.

  Then it takes days to get clean.

  “Oh... you're afraid of bugs. ...Right?”

  two; drunk

  The doctor was always staring at me. Her eyes were far worse than any others. Cold, infinite glaciers, absolute zero in space. The easiest of all to feel on me. A hard sting, a slow poison, seeping in from the outside. Toxic.

  I don't remember when it was, the last time I saw her. It's hard to keep things in chronological order. I get things that happened yesterday mixed up with things that happened three weeks ago; but I remember what happened that day. I remember it all.

  “Don't stare at me,” I tell her.

  “Sorry.” Those piercing, haunted eyes. I hate them so much.

  “I can't stand it when people stare at me.”

  “I know.” But she doesn't care. She likes to see me squirm. It’s in that putrid smile that she just almost, barely hides.