D.K. Sanz/Kyrian Lyndon's Blog, page 12

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 26

Chapter Twenty-six

S 

he had said she would sleep in Joey’s room but must have changed her mind. She was beside me now, asleep, with an arm around my waist. For a while, it was peaceful. Then she began twisting, turning, mumbling. I couldn’t understand what she was saying. 

“Angie …” I whispered to her. 

She stopped moving and fell silent. Seconds later, she sprang up and gasped. I switched the lamp on and saw her hand over her heart, her eyes wide with fear, and beads of sweat trickling down her forehead. 

“Angie, what’s wrong?” I asked. 

She didn’t answer or look in my direction. Then she went back to sleep. 

I was half-asleep myself, drained by all the emotions of the day, so I, too, went back to sleep, leaving the lamp on. I felt her moving again—releasing the arm she had once more wrapped around me. I heard the bedsprings as she rose. Licorice meowed from his spot at the corner of the bed. I sat up. 

She walked at a frenetic pace around the room—almost in circles, as if the room was on fire and she wanted to get out but didn’t know how. In her pure white nightgown, she had an ethereal aura about her. The gown was ankle-length, with long sleeves, and revealed little more than her tiny bare feet. She looked like a Victorian doll or, more aptly, a centuries-old ghost. I considered whether all of it was a dream, as I was not fully awake. 

“Angie!” I called to her. 

She didn’t turn or acknowledge me. 

I threw the covers off and approached her, grazing her shoulder. When she turned to me, her vacant stare—so disengaged and expressionless—chilled me to the bone. 

“Angie, wake up!” I pleaded, gently shaking her shoulders. 

She became enraged. I could see the fury in her eyes. She was far from the sweet, fragile Angie I knew, and she pushed me away with such violent force that it flung me hard against my bookcase, causing one of the hardcover books to fall on my head. I caught a glimpse of her bolting from the room before everything went dark, and I could feel my body sinking. You have to get up, I kept telling myself. You have to find her. But my head hurt. My back hurt. And I was out. 

It would have been the typical nightmare for me—except it wasn’t a dream. 

I couldn’t have been on the floor more than five minutes before I frantically awakened everyone. Bruised and in some pain, I threw a coat on over my pajamas and slipped on a pair of boots. The day was dawning, but it was still mostly dark, and there was no trace of Angie. My mother and grandmother huddled in the doorway, looking anxious and afraid, as my father, Robbie, and I headed for the driveway. 

An impulsive glance at the sky halted me in my tracks, or perhaps I sensed it. The omnipotent gold of the sun was rising against a backdrop an artist might have painted—ominous charcoal gray, flames of orange, nuances of blue, and an invigorating, most passionate, purple. In that exquisite hour, when hope reigned with the promise of a new day, I saw her— as if a divine force had illuminated her. She was on the roof in that virginal white gown, her dark hair blowing behind her like a child lost. My heart pounded. I made a dash for the stairs with Robbie close behind. 

We raced up three flights to the gloomy old attic door with its dark, rustic stain and antique handle. It was slightly ajar, and I could feel the draft now. The first streak of sunlight in that murky chamber came from the small window and the open roof hatch. We hurried along the creaking floors, beneath the angled ceiling, through the room dusty with cobwebs. A scissor stairway led to the horizontally placed roof hatch. 

Angie was at the edge when we got there. Her back was turned, but she heard us and turned. I thought it was possible she could hear the beating of my heart that was thumping so violently. 

Robbie looked panicked. “Should I grab her?” 

I pulled his arm. “Don’t scare her.” 

“What’s going on with her?” 

“I don’t know if she’s awake.” 

“What?” 

I held my hand out to her. 

I saw the vacant stare turn to confusion. “Dani?” She blinked. 

“Come inside, Angie,” I coaxed gently. “It’s cold out here.” I took a step forward. “Just walk toward me.” 

“I remember sitting in the attic, crying,” she said. “Then I saw the stairs.” 

“It’s okay,” Robbie told her. “You’ll be fine.” 

My parents and grandmother were there now. I moved closer to Angie.  

She began to cry. “I tried to hang on. I tried hard. My parents deserve that. They lost Dom. They can’t lose me, and my dog needs me. My parents do criticize me a lot, you know, and they may talk too much sometimes, but they love me. I know they do. They’ve been great parents to me, and you’ve been a great cousin and friend.” 

“It’s not over,” Robbie said. 

“I thought about talking to my mom about what happened,” she went on, “but I couldn’t. They deserve better than that, than me. You’re stronger than I ever could be, Dani. You always were. You can do this. I can’t. I don’t know how.” 

“No one’s better than you,” I told her, “and I’ll help you to be strong. I’ll show you.” 

I went to grab her, and, at the same time, Robbie moved in closer. I saw a glimmer of hope in her eyes, and then I saw fear. She shook her head then turned suddenly and quickly, backing up. I don’t know if she lost her balance or intentionally let go, but she fell. 

I let out a blood-curdling scream. 

She landed on the right side of the lawn, a couple of feet from the front of our house. Robbie went to call an ambulance, and I rushed downstairs to her side. I pressed my head to her chest. She was still breathing, and her heart seemed to be beating as fast as my own. 

“Can you hear me, Angie?” It was my voice posing the question, but I barely recognized it. 

My mother placed her fingers upon Angie’s wrist. “It’s weak,” she said, “but she should be okay. The grass is soft.” Yet she looked so deeply saddened and wiped away a tear, saying, “This will break Zuza’s heart.” 

I lost it when Dom and Zuza arrived. The pain I imagined they felt only heightened my own. 

“Wake up, my little girl,” Zuza cooed, kneeling over her daughter. “Mommy’s here.” She caressed Angie’s face and kissed her head. 

My heart bled. 

My father tried to explain it to a baffled Uncle Dom, apologizing for not having locked the attic door. 

“That has nothing to do with anything,” my godfather told him. He cursed in Italian. 

“Pray,” Zuza told him. “Pray for your daughter.” 

Emergency responders and neighbors came from every direction. As paramedics examined and assessed her, I gathered what information I could. They said she had landed headfirst, with progressive contact to the spine. They opened an airway to assist her breathing, which they documented as rapid and shallow. They noted dilated pupils, an irregular heart rate. They said she was in shock. I watched them look at the cuts and scrapes on her legs. They provided her with oxygen, immobilized her spine, and elevated her legs. At some point, they recorded a decrease in blood pressure. Then she went into cardiac arrest, and they could not revive her. She died at the scene. 

Amid the hysteria, I felt dizzy, nauseated, and disoriented. I would have fainted if my father hadn’t caught me. Paramedics offered to treat me for shock, and I refused at first, not wanting to leave Angie. When I acceded, they had me lie down on my grandmother’s bed. They removed my coat and boots. I kept asking for Angie. They were kind and tried to soothe me, saying things like, “Sorry about your friend,” and “You’re going to be okay.” They took my vitals, covered me with a blanket, and monitored me. 

In the whirlwind of the next day, Zuza passed along what the doctors had reported about Angie’s condition—prolonged shock, fractured ribs, dislocated shoulder, her spine fractured in two places. Her head had snapped back. She had a concussion and the wind knocked out of her. 

At breakfast, my grandmother said, more than once, that the angels had come for Angie, and that she was home with her brother and grandfather. “God—he wants another angel in heaven,” she reasoned with a shrug. 

My father’s eyes widened in horror. “So he throws a girl off a roof?” 

My mother tried to shush him. 

He didn’t let it go. “You want to talk about God? Okay, my sister has the biggest heart of anyone I know. She is always praying and going to church, and he robbed her of two kids.” 

“Nobody knows what God’s reason is,” my mother said. “Maybe he has a good reason that we don’t understand.” 

“A good reason for a little boy to die like that, so young, so innocent, and to suffer so much? A good reason for a young girl, seventeen years old, to be killed falling off my roof? For my sister to go through all that hell?” His voice was shaking. “They brainwash you to think that! Ah, what’s the use?” He cried then. It wasn’t for long, and we all reached out to comfort him. He rebuffed us. 

I wasn’t sure when he had lost his faith in God, but I was convinced it had happened way before this. I remember in grade school, telling him what the priest had said during Mass. 

“He’s full of shit!” he bellowed, waving his hand in disgust. “They’re all full of shit.” 

My mother would clench her teeth and admonish him. “Stop,” she’d say. “It’s not for you to question. That’s the wine talking, and whatever you say, the kids will repeat.” 

My grandmother went to church every Sunday and hounded him to go. He wouldn’t, so she went with Zuza. 

“Angie and Dom Jr. are with God,” I said to him now. “He’s taking good care of them.” 

“I hope so,” my father replied. “I really hope so.” 

About an hour after that, I went to see Farran, half expecting her not to believe the sequence of events. I could easily convince myself that it had never happened, if not for the pain in my tailbone and back. 

Sitting beside her on her bed, I blamed myself. “I shouldn’t have awakened her,” I said. I made ridiculous assertions: I should have barricaded the door before confronting her. I should have grabbed her sooner. 

“How could you know what to do?” Farran asked repeatedly. She assured me she would have done the same thing. 

We cried together. 

“She wanted the memory of what happened to stay buried,” I said. 

“But deep down, she knew,” Farran replied. “She couldn’t remember it if it didn’t happen. If we’d known she was hell bent on self-destruction, we could have done something, but she didn’t want us to know. God bless and love her.” 

“The doctor mentioned her cutting.” 

Farran grabbed a couple of tissues from a box on her dresser. She handed one to me and used the other. “Did your aunt and uncle ever suspect?” 

“No idea. I had her purse, you know. I had to go through it. She carried a razor blade.” 

“Jesus …you think you know someone,” she said. “I wish I had paid more attention.” 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 25

Chapter Twenty-five 

T 

he phone calls had begun again. I’d answer, and there’d be silence on the other end. Sometimes, I heard breathing or noise in the background, and, within minutes, there was a dial tone. I realized it could be anyone, but I suspected Phil or Sergio. It frightened me when I was alone. 

Another problem had developed—Angie was cutting. 

We had gone up to my room to exchange gifts on Christmas Eve. She tried on a shawl scarf Farran had given her, catching the material on her silver studded wristband. 

“What’s that on your arm?” Farran had asked as she carefully disjoined the material from the bracelet. She had grazed Angie’s forearm with her hand. “Your cat was never that feisty.” 

Angie told us her dad liked to get him riled up. 

During dinner, Zuza chided Angie for eating so little. It was our traditional meal of seven fishes. My mother had prepared most of it, along with spaghetti in marinara sauce. Everyone praised the meal, especially Farran and her mother, who had joined us. 

Farran’s watchful eyes seemed focused on Uncle Dom when he interacted gently and affectionately with Licorice. “Is she calmer than your cat?” Farran asked. 

“Nah, they’re both calm, very nice,” he replied. 

It occurred to me, as I suspected it did Farran, that Uncle Dom had the gentlest nature. 

There was another conversation about Angie never being in a hurry, as if she had all day. “Over an hour in the bathroom,” Zuza divulged. “Then she’s taking out the garbage from the bathroom because she complains it’s too full, that I don’t empty it enough. That’s not true. And I tell her take the other garbage, too, and she says she can’t because she’s late.” 

Farran grabbed hold of Angie and me outside of the kitchen after dinner and asked if we could go outside. She said she needed a cigarette. We grabbed our jackets, headed out the door, and gathered in the lot. 

Farran got right to the point. “Angie, I know what you’ve been doing.” 

Angie’s eyes filled with innocence and surprise. “What am I doing?” 

“Cutting.” 

“What? No …” 

I had no idea what they were talking about, since cutting hadn’t been a widespread concern at the time. 

“A friend at school did it, a very troubled girl,” Farran explained. “She’d make cuts on her arms and legs. It’s an endorphin rush, and they get addicted real quick.” 

Angie shook her head. 

“Those were not scratches from your cat,” Farran said, “and I’m betting there’s more. It’s what you’ve been doing in the bathroom at home.” 

I hadn’t seen Angie in short sleeves since summer, which was normal, but I realized she’d been keeping her sweater on in school, where we wore half-sleeve blouses. 

“Is it true?” I asked. 

“It’s not,” she replied, averting her eyes. 

Farran grabbed her coat sleeve. “Let’s see your arms.” 

Angie pulled away. “It’s so cold. I’m not taking my coat off!” 

“Tell the truth, or I swear I’ll take it off you,” Farran said. 

Angie looked guilty and then ashamed. “Okay, look, I swore it would be one time, but it was very soothing, and I did it again. It’s not a big deal. It’s not dangerous. I’m not gonna accidentally slit my wrist or something.” 

“How long have you been doing it?” I asked. 

“A couple of months,” she replied.“About ten times.” 

Despite being the one to uncover it all, Farran looked shocked by the admission. “Damn, this is breaking my heart,” she said. “What would make you do this? Is it Nico? I know you’ve been upset about Nico.” 

“You can talk to us about anything that’s bothering you,” I told Angie, “and I mean anything. You know we love you, and we’d do anything to help you.” 

She teared up. “I love you guys, too.” 

I hugged her as tight as I could. 

“You need to promise you’re not gonna do this again,” Farran said, hugging her next. “I’ll kick your ass. I’m serious. I don’t want to lose either one of you.” 

Angie promised, and I had renewed hope that she would soon be ready to face what had happened. Until then, I didn’t want to tell either of them about the phone calls. 

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On Christmas morning, I labored to get in as much writing as I could before Robbie’s arrival. The ideas kept coming—at work, in bed, and in the shower. Still, when I heard his voice from the top of our two-story foyer, I couldn’t get down there fast enough. We hugged with exuberance. He looked healthy, and he had grown his first thin mustache. 

We ate dinner at two—lasagna and then coffee and pastries. It was just the immediate family. Robbie shared news that he’d begun working nights as a desk clerk at an inn near the campus. He planned to work summers as a camp counselor. He also said he had met a nice girl. After dessert, my mother brought out the board games. Joey encouraged my father to play and got a dismissive wave in response. 

“He won’t because I always beat him,” my mother said. “He doesn’t like to lose. The minute he starts losing, he knocks the whole board over, then he says it was an accident.” 

My father shook his head. “She’s making up stories. I grew up listening to all my mother’s stories, and now she makes up stories, too.” 

Robbie’s eyes widened. “What kind of stories did Grandma tell you?” 

We already knew my grandfather had abandoned his wife and kids when he left Italy for America. He was gone six years before they joined him in the States. My father revealed that, at the time, Grandma was always crying, and she was deathly afraid of witches and vampires. 

It sounded absurd to me, but my grandmother was there, nodding her head. 

I had to ask. “You believe in witches and vampires?” 

“Not me,” my father said. 

It saddened me to think that while my father had suffered the pain of his father’s abandonment, the one person there to comfort him had probably frightened him instead. I felt for my grandmother, too. 

Joey asked about our grandfather’s alleged ghost. 

“I never saw or heard anything,” my father replied. 

Grandma was nodding again. 

Robbie said, “I heard a door slam once in the basement when nobody was near any doors.” 

My mother shook her head. “That’s not true. How would you know there was nobody near any of the doors on three floors when you can only be in one place at a time?” 

So, this was impossible, but a man disappearing after a lightning strike was somehow probable? It boggled the mind. 

I realized that she, too, had raised her children while being terribly afraid, maybe not of witches and vampires, but of other things. Thunderstorms seemed to rattle her far more than they did the average person. When we were kids, she would keep us all together in the dining room until the storm passed. 

We played a round of Parcheesi now, which she won, but if we had played Trivial Pursuit, we’d have left her in the dust. 

Joey, Robbie, and I went to the Cove after that. Joey had taken his bike, and Robbie came with me. We joked that it was a “foggy” Christmas. 

I asked Robbie if he thought my father knew about the psychic my mother had consulted or about the witchcraft. 

“No,” he replied. “The psychic specifically told her not to tell him or you.” 

“Me?” 

“Yep.” 

“Hmmm, maybe because I have all those books, including the one on witchcraft, and she knows I’ll know what she’s doing,” I said. 

“Think so?” 

“I don’t know. I haven’t read that book cover to cover, just skimmed through. It’s a bunch of different spells.” 

We picked up Angie and then Farran. 

Tully was on duty. Gianni stopped in briefly with Liz, barely acknowledging us. I couldn’t help feeling slighted, though I had wanted it this way. 

Farran talked about the fight between Billy and Valentin. “Dani was absolutely terrified,” she told my brothers. There was that word again—three generations of terrified. “Poor thing, she looked so upset.” 

Robbie said, “I think when you grow up in a house where there’s a constant threat of violence, you either get used to it or constantly fear it.” 

This declaration surprised me, and I could tell it seemed odd to Angie as well. When I thought of a violent home, I pictured tortured, abused children cowering in the corner while their father beat their mother, but he was right. Even if incidents of physical abuse in our home seemed isolated, and there was evident remorse, violence was violence. 

Farran responded with, “I’m really glad Billy didn’t press charges.” She looked at Joey. “I heard Valentin disappeared, though. The latest rumor is he’s in Florida.” 

“Oh, no, he’s back,” Joey divulged. “He’s barred from the Cove.” 

Farran’s eyes widened. Her lips parted slightly, and there was that questioning gaze. “Have you been in touch with him? Is he okay?” 

“I’ve been in touch with him,” Joey replied. “He’s fine.” He got up from our table and went to the bar. Robbie soon joined him. 

“You know, as far as all this fighting and brawling goes, it doesn’t matter if it’s common or expected,” I said to Farran. “I don’t have to be okay with it. And, to be honest, I’m not sure why we were ever comfortable coming to this place.” 

“I knew you weren’t,” Angie replied. “I think you wanted to be comfortable, and you tried to be, but I can always tell when you’re uncomfortable.” 

Farran said, “Maybe the times you had enough drinks, you were. Anyway, how much you wanna bet Joey will meet up somewhere with Gianni and the others? Why aren’t we invited anywhere? I feel like total shit.” 

Angie sighed. “They think we’re too young.” 

Farran got teary-eyed. “I’m not, and I’m tired of being left behind in life.” 

“I understand,” Angie said. “I feel that way about my brother dying, like he left me here, and I lost a part of me. I know it was long ago, and Dom and I were little, but we were like one. I miss him every day.” 

An old, familiar feeling resurfaced—that of being a misfit who could never seem to figure out where she belonged. From the time I could walk, I merely followed my brothers. It seemed, too, that in the months after Phil and Sergio, I had become little more than a spectator in life’s drama. I had yearnings that hadn’t been there before—a hunger I didn’t understand. I felt drawn to the Lynx. Part of my hunger had me wanting to become a part of them, even if only in the fantasy realm. I was at a loss to explain how I missed them now, how I ached. Our fates seemed intertwined, and the heartbreak was excruciating. 

“Well, we do have each other, no matter what,” I said. “And I will be rich and famous.” The bit of hope in that dream was enough, and all I needed. Perhaps I wanted it to be all that I needed. I had no idea at the time what a long road it would be. 

Farran laughed, saying, “Oh, yes, any day now, your yacht will dwarf Gianni’s boat at Meig’s Point in Hammonasset. You’ll coast that sucker right up alongside his.” 

Ignoring her, I thought about Valentin. I still felt that pull toward him. The desire for him hadn’t ceased, nor the aching. But that last time I saw him, I had feared him, and, yes, the violent recklessness was, in itself, disturbing, but there was that effortless seduction I’d found hard to resist. I might have granted him that power in fantasy, but, in reality, I thought I should run the other way. In truth, I was uncomfortable enough with the fantasy now.  

Joey left, having said his goodbyes to everyone with one last Merry Christmas hug and kiss. 

Robbie came back to our table. “I could have gone with him, but he can’t take me back tomorrow,” he said. “He has to work.” 

I remember thinking if Joey had invited us, I could have taken Robbie back. 

Robbie may have sensed the tension, as he took me aside in a possible attempt to distract me. “I liked seeing Farran,” he said with a smile. “She’s really sweet, and she looks great.” 

“Yeah, she is. She does,” I said. “By the way, Angie’s sleeping over tonight, so you’ll get to spend more time with her, too.” 

He laughed. “Angie barely talks! I am serious, Dan. She has so little to say. That’s strange for a cousin you’ve known all your life. I asked her what she wants to do, her plans for college. She doesn’t know or seem to care. She has no ambition at all, no dreams.” 

“I think she’d love to work with animals.” 

“She didn’t even say that, though. She’s like an empty shell. I can’t even get a grip on who she is or what she’s about.” 

“Maybe she’s a little down.” 

“How can you tell?” He laughed again. “She seems like she’s on Valium 24/7.” 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

CHANGING YOUR PERSPECTIVE ON CRITICISM HELPS!

Kyrian Lyndon

“What other people think of me is none of my business.”

Yes, I’ve heard that, too, but I agree only in part. We still have to be accountable for our behavior, and it doesn’t help to stubbornly insist we are fine—and that whatever we do is okay regardless of how many people say otherwise.

It doesn’t mean we have to believe every negative thing anyone says about us. It’s more about the willingness to consider what others have to say, whether we like what they’re saying or not. It’s about our responsibility to learn, grow, and evolve.

Everything comes back to balance for me, but when you’re able to set aside ego and keep an open mind, discernment about what to take personally and what to blow off becomes easier.

You can surely tell if something is malicious or plain stupid.

For example, and speaking as an author now, we…

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DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 24

Chapter Twenty-four 

W 

e never had a real tree, but the artificial Scots pine in our living room looked beautiful with all the trimmings. At night, we kept the room lit only by the blinking bulbs, and passersby could see the lights through our window. 

We didn’t spend much time in this room. It had a sophisticated elegance with the right touch of warmth—wall-to-wall carpet in a burnt umber shade, and the windows draped in a dark olive green. My father had paneled the room with dark, heavy wood. The baroque-style sofa had silk upholstery in a mint shade of green. The coffee table had an antique marble-top. There was the usual crystal chandelier, but my mother’s pride and joy was the nineteenth-century Louis XV-style display cabinet embellished with foliate and shell carvings. On top of it were pictures in gold frames. Throughout the holiday season, this room was welcoming and cozy. It was where memories lived, and I could hear the voices of the children we had been. 

The Christmas I was eight, Robbie tried to convince me there was no Santa Claus by showing me the toys hidden in the master bedroom closet. Though she generally kept the door locked, my mother sometimes forgot. 

I was in awe of that forbidden room when I saw it—rosewood and dark walnut furnishings ornately carved with brass pulls, key escutcheons, and cabriole legs. The garden-facing windows had gold pinch-pleated drapes with sweeping valances. The king-sized bed had an ivory-colored tufted headboard and a footboard framed in gold. My mother adorned it with regal lace jacquard bedding, gold and beige cottons, and silks. Her bureau looked elegant and pretty with a Victorian-era vanity set and snuff perfume bottles. The gilded mirror had deep crests and scalloped edges. She displayed numerous dolls here, ones that wore frilly dresses and bonnets. Her portrait, in a gilded frame, sat upon the bureau’s crocheted ivory lace. She’d looked like a porcelain doll at only nineteen. Upon the armoire, there was a similar gilded portrait of my father at twenty, looking every bit the movie idol. 

When we had peeked in their closet that day, I saw an endless row of plastic-protected garments and a gazillion boxes of shoes. Most of them were hers. There were toys, but the blue Schwinn Sting-Ray we had seen in the window of the bicycle shop, the one I had begged for, wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t. Where would it have fit? 

I’d been restless that Christmas Eve, lying in bed. The house was quiet. When I heard the shuffling of footsteps in the corridor, I had hoped it was Santa, but it turned out to be my grandmother. My parents had gone shopping, and she’d come up to check on us. I fell asleep for a while then awakened once more in the dark. I scampered out of my room and tiptoed down the stairs to the living room. There were presents under the tree but no bike. 

In the morning, I heard my mother’s soft slippers before she peeked in the doorway of my room. Since I was obviously awake, she put an index finger to her lips and waved me on. The hushed footfalls must have reverberated throughout the house because, one by one, everyone gathered in the living room, and, to my surprise, the blue Schwinn Sting-Ray from the shop was under the tree. 

“I thought Santa forgot,” I said. 

“No, he didn’t forget,” my mother replied, seeming to enjoy my incredulity. 

“But … the bike wasn’t there when I peeked in the middle of the night, and all the other toys were there.” 

“That’s because Daddy was down in the basement for hours putting it together,” Robbie quipped. “I am surprised he got any sleep!” 

“Be quiet,” my mother said with a wink. “It was Santa. I saw him leaving.” 

My eyes fell upon my father, and I could believe by his smirk that he and my mother had had their own romantic mall adventure, after which he’d stayed up until the wee hours assembling our toys. 

Every Christmas would be the same. Whatever gift we wanted most would be there under the tree on Christmas morning. It was one of the many reasons I didn’t fully understand Robbie’s criticisms or his anger. I felt blessed to have such a wonderful family. My love for them knew no bounds, and, at times, overwhelmed me. 

We also had an extended family of affectionate people with sweet, loving natures, all of whom had welcomed us with enthusiasm. All we had to do was look at them and they’d smile. My mother’s family, in particular, seemed to share the sole purpose of keeping us reassured of our beauty. After a while, if I knew they were expected, I would make a beeline to the mirror to make certain I was still cute, lest they be disappointed. I wanted nothing out of this deal except to not disappoint. 

I liked seeing my mother with her family. I loved her incessant Spanish chatter with them. It was the only time she got to be Grace Nayara Alves. 

My father, on the other hand, didn’t like her siblings. We all knew that. He and my mother were arguing this very night, a week before Christmas, because her brother had invited us to a holiday gathering. 

“Grace, you know I don’t like to eat in somebody else’s house,” my father complained. 

“It wouldn’t kill you,” she said. “It’s nice to have some of the things we used to have in my country.” 

“What, when you make paella, don’t I always eat it? And the—what do ya call it—the plantains? Don’t I eat it?” 

“Whenever we go there, I tell you they’re going to have lunch for us, and you insist we eat at home first. Then they offer you something, and you say you already ate. That’s not nice. If someone invites you to eat, you eat with them, or you stay home.” 

“Ay, I’d be happy to stay home,” he said. “They invite me there on my only day off and make wisecracks. Didn’t you hear your brother’s crack about the meatballs last time we were there? As soon as I got in the door, he asked me, did I bring my meatballs? What kind of crack is that? I gotta drive an hour and a half to Framingham, Massachusetts to be insulted by him?” 

“He was joking! He didn’t mean anything by it. They know I always cook Italian for you.” 

“Come on, Grace! If you wanna know the truth, I never ate a meatball until I came to this country. I don’t even like meatballs! My mother never made meatballs in Italy!” 

She clenched her teeth. “Whenever we go there, he always goes out of his way for you.” 

“Oh yeah … out of his way. Hah! He served me beer in a plastic cup! Who the hell gives you beer in a plastic cup?” 

“Who cares? Why are you always making fun? You know my brother doesn’t have a lot of money.” 

“You mean to tell me you can buy plastic cups to throw out every time you use them, but you can’t afford to buy a glass? I see he smokes cigarettes, so he buys cigarettes. And he bought a TV. You can buy a TV, but you can’t afford to buy a glass? Come on!” 

“They don’t think like you do, that it’s such a big deal what kind of cup you put beer in. He just wants to make you happy. You don’t understand.” 

“I understand, all right. But you say your brother’s joking. Think about it. Use your head. He implies, because I’m Italian, I eat meatballs, and I like meatballs. I can’t do anything except what Italians do. And to say I would be so rude to bring my own meatballs, so I would not have to miss them, even for a day.” 

She waved her hand, dismissing him. “He was playing with you. You don’t have to take everything so serious.” 

“Another time, he offers me a beer. I say, ‘Okay.’ Then he says, ‘Lemme run to the store. I’m all out.’ I said, ‘Forget about it, thank you. Don’t go to the trouble.’ He insists. ‘Come on, it’s no trouble.’ I said, ‘Okay.’ Guy goes to the store. He buys one beer, a can. He comes back, says, ‘Here ya are, Luca.’ I said, ‘Thank you.’ Then, when I finished the beer, he says, ‘You want another beer, Luca?’ I’m thinking, You gotta be kidding. What if I say yes? He’s gonna run to the store again? I mean, how cheap can you be? Unbelievable! I said, ‘Don’t worry about it, I’m good.’” 

“Shut up! That’s all you do is criticize. You exaggerate everything. You make him out to be a bad guy, and he’s not. Give him a chance.” 

“I did give him a chance! I gave them all a chance. I mean, he’s waving Brazilian and Spanish flags over there. This is America. You don’t see me waving my Italian flag. If I’m gonna fly any flag, it’ll be an American flag. Okay?” 

“The flag is in his living room. On the Fourth of July and other holidays, he puts an American flag in the window. He’s very grateful and happy to be here. Stop it. They don’t have what you have, but they worked hard for what little they have.” 

“Eh, who doesn’t work hard? I remember what it was like when I first came to this country. I had a little apartment, same as you. We were both were more than willing to take any type of work that paid the bills.” 

“My brother works whenever he can.” 

“He wants to do construction. I could have gotten him other jobs. You take what you can get, Grace.” 

“His English is not that good.” 

“Nothing wrong with his English when he’s talking about my meatballs—” 

“He’s a good man. They all have good hearts. You are not going to make me ashamed of my family.” 

He seemed to soften. “I don’t say you should be ashamed of them. I say they can make a better life. We did. I know it’s not easy, so don’t say I don’t understand.” 

“You don’t. You grew up with everything. You can never understand.” 

“Sorry. I’ll keep my mouth shut.” 

“Yeah, please … keep your mouth shut.” 

I intervened to lighten the mood. “Mommy, did you miss Brazil when you came here?” 

“What’s she gonna miss?” My father chuckled, but I could see sadness in his eyes and in his smile. “They had nothing, her family.” 

“I wish Abuela could have come here before she died,” I said. 

In photos we’d seen, my maternal grandmother was gaunt, frail, and tiny, with brittle gray hair. She clung to rosary beads and never smiled. 

“You met her,” my mother said. “We took the bus to see her in Santa Rita, where she was staying with my sister.” 

At one time, she had said we were sick and couldn’t go to meet her while we were in Brazil. Now she was saying we did meet her. I never knew what to believe. 

“What about your father?” I asked. “We never saw any pictures of him.” 

“Nor did I,” she said. “I was about four or five years old when he died. They say he was very good-looking, but I don’t remember him.” 

I then realized the shame my mother felt, and it was becoming apparent that everyone in both extended families hid some kind of shame. Those who instinctively tried to make us feel good did so because it was how they wanted to feel. I was coming to believe Robbie resented my parents because they were never able to make him feel anything but ashamed, though I knew it wasn’t intentional, and he needed to get away from them to feel whole. I had been feeling increasing pressure to look good and fit in, all the while becoming more and more self-conscious. After Phil and Sergio, the self-consciousness had become manageable only when I was intoxicated. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 23

Chapter Twenty-three 

V 

alentin was outside the Cove entrance, perched on his bike—a purple and black Harley with flames on the side panels. Nico, Gianni, and Joey were with him. The streetlight had cast an amber yellow glow in the cold evening darkness. A radiant full moon loomed above. 

In the round of hello kisses, I welcomed Valentin’s warm, sensuous lips on my cheek. 

Gianni brushed his hand along the faux fur of my brown leather bomber jacket. “Very nice,” he said. 

I managed a thank-you and could have sworn Valentin detected both my delight and discomfort. He was in jeans and a distressed aviator-style black denim bomber jacket. He wore biker boots and held the helmet that rested on his lap. I’d say he was a welcomed sight, but he was more of a godsend. 

A car sped past across the road. The female driver honked the horn. The other females in the car began squealing and calling out to Valentin. One hung out the window, waving. Another leaned out her window, throwing him a kiss. 

Joey laughed. “You saw who that was, right? Haylee Higgins. Billy went around telling everybody you forced her to strip on Gianni’s boat when we went out on Labor Day. Are we lying, Gianni?” Joey grinned. “You know how charming and seductive Lord Hades can be.” 

Gianni’s response was, “Yeah, uh … I’m not into Valentin like that.” 

Valentin laughed. “Yes, he is.” 

Everyone joined him in laughter. 

“The day she was supposed to have stripped on the boat, I was not even on the boat,” Valentin stated emphatically. “And Billy was never on that boat.” 

Farran teased him. “I guess the ol’ warlock skills come in handy, huh? You could have been there invisibly. A warlock is a male witch, right?” 

“It’s come to mean that,” Valentin replied, taking it more seriously than I’d expected, “but in the early centuries, a warlock was an oath-breaker, a betrayer who couldn’t be trusted. In Wiccan culture, a witch is a witch—or a Wiccan—regardless of gender.” 

“So are you a witch?” That was Angie. 

“No,” he said.  

“I think Billy’s just mad because he’s got a thing for Haylee,” Joey quipped. 

Nico said, “He can eat shit and die. My brother would never do that—not to Haylee, not to anyone. I’m tired of these lame attempts to dishonor my brother and me.” Something about his conscientious intensity was as appealing as it was intimidating.  

My eyes shifted from him to Valentin, who met my gaze and then winked. 

“How’s the novel coming?” he asked. 

It meant a lot that he remembered how important it was to me, regardless of my “tender age,” as he might have said. 

“It’s coming along great,” I replied. “I’m going to start entering poems in contests, too, and submitting articles to magazines. I’ve gotten some decent feedback on the book but nothing published yet.” 

He said he was impressed. 

A shivering Farran asked if they were going inside. Gianni mentioned that Tommy and Liz were in there, and, after some discussion, everyone turned toward the entrance. 

Valentin grazed my forearm. “Wait,” he said. “I need to talk to you.” 

Farran appeared alarmed by this gesture, and I wasn’t sure what to do. Angie tugged gently on her arm and led her inside. 

Everyone went in but Valentin and me. 

“So, you missed me,” he said. 

“Wait, did Tommy tell you—?” 

He answered before I could finish. “Yeah.” 

“It was no big deal.” I trembled. “I was just wondering about you. Now that you don’t need an angel healer or an exorcism, you forgot about me. You are like here today, gone tomorrow.” 

“All time, for me, is fleeting,” he said. “A month is like a moment. A year is like a day.” 

“Let me guess. It’s because you are immortal and have lived for centuries!” 

He laughed. “You have a lively imagination. What a tragedy it would be if nothing could compare or compete with that.” 

“Last time we spoke, it felt like we were good friends. Now it seems you just like to play games.” 

“I’m not playing games.” Those eyes of his were soul-piercing blades. “I missed you, too, love. As for being out of touch, I’m sorry.” 

“Why would you have to say you are sorry? You certainly don’t owe me an apology.” 

“Because you are right. We are friends. I hope I never made you feel otherwise. I never meant to. I didn’t realize any of it until I told you I had something to confess.” 

“Any of what?” 

“That we have developed a friendship as well as a bond.” 

“Yeah, we have.” 

“There you have it.” That smile. It destroyed me. 

“I want to know more about you.” 

“What do you want to know?” 

“Hmm, what you draw, being an artist?” 

“I do sketches, drawings, illustrations … a lot of cartoons.” 

“That’s funny.” I smiled. “I used to draw Charlie Brown. It’s the only character I can draw where someone would actually recognize who it is.” 

Again he laughed. “I can do Charlie.” 

“Joey was telling me about your job. I work in advertising, too—as a secretary. How did you end up an assistant art director at some Manhattan ad agency?” 

“I did go to school in Spain to study art,” he said. “I got my design degree there. I want to start working on my master’s.” 

“Wow, good for you. I’m so proud of you.” I smiled. “Now I am impressed! And I always wanted to work in Manhattan! That must be awesome.” 

“If you worked where I work, those guys would never get anything done.” 

I was both flattered and amused. “Well, I’m sure it’s the same with you and the ladies. I’ve watched you mesmerize all the women around here. They seem to worship you.” 

“They don’t know me.” 

“And they’d do anything for you in a heartbeat … must be quite a boost to your ego.” 

“To be a false idol? To have others succumb to you with blind faith and reckless abandon? It’s a double-edged sword, and, going by your impact on the male population, I’m sure you’ve already bled from it.” 

It took a moment for that to sink in, and then I opted to shift gears. “You were talking about confessing something, but then you do like to confuse me. I think you want me to join your many admirers in worshipping the ground you walk on.” 

“You are wrong.” 

Things changed from harmonious to awkward. I felt I had messed things up, and yet I was not sure what it was I’d messed up, since I had no idea what I wanted from him. 

“Fine,” I said. “Maybe I don’t understand what you mean by all this metaphoric vampire stuff.” 

He explained. “In the past, I’ve instinctively used my power to drain what I needed from others to survive. I’ve come to realize I’ve done this all my life, unaware. There were times I hated myself. When I see innocence, I am drawn to it. I want to take it and preserve it somewhere, so nothing can taint it, as if it could bring me back a piece of my own innocence. There were times I tried to do that, and I tainted that innocence before I ultimately destroyed it. It’s pathetic, when you think about it.” 

“Is this about Katharine?” 

“She’s a part, yes.” 

“Are you still living with her?” 

“I’ve been looking for a place. I’ll be moving out.” 

“I take it she knows.” 

“Yes. She’s inside—drowning her misery with one straight-up gin after another.” He looked at me. “All of this must seem absurd to you. You walked into this play during the fallout of its tragic conclusion.” 

“You really care about her.” 

“Of course, I do. She’s been a wreck. Something is telling me I need to fix this, and something is telling me to just go. I’m not sure what to do, but it’s not your concern. You were right—it is unfair to involve you.” 

“I owed you for the car, so we’re even.” 

“Ah, so that is how it works. We barter.” 

“Yep.” 

“For our next exchange, I’ll walk you to the door. You, in return, stay safe.” 

“You’re not going in?” 

“I am, but I have to park.” 

He dismounted for the short stroll to the Cove door. 

“You are very mysterious,” I said nervously, as he walked alongside me. “I am half expecting you to fly by my window one night.” 

“Fly by your window, huh?” 

“I was kidding.” 

“Were you?” 

I felt a wave of righteous indignation, and I was ready to admonish him, but my heart palpitated more than I’d thought possible. “God, you’re so serious! I’m trying to cheer you up by joking around. I didn’t realize—” 

“Danielle?” 

“What?” 

“May I ask you a question?” 

“Sure.” 

“If it were possible for me to fly by your window, would you let me in?” 

“What?” 

We were at the Cove door. He turned to face me and repeated the question. “Would you let me in?” 

In that brief second, he seemed the devil’s child—the bad boy, every bit as wicked as I’d heard. I couldn’t help feeling, for those fleeting moments, there was nothing I wouldn’t do, nothing I wouldn’t say to bring forth that smile, and nothing I would not do to please him. 

“Yes.” I laughed after I said it, not knowing why I said it. Perhaps it was the giddy madness of the full moon, or his eyes. Yes, I could easily blame his eyes. 

He looked serious now and a bit apprehensive. It made me nervous. 

“Relax,” I told him. “I know you’re messing with me. You try to confuse me, because you are confused.” 

He opened the Cove door and stepped aside for me to enter. “You seem to be the one who is confused.” 

“Me?” 

“Yes, you.” 

The door closed behind me. He was gone. 

Farran rushed over immediately. “What’d he say?” 

I had told her already about Meadowside Inn and his help with the car. She had seemed distressed by it, so I wasn’t going to elaborate. “It was a follow-up of last time.” 

Billy approached and expressed his concern. Evidently, he had seen Valentin at the door with me. 

Farran laughed. “Oh, Billy, come on. You make it sound like all Lynx men are diabolical. I’ve known Joey and Tommy for years. Tommy’s a pussycat!” 

“Tommy … Valentin … yeah, that’s like comparing a puppy to a junkyard dog,” Billy said. 

“You’re saying Valentin is a junkyard dog? And Tommy is a puppy?” That seemed to amuse Farran. “Look, Billy, I don’t blame you. Family is family, and you feel they hurt your family. But you can’t think because some relationships don’t work out or have problems, those guys are going to have problems with everyone.” 

“Alrighty, then,” he said, “you girls enjoy the night.” He moved on. 

Katharine was about two feet from us, and a drunken man was beginning to harass her. Valentin had returned and intervened. He got the man to back off while appearing relatively calm. 

“I’m sorry,” I heard Katharine say to Valentin. “I keep giving you a hard time.” 

“It’s okay,” he replied. 

“Can you forgive me?” 

He put his arms around her waist and kissed her on the cheek. “It’s all forgiven.” 

“I still love you. I always will. Please tell me how you feel.” 

He dropped his arms to his sides. “I don’t know how I feel.” 

“You protected me.” 

“I will always protect you.” He walked away. 

As the night progressed, Katharine was at one end of the bar drinking, while Valentin and Gianni were at the other end doing shots. 

Angie played Metallica’s “Fade to Black,” and the three of us remained huddled near the jukebox. Angie was drunk and lamenting Cliff Burton, the Metallica bass player who’d died in a bus accident the year before. She became quite emotional, saying he was so young, and questioning why God took people so young. 

I gave her a hug, and then Joey snuck up and grabbed Farran from behind, pulling her into a hug. He must have left shortly afterward, because it was the last I saw of him that night. I recall thinking that, not long before that, Farran was sitting on Tommy’s lap, running her fingers through his hair, and now she was eyeing Valentin. 

I watched Valentin, too, as he walked over to Katharine. I didn’t hear what he said to her, but she took another guzzle of her drink and shouted, “You shouldn’t be allowed to have a dick!” 

Then she was yelling, “I lost my virginity to you! Oh well, guess what? I don’t give a fuck what you want!” When she got off the stool and stood before him, those entrancing eyes of hers burned with defiance. She threw the drink in his face and told him he would never see his daughter. Though he never touched her, she looked as though some invisible barrier kept her from moving in any direction. Her eyes were wide and focused solely on him. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” he said. “This isn’t a game, and my child is not a pawn in your futile crusade.” He backed away from her and headed for the door. 

Billy went after him, yelling, “My family owns this bar! If you guys are done screwing over the women in this family, why are you here?” 

“You make a good point,” Valentin said, though I could see he was fuming. “I’ll go.” 

“Good, and take your high and mighty brother with you.” 

“Fine with me,” Nico said. “I thought we could all be friends and work it out since there’s a child that’s connected to us all, but I’ll concede to your better judgment.” 

Katharine and Shannon pleaded with all of them, and then Valentin confronted Billy about spreading rumors. 

Billy said, “Maybe I don’t always get it right, but where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and you two have been nothing but trouble since day one.” He went to push Valentin in the direction of the door, but the moment he put his hands on him, Valentin grabbed Billy by the collar and flung him hard against the wall. 

“Easy, Lord Hades,” Billy taunted. 

A fight broke out. Steve called the police, but not before Valentin threw Billy into a side table. When Billy got back on his feet, he charged at Valentin. It looked as if Valentin crouched, grabbed Billy’s legs, flipped him over, and began slamming Billy’s head against the floor. I could hear female screams and pleas for it to stop. Many attempted to intercede, but Nico grabbed Valentin first. The grip didn’t hold. Gianni assisted, and the two of them held him back. 

The police arrived. 

Billy was a bloody mess. “Look what it took to get him to stop,” he said. “He’s an animal. Valentin’s the God of Hell.” 

“Billy, don’t lie,” Nico said. “You started this. You don’t have any respect. You never do. It’s like that all the time, not just this time, with you calling him names.” 

Billy ignored him. “I want that bastard in jail.” 

Emergency technicians led Billy away. Katharine and Shannon followed. 

“And stop telling people I’m a warlock!” Valentin shouted after them. 

I might have laughed at that if I hadn’t been so frightened. 

“Let’s go,” one cop said to Valentin, taking him out. 

Nico and Tommy ambled out behind them. 

Liz was there, shaking her head. “Billy always has an attitude with me, too. His attitude toward fellow bikers is not one of mutual respect and loyalty. He rides a BMW and drives a LeBaron. Need I say more? He’s a poseur.” 

Angie rolled her eyes. “I have a headache.” 

“We’ll go,” I told her. 

We got our coats and headed out. It was hard to see anything with all the flashing lights, vehicles, and bodies. I couldn’t hear above the noise. 

Tommy passed, and Farran asked him if they had arrested Valentin. 

“Well, they didn’t cuff him,” Tommy said. “They’re talking to him, trying to calm him down and find out what happened. They gotta know everybody involved is drunk.” 

The cops urged us to move on, and we proceeded to the parking lot. Angie looked sick. 

Farran’s eyes were on me. “Valentin will be fine.” She smiled reassuringly. “Billy’s okay, too. He walked out of there. Shannon and Katharine will get Billy to drop the charges. I know it’s upsetting, but if you hang out in a bar long enough, sooner or later you’re gonna see a barroom brawl, and, yeah, brawls get bloody.” 

I was more than worried. I was devastated. 

Farran nudged me. “Tell ya what. When this blows over, and, trust me, it will, maybe you can talk to Valentin about me, tell him I’m interested. I mean, since you two seem to have a platonic friendship, it’s time I put my cards on the table and the ball in his court.” 

There were many reasons I didn’t want to do that, my own conflicted emotions being the least of them. It crossed my mind that he’d come to put things in perspective for me after what Tommy had said to him. I shuddered at the thought. It never occurred to me that I didn’t have the right to say such things in the first place, to send him these ambiguous messages. He was a forbidden fantasy—an impossible fantasy, especially now. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

QUIET ETERNAL SONG – a short story by David Antrobus

Here is a short story written by a dear friend of mine, author/editor, David Antrobus. I just love the beauty of his writing and storytelling, and, so, I wanted to share it with you.

David Antrobus Posted On Saturday, December 5, 2020 At 10:53PM

She showed up every afternoon in the town square, her guitar and amp ready to display her bona fides, ready to dazzle. She used to hear god’s whisper but no longer. 

She was an auburn beauty, which was incidental, but her gathered ponytail and her classical vulpine face were assets, however the music came.

Yes, pretty hurts, but goddamn, it still had such currency.

“Pretty lady, I won’t rain on your parade, but this isn’t the place for you.”

The wolf had appeared from shadows beneath the chapel roof and the market awnings, and he smiled through tumultuous teeth and tried to dam his drool. Oh, he was hungry.

“The skies are clear and this isn’t my parade, Mr. Wolf,” she said. “This is a way station, and I come from elsewhere, but here I sing my truth.”

“Don’t push me, woman.” 

“I won’t. Instead I’ll make my music.”

And she did that. Splashes of half or quarter melodies, staccato squalls merging into dreamscape, arpeggios traipsing on ramparts of crenelated chords, spiralling into the darkest of wells and spinning into meadowlark updrafts. Distortion like the most shattered of mirrors, hot liquid globules and elastic spans of glass, a glittering haze of misted diamond. Her thumb like a hammer conjuring bass notes, rhythmic and sundry as coitus, her arachnid fingers a blur as lacquered nails plucked and glissandoed reflected layers of overlapping melody. And above it soared her voice, like the great mountain condor, effortless and buoyed by thermals.

The townsfolk gathered and grew in numbers, and they sometimes sang snippets that only augmented her song, and children danced, and then their mothers, and then, looking sheepish between themselves, their fathers. 

The wolf was humbled, reduced, his snout a wilted thing, his ears flat, the luxuriance of his tail now tucked. 

“Mr. Wolf, I won’t stay. I’ve done what I came for, and it’s always time to move on. What will you do?”

Cupping the town in its rough hands was a landscape of clear streams and falls, forests dappled by light and deer, skies that paraded like blue and white and grey ticker tape, crags and flats and the quiet eternal song of the land.

The wolf, who recognized the good as well, knew all this and loved it, but he felt thwarted. Her cello nape, her downy hollows, her female scent itself a taunt, and though he knew he was wrong, he let himself down.

“I will eat you; it’s how I’m made. It’s what I am. And you, my chestnut fawn, were made for this too.”

She sighed while she packed her instruments. Something in the faraway hills echoed and crackled like an exhaled nightmare. She wished she could love the wolf and receive his love in turn.

“You will do what you were made to do, Mr. Wolf. But you are not emblematic of your kind.”

The wolf was puzzled. He didn’t know what emblematic meant. And while he crunched her words like marrow from the bones of a lover, spurned and sickly as the plague-struck, the townsfolk moved in silence with their clubs and knives and systematically dismembered him, and hearing his last furious yowl she cried as she left town, her hardware hunched like a stigma on her back, the neck of her guitar a phallus, her keening cry a screech of corvid grief in the spent and airless afternoon. 

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 22

Chapter Twenty-two 

M 

y job at the advertising agency was boring. I welcomed any excuse to wander off, whether to make copies or to deliver things—anything to break the monotony of captivity and assigned tasks. In those wanderings, I’d spend a little time chatting with new friends I’d made. 

One of those friends was Quinton P. Aguillard, III, a tall and handsome black man with a goatee and pencil mustache. He worked in Maintenance and Security and kept in good shape for a man of forty. He sat at the reception desk after four, when the receptionist left for the day, and during her fifteen-minute breaks. One staff member or another would sit in the armchair facing the desk, to talk to him. We also liked to visit him in the tiny office he shared with another guard. 

Quinton lit up when I talked about writing, humbly referring to himself as a novice in the field, though he wrote poetry and had started on a book. My conversations with him, whenever we were fortunate enough to have them, became the highlight of my day. 

He was married to a woman he described as the warmest, sweetest, most wonderful woman in the world. She was from Kingston, Jamaica, and he was from Savanna, Georgia. They’d been married twenty years and had three grown children who were fifteen, seventeen, and nineteen. He said he loved that woman with all of his heart, and I was happy to hear it. 

Like my dad, he’d served in Vietnam. He had lived in Manhattan for a while, going to school. He’d been a model. He took acting classes, had a voice coach, and worked on and off at menial jobs. “Part of me believed I was living the dream already,” he said. “I’d be at the celebrity hangouts—Studio 54, Xenon, Elaine’s. I ate at The Palm, Gallagher’s, Sardi’s. Man, I was on the go 24/7, and I started to unravel. I needed something that would ground me, so I managed to get my degree in Criminal Justice and joined the police force. I eventually opted to go the investigator route, but I didn’t like the politics.” 

Of course, I eagerly shared with him my plans to write books, launch a singing career, and end up on a movie screen. 

He talked about Aleister Crowley, and I talked about Dickens, the Brontë sisters, Jane Austen, and Oscar Wilde. 

“You must read The Man Without Qualities by Austrian novelist Robert Musil,” he said in his deep, distinguished voice. “Its German original title is Der Mann Ohne Eigenschaften, and it takes place in the time of the Austro-Hungarian monarchy’s last days, just before World War I. It’s one of my favorites.” 

We discussed various religions and Eastern Philosophy, deciding we both loved the concept of unity, of oneness, and the interconnectedness of all things. We explored the possibility of a supernatural existence. We plunged, at random, into discussions about philosophers Voltaire, Huxley, Socrates, Rousseau, and Montaigne, and psychiatrists Freud and Jung—even Sánd or Ferenczi. He talked about theatre. We talked about music. I even read him some of my poems, which he seemed to enjoy. 

Our conversations were stimulating. They made me feel like the intelligent woman I was and not some empty-headed bombshell. 

Yet, there were clear boundaries. Oh, he chuckled when his young friend from the accounting department “acted the fool” in my presence, as he put it, but he himself never said or did anything out of line. Perhaps that was one reason he made me feel safe and relaxed. 

There were other friends, including Trish, a tough, twenty-two year-old biker chick. She was heavyset with engaging blue eyes and cropped blondish hair. She could look awful with a mad face, but so pretty when she smiled. She had the loveliest smile.  

She was the secretary that supervised me, and she took Adderall regularly. She told me she knew a doctor who was willing to prescribe them without a medical diagnosis, as long as you had a good enough excuse. 

“Like if you tell him you’re having trouble concentrating at work, and you’re afraid of losing your job,” she said. “It calms me and helps me to focus.” 

She was interesting to me, as Quinton was. She was also a nurturing type, and I craved that. In fact, the workplace had become a second home to me, one that seemed to both welcome and support me. 

This Monday, however, that wasn’t the case. 

Passing the department manager’s office, I said good morning and waved. 

She looked up. “Uh, Danielle, can I see you for a moment?” 

“Sure.” I positioned myself in the doorway. 

I can see her vividly to this day—her silver hair in a pixie cut, the lines of age on her wearied face, the troubled look in her soft green eyes. “Come in,” she said. “Have a seat.” 

Not feeling the least nervous, I sat. 

“We were looking for you earlier.” 

“Yeah, our whole class was detained when the bell rang. I did call—” 

“No, that’s fine,” she interrupted. “Look, you’re a sweet, sweet girl, and I like you, but I have to ask. Is everything all right with you?” 

“Yes,” I replied. “Why?” 

She frowned. “I know you’re smart and very good with the typing, but there are some issues we need to discuss.” 

It caught me off guard, but she had my interest. “Okay.” 

“For one thing, you disappear. You socialize a great deal. This isn’t a playground. I’m concerned about whether proper boundaries are in place. You’re young, attractive, and, frankly, naïve. Then some of the filing—I can’t for the life of me figure out why you would file some of these things where you have. You have me literally scratching my head. At times, I have wondered where your mind is, whether you’re taking drugs or what the deal is. It breaks my heart to say this to you. Even if I could give you another chance, there’s a project manager who feels there’s a personality clash, and it simply isn’t going to work.” 

It was the first time anyone had expressed these concerns, so it shocked me. 

“Personnel will set up an appointment for you,” she continued. “It seems there’s a junior secretary position available in the Print Production/Traffic Department, and they can transfer you. Again, I’m sorry. Please take what I said into consideration, and see what you can do to improve. I’d hate to see you out of a job entirely.” She made a call to Personnel then told me, “You can get your things and go on down there now.” 

I stood, in a daze. “Thank you.” 

Leaving the office, I could see the anguished expression on Trish’s face. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said when I went to her desk. “I tried hard to convince them not to do this. I’m totally bummed.” 

“It’s okay,” I replied. 

“I’ll miss you.” 

“I’ll miss you, too.” 

 She smiled. “But I’ll see you around, and if you ever want to have lunch …” 

“Thanks,” I said. I felt numb as I gathered my things. 

“Because you’re vulnerable right now, I won’t push,” she went on. “Just know that whatever you need, I’m here. And if one day you happen to find that you’re interested in testing the waters with me, let me know.” 

“Got it.” I smiled. 

It wasn’t the first time she’d made an offer like that, but she took no for an answer. Still, she exuded desperation and even a bit of loneliness. She was probably grappling with who she was and what the world expected her to be. 

The personnel director was waiting for me outside of her office. In a motherly fashion, she slipped an arm around my shoulder. “It’s going to be fine,” she assured me. “Some people, some situations, don’t click. I’ve arranged for the transfer. You’ll be assigned to coordinators and production managers who work with typesetters, artists, illustrators, and other creative staff. They’re a lovely bunch. Ah, don’t look so sad! You’ll be much happier there.” 

The negative feedback from my department manager, however, was difficult to accept. Where was my mind? Other than getting ideas for writing while in line at the cafeteria and in different places here and there, I had devoted my attention to whatever task they’d assigned. At least, I’d thought I had. 

In terms of boundaries, well, there were a number of flirtatious men in that place. I dressed appropriately— dresses, skirts, or dress pants with ankle-strap heels. My tops, including sweaters, were not low-cut, but that didn’t stop men from salivating. The women attempted to be motherly at first and then turned resentful. I’d had conflicts with other secretaries who seemed to feel somehow shortchanged by my existence. 

When a visiting client had announced to my male supervisors, “Danielle is so delectably well endowed,” I’d wanted to knock his lights out. I knew that was inappropriate.  

A director in the creative department once told me I had the perfect complexion for a television soap ad he was working on. He asked if I would consider modeling. I didn’t find that to be inappropriate. It was business, and, while flattered, I’d felt shy and declined. 

So my judgment was good, as far as I could tell, and I knew where to draw the line. 

If anything that woman had said was true, it was that the Research Department wasn’t my niche. I did what I could to break the monotony. Funny thing was, much of what I did on a day-to-day basis served only to break the monotony of life. Perhaps the world I lived in was not a good fit for me either. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 21

Chapter Twenty-one 

I 

n my heart, I knew not to pursue Valentin, and yet I continued to daydream about him in school. 

“Danielle, where are you?” my English teacher asked. 

“Jupiter,” I mumbled. 

The other students roared with laughter, and the teacher smirked. “Danielle, would you like to write a thousand-word composition on why you should not be so sarcastic?” 

“I’ll write two thousand.” 

He couldn’t resist joining the laughter, but he held tough. “Okay, do two thousand words.” 

I didn’t care. 

I drove to the library on Main Street after school that day and spent the first half hour searching for poetry books by John Keats. Skimming through one volume, I came across “The Eve of St. Agnes” poem. 

An odd memory surfaced. 

“Mommy, I want to choose Agnes for my confirmation name.” 

I was nine years old. 

“Agnes?” My mother had winced. “Why Agnes?” 

“St. Agnes had so much courage,” I said. “Did you know that a man looked at her like he wanted to do bad things to her, and he was blinded then lay dead?” 

I explained how she supposedly used her long hair to hide her body from the heathens who’d stripped her, how they’d killed her with a sword and cut off her head, and how she was just a girl and had died a virgin because that was what she wanted. Nothing anyone threatened her with could change her mind. 

“I know,” my mother had said. “The lamb is her symbol—the symbol of innocence. Why don’t you choose Elizabeth? Danielle Grace Elizabeth is a beautiful name.” 

I chose Agnes after the fourth century martyr. Her story, whether true or not, still haunted me. 

Reading the poem now, I found no connection to the story, but I enjoyed it. I then read “Ode to a Nightingale” several times and decided I would check out two books, Letters of John Keats and The Complete Poems of John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley. I wanted to ask about another poet Valentin had mentioned, but all I could remember was Gustavo Adolfo, a Spanish poet. 

“Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer,” the librarian said. “I’m surprised to have someone looking for Bécquer. It’s more popular in Madrid, where I come from.” 

At the time, the coincidence made quite an impression on me. 

“My friend told me to read his letters and prose,” I divulged. “He mentioned Leyendas?” 

“Ah, Leyendas. It’s very fun, excellent, especially if you like fantasy and medieval times.” 

She found the book for me. One short poem, “Know If Someday,” had a line that translated to, “The soul that can speak through the eyes can also kiss with a gaze.” It melted me, and, in the moment, I saw Valentin’s eyes with all their compelling allure. They were the same eyes that lit with endearing warmth when he laughed or smiled. 

It was five when I got home and already dark. I figured my mother and grandmother had gotten home by then or would be pulling up at any moment. The lights were out, except for a flicker from the living room, which seemed odd. The lights would have been on if my mother were home, and she’d be in the kitchen making dinner. I heard noise. Always imagining the worst, my heart raced, and what I heard next was my mother’s voice. It seemed every bit as strange as the darkness. 

She looked in my direction when I entered and, for a second, seemed unfazed. It appeared she hadn’t heard me come in the front door, and that she had been lost to her chanting—or whatever it was she was doing. Before I could utter a word, she smiled— her charming smile. 

“What are you doing?” I asked. 

Moving closer, I could see two antique brass candleholders, inside of which she had lit a couple of red, bell-top taper candles. She was so radiant in their glow that it took another moment for me to notice something between the candles. They were photographs, and she removed them now in a furtive sort of way. 

I turned the lights on.  

“They are photos of Robbie,” she explained, as though I had asked. “I was praying for him.” She blew out the candles and stood. “You said you were going to the library. I thought Angie was with you at the library, and you went over to Zuza’s after that. Your grandmother is over there—at Zuza’s. She’s going to eat with them, and Dominic’s going to drive her home …” 

I wasn’t about to let her distract me with chatter. “If that’s some spell you’re doing, don’t mess around,” I said. “This stuff can be dangerous if you don’t know what you’re getting into.” 

She looked curiously at me. “How do you know that?” 

“I don’t know,” I replied. “It’s my instinct. It’s what my gut says, and what makes sense to me. I know your motives are good, and I suppose, if someone with the right intentions fully understands what they’re doing, that’s a whole different thing, but to do something blindly that someone tells you to do—” 

She interrupted with the stern look I knew well from childhood. “Who told you someone told me to do it?” 

“Well, wasn’t it that psychic you go to?” 

“You know about him?” 

“I’ve known for some time.” 

“You’re right,” she said, surprising me. “I raised a smart girl.” 

“So you’re going to stop with this stuff?” 

“Yes, come on.” Her hand was on my shoulder, as she led me gently from the room. “I’m making hamburgers.” 

***

The Saturday after Thanksgiving, Farran, Angie, and I had a few intense moments outside the Cove. 

“What is it, Dani?” Farran asked. “You seem more and more uptight coming here.” 

Angie’s gaze was upon me, too. 

I told them about the recurring dream—content to call it a dream anyway—though I wasn’t sure. 

Angie’s eyes were wider than I’d ever seen them. She seemed at a loss for words. 

“Let me ask you,” Farran said. “Do you feel right with God?” 

What a loaded question that was. I didn’t feel right, period. God was another matter. My trust in Him, my faith, had been strong. At least, I’d thought so. Did I feel that He’d betrayed me, or that I’d betrayed Him? I couldn’t say. There was this guilt, this shame, this feeling that I didn’t deserve anything good—not anymore anyway. 

“Because it’s in the Bible,” she went on. “Demons can prey on you and try to influence you if you’re not firm in your faith. They do the devil’s bidding, and they can possess you.” 

“Stop it!” Angie said. “Just stop.” 

“Well she’s into the occult, and so is her mother, from what she’s told us.” 

“My aunt Grace is a really good person,” Angie told her. “So is Dani. God would protect them. Dani’s just having bad dreams. They’re upsetting to her, and you’re judging. That’s not right.” 

“I was trying to help,” Farran replied, “but forget it.” 

Angie asked Farran for a cigarette now, and it seemed to surprise Farran as much as it did me. “Just this once,” Angie promised. “I have an urge.” 

Farran handed her the cigarette and lit it for her. “You all right?” 

“Not really,” Angie replied. “I’m keyed up, and I felt dizzy before.” 

I offered to take a walk with her. 

“Sure, if you want.” She took a drag of the cigarette and coughed. 

Farran glanced at me and then shifted her gaze to Angie. “I’ll be inside if you need me. Don’t be too long, or I’ll have to come looking for you.” 

The moment the Cove door closed behind her, Tommy pulled up in a blue Ford truck. He came to greet us and asked who was around. He mentioned something about Lynx members avoiding this place. 

“Yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve seen Valentin,” I said.“Three weeks maybe?” 

“He’s been busy,” Tommy replied. 

“Aw, I do miss him.” The words seemed to leave my lips without any thought “Tell him he’s breaking my heart.” 

I felt the weight of Tommy’s gaze. “You seriously want me to tell him that? I’m not responsible for how he takes it if I do.” 

“How would he take it?” I smiled. “We’re friends. Ask him. He helped me get a good deal on my car. I helped him with Katharine.” 

“Not sure that’s a good thing, about Katharine,” he said. “Nobody should help him with Katharine. So you drove here?” 

“Yes.” I felt empowered by that, not needing anyone to take me where I needed to go or bring me back home. It was a reason to stay sober, as well. “When Farran starts working on campus, we’re going to take turns. She’ll be able to use her mom’s car again.” 

He nodded. “Where is she?” 

“Inside,” Angie told him, now biting her nails. 

“All right, catch you guys later.” He went into the bar. 

I turned to Angie, wringing my hands. “Why did I say that? Now he probably thinks I want to be a notch on Valentin’s belt. I was kidding around. I mean, I do miss him, but … I just hope Tommy doesn’t say anything.” 

“This is Tommy we’re talking about,” Angie reminded me. “If he thinks anything needs saying, you can count on him to say it. It’s not like it was said in confidence or anything.” 

“Then I hope Valentin doesn’t take it the wrong way. We really did become friends, not intentionally. It just happened.” 

“Do you feel guilty?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Why, Dani? You like him. He likes you.” 

“And it’s innocent.” 

“Even it wasn’t, who could blame you?” 

“Um, Katharine?” 

“He’s trying to get out of that relationship.” 

“I still feel bad, though. She loves him, and, don’t forget, Farran loves him.” 

“Okay,” she said. “Well, I love Nico. Every time we come here, I’m hoping to run into him. I feel guilty for having these feelings because Shannon loves him so much, and I can’t blame her. I’m not one for dirty tricks and coming between people, but no one has a right to stake any claim to Valentin right now. I love Farran, but she wouldn’t think twice if the situation were reversed. I just want you to be happy, and we should want each other to be happy. Life is short, you know?” It was the most she had said in a long time. 

I gave her a tight hug. 

“Dani, I remember,” she said then, hugging back. When she let go, she looked away. “It took a while, but I remember it all.” 

“You mean what happened with Sergio and Phil?” 

“Yes.” She looked down. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, and for all the trouble I caused.” 

“You didn’t cause any trouble,” I said. “We can still talk about it.” 

“I’m not ready to do that yet, but eventually, yeah.” 

“Angie, look at me.” 

She did. 

“Promise me we’ll talk about it. Promise me you will talk about anything that’s bothering you any time you need or want to.” 

She blushed, smiling. “I will. I promise.” 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.

SO, WHAT’S NEW? HERE’S MY EXCITING UPDATE! 😊

I’ve been shut down and holed up here in my little world, feeling very disconnected. It’s like I activated my “off button” and can’t seem to switch it back on for long. I wonder how many of you need to do that now and then. I also had a sinus infection and then a pinky toe stress fracture, which I still have.

Last Friday, I went to have blood work done—all ready to do the people thing. The nurse drawing the blood didn’t have a printout for the thyroid part of the order. She told me to go to the front desk and ask them to print out that order. When I did that, they printed the same one she already had, and the nurse told me to go back again and tell them it wasn’t the correct printout. So, the woman at the front desk got all flustered. She complained to someone on the phone that this was “really stressing her out.” I have to walk back and forth with one sneaker and one shoe cast s to get printouts that should be in the lab, and she’s stressed out. Then she keeps repeating into the phone, “I know. I know, right?”

At one time in my life, I would have had to say something to her, but I just wanted to achieve what I was there to accomplish and get out of there. I explained politely, remaining calm, and someone eventually took care of it. I mean, have your little hissy fit, just give me what I need, and I’m gone. These little things are not worth my peace anymore. 

Anyway, during the healing process, I have been writing a lot. My new poetry book is almost complete. A paranormal fantasy book is underway, along with the sequels to Shattering Truths. 

The idea I had for a non-fiction book has turned into something else entirely—a somewhat shocking recovery memoir. It’s not fiction like Shattering Truths, so, for me, it is a huge deal. I’ve written most of it already, and I hope I don’t change my mind about publishing it. I believe it can, at the very least, be helpful to someone. 

I’ll be looking for beta readers who’d like to read along and give input for any of these projects.

Of course, I’ve been reading a lot of books, too. Right now, I have a few lined up that are about Edinburgh detectives. It’s what I’m into right now, reading about Scotland and these mystery thrillers.

I watched a lot of the heartbreaking Derek Chauvin trial, and I’ve read about all these shootings across the country (including a recent one in my county on Long Island). For quite a while now, this whole world has needed a reset button. I always thought if there is a divine message for us, it would be, “Start over, people. You can do way better than that.”

Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

On a lighter note, I’ve also been watching:

Netflix – Bridgerton, Lucifer, and the 100.

Prime -Dark Shadows, Mad Men, and Suits.

Network TV – I love Good Girls and Manifest. 

 I am such a fan of the 100. I love Suits, and Dark Shadows is one of my all-time favorites. Lucifer is hilarious, and I like Bridgerton, but I’m still waiting to see what all the fuss is about.

(It takes me a long time to get through a series because I may watch one show a night.)

What about you? What are you watching? Let me know in the comments, and, stay safe and well!

DEADLY VEILS BOOK ONE: SHATTERING TRUTHS – 20

Chapter Twenty 

T 

here were the hands again…groping, touching. With every moment, my fear intensified. The attempt at seduction seemed clear—until those hands tightened around my neck. I thought about turning and looking for a crack of light through the doorway, but I couldn’t move. My body shivered and shook, although perhaps only in the dream realm. There was no way to tell, no way to awaken, and the best logic I could employ was a nonsensical dream rationale. If I can grab those menacing hands, and I can feel them like any other tangible thing, I am not dreaming. 

With fierce determination, I reached around and clutched the hand, feeling the flesh of a human hand urgently struggling to free itself. It succeeded. I heard the bedsprings and then footsteps—someone or something hurrying to get out the door. 

Licorice was there, under the covers, his soft fur against my ankle. Instead of scrambling for the overhead light, I rolled over and switched on the lamp. It was 3:00 a.m., and the house was perverse in its silence. 

Lying down again, I tried thinking of Johnny Depp and the singer, Chris Cornell, with the hope I’d dream of one of them instead of this horrible thing. Soon, I was dreaming but not of either of them. 

Passing through the courtyard entrance of some medieval fortress—thick walls, marble columns, numerous domelike towers— I peeked into a grand ballroom of gilded walls where rock crystal chandeliers hung from the highest carved ceilings. There was a pendulum Westminster clock on the wall. The ballroom was crowded, but I could see him. His back was to me, but there was no mistaking it was Valentin. Though he wore the ingratiating tuxedo, I sensed that affluent society did not impress him. 

He looked up at the clock as it chimed and then strolled to the vineyard terrace, the rhythmic movements in his stride seeming all too suggestive. The moonlight appeared to shine upon him, as his dark, silky hair tossed in the wind. As always, I felt the pull toward him, and I followed. 

If he was surprised when he turned, I couldn’t tell. His eyes fell upon me, and I felt shackled by the chains of their mysterious light, wickedly enticed by them and at his full mercy. I moved closer to him, perhaps too close. His jeweled fingers stroked my cascading tresses. I ached for him, knowing he could see that aching. My hands trembled along with my lip sand my heart. 

He moved the wayward strands of hair away from my cheek and caressed my cheek with his hand. He kissed me, merely another caress to my lips, but my lips parted. I could feel the warmth of his fire as his body grazed mine, and he kissed me again—really kissed me. It came from deep in the soul, as savage and untamed as I’d imagined, causing me to realize that the aching, the craving for him, had begun long ago. 

Our tongues mingled and danced like kindred souls of a past era rejoined, and he approached every embrace with a sense of wonder, seeming to drink in every nuance of my beauty. He lingered lovingly, relishing the sensations, and then pressed passionately. My fingers grazed his hair. My body succumbed to him, and the notion that he felt my surrender titillated me to no end. In my willingness to learn, I mirrored his sensual finesse, understanding it had come with experience. I might have begged that he teach me everything, all that my indoctrinated psyche thought forbidden, because with every deep breath, every sigh, every moan from him, I wanted more. 

“I understand your hunger,” I said. 

“Do you?” He held me tighter. 

The passion resumed and intensified, confirming what I knew. There was no partial surrender with him. My body was his, as his was mine. He hugged me to him as though overcome by salacious, forbidden urges. 

I told him I could not have resisted him if I’d wanted to. “Am I right?” I asked. 

“You could have resisted, love,” he said. “You didn’t want to.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Mm, you gave me a treasure hunt map with clues I could decipher with a fair amount of effort.” He laughed. “In short, you left bread crumbs to your door.” 

My lips tickled his, teasing. “Was that unwise?” 

“I think so.” 

He secured a fistful of my hair and drew me close to him again. He pressed his hardness against me, kissing me furiously, moaning as if he were pained now. My small cries to him were of agony, and he soothed me. He lifted me into his arms and carried me off in the darkness, then laid me on the grass, somewhere in the forest. I shivered in response to his deep breaths as he nibbled on my neck and shoulders. The notion of bending to his will aroused me like never before, and I allowed it, unconcerned about the consequences. I didn’t have to think about consequences. Having orchestrated this fantasy, I braced myself to feel the stinging pain; I ached for it and for the rush of euphoric intoxication that would follow. 

He said, “Now may not be the time, but no matter what happens in this life, I will see you in the next. If we lose each other, find me when you awaken, and I will look for you, too. I will take care of you. I’ll defend and protect you.” 

“I love you, Valentin,” I whimpered. 

“I love you, too, Danielle,” he said. “I will cherish you, always.” 

I awoke then. 

Approaching the window, my fear had subsided. A half-illuminated moon loomed high in the darkened sky while drops of glistening rain pelted the window. Those drops, clear as crystal, blurred any vision beyond the glass, like the thickening fog. It was enough to obscure our glorious view of the mountains, and the dreary gloom seemed acknowledged by the crow caws and birdsong. I could hear, too, Mother Nature’s cleansing teardrops, and a bit of her roar. It soothed my ears and my soul, as though we were one. Her rebellious pummeling spoke volumes to me, as she was this omnipotent force, unwavering in her power and duty. She washed over me—her fickle, tainted child, a child depleted by the blistering trek through the maze. How fractured was my mind that everything in the blackness of night seemed distorted—so much so, that I could almost hear the anguished wails of spirits in the old cemetery. This was crazy, I thought. 

It didn’t help that my period had lasted ten days, with more blood than usual. After two weeks of PMS, there was one week left of feeling normal. 

Something inspired me to write a poem, and it came to me quickly as if I’d been writing words I could hear. 

Thunder and lightning make this night 

Seem a battle of foes; 

He responds with lightning blows. 

I believe it is the rage of my father, 

The thunder is his voice. 

There is a crackling and blinding light 

That holds some burdensome truths. 

The day will come 

When those startling truths 

Will break you, 

Like you’ve never been broken before. 

Listen to the thunder, Father; 

Listen to your children. 

If you listen to the thunder, 

You will hear this child. 

The thunder is my voice. 

It was typical of what I’d been writing at the time. If I’d have gone through every recent poem and counted each time the word darkness appeared, it could have been a drinking game. In retrospect, I had it all etched in my brain—good and evil, dark and light, one extreme or the other, never a balance, never a middle ground. To some, you had to be the good girl or the bad girl, the serpent or the Madonna. It was absurd. 

Deadly Veils Book One: Shattering Truths was originally published as Deadly Veils: Book One: Provenance of Bondage copyright © October 2015 by Kyrian Lyndon. The revised edition, Deadly Veils: Book One: Shattering Truths was published in December 2016. Cover design by KH Koehler Design.