Cardinal

Chapter 1: My body hates everything and eveyone

AN: Hello! My name is Vivienne, and this is my first story! I am writing this for a school project, but I thought I could receive more constructive criticism if I shared it with the world. Please be nice, and thank you!!!

Recently, I have become very aware of the sound of car engines. You don’t really notice them until you park your car and cut the ignition. When everything goes silent and you’re left in the dim glow of the interior light. Or when you’re dangling upside down in a cold, crunched up car being held in place with your seatbelt and a red airbag. That red, sticky airbag.
Everything is strange. I’m here but I don’t feel like I am. I feel like an intruder in my own body. Like I got lost and stepped into the wrong house. Where am I again? Right, my car. Wait, no. This isn’t my car. I’m too young to drive.
It’s my Mom's.
Mom. Where is my Mom?
I look to my left.

Trees. Lots of trees. All flying past in a green and brown blur. I can hear Julia blabbering about Oregon and how pretty it is and how much I’ll like it here. I doubt it.
“You’ll love it here! I’m sure of it.” she says in that forced voice that adults use to talk to children. Something about it irritates me. I know she’s just trying to be nice, but still.
Julia was assigned to watch me after my Mom died. I don’t remember where she works, somewhere in Oregon I think. I have trouble remembering most things now. My therapist says that traumatic events can lead to memory problems. She said that it’ll get better, but I honestly don’t know how.

I think it was December…wait, January? Yeah, January. It was January. About four months ago, on January 15th, my mom was driving us home from a mother daughter day. We lived in a small fishing town in Maine so there wasn’t much to do there. Everytime we went out we would drive an hour away to the nearest city. We would eat out, go to bookstores, go to the mall, and just spend a ton of money. That day, the roads were slick with ice and slurry. Mom’s car was older. Sometimes she would turn the key and the engine wouldn’t come on. But it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her fault that her car was old. It wasn’t her fault that I had to skate to school so she could make it to work on time. And it wasn’t her fault that that trucker wasn’t watching where he was going.
When I say truck, I mean a semi-truck. Most collisions with semi’s end in death. I shouldn’t be here right now.
I should be dead.
Everyone says it’s a miracle that I’m alive, but I don’t think so. I don’t believe in miracles. Things happen or they don’t. Life or death. I lived, my mom died. End of story.
I can hear Julia talking. “...isn’t that nice?”
“Uh huh.” I have no clue what she said. I’ve had my earbuds on the entire time so I have no idea why she thinks I’m listening.

I open the car window and stick my face out. The wind flips my hair and whacks me in my eyes. Through my earbuds I can hear the rush of air and cars zooming by. Blue, black, white, then blue again. A loud horn blares and startles me. It’s a semi. The honking before the crash.  It’s a scarlet red. All the blood. We drive down a steep hill. The gut wrenching feel of flying through the air as the car spun. There’s a dead deer on the side of the road. The smell-
“How much longer?” I snap. Was that too mean?
Julia laughs nervously “We’re almost there.” her eyes flit towards me “Are you hungry? Do you want to stop for food?”
“No. And keep your eyes on the road.” I enunciate every syllable.
“Cass.” she cautions.
My leg bounces nervously “I’m sorry.” I grumble.

I’ve been very on edge lately. Impatient, fidgety, snappier than usual. It’s like my body hates everything. I know I don’t hate everything. But whenever someone says something annoying, does something dumb or gets in my way, my body thinks they’re out for my blood. Like they’re doing it on purpose. And I know they aren’t. Sometimes.
I’ve always been headstrong. I’ve always been the friend that would scare away bullies. I don’t see the point in sugar coating or letting things go. Which is exactly why I am one hundred percent against going to live with my father. That man has never once shown up or supported me. He didn’t even pay child support! I can’t do anything about it though. Apparently I’m “too young to make that decision.”
I don’t get it. It’s my life and yet I get no say in anything.
It’s late. The world starts to lose detail. My head lolls to a comfortable position as everything fades to black and the slow rock sound of The Strokes.

My mother is covered in bl-
My body jolts and my eyes flick open. Suddenly we’re parked in someone's driveway, and I can make out the outline of a house.
“We’re here!” Julia says in a sing-songy tone “Home Sweet Home!”
I admire people who have a positive outlook on life. It’s quite impressive how they can ignore every single bad thing around them. Sometimes though -and I mean now- I think it’s inappropriate. I personally find her cheery outlook on this situation disrespectful. She knows that I’m upset. She knows that I don’t wanna be here, and that I don’t want to live with my father.
There is a time and place for a gung-ho attitude, and now is not that time.
“Mhm.” I mumble. Tired of her and my lack of sleep.

The path was made of gravel and lined with tiny round solar lamps that glowed like moons. I have my satchel, a suitcase, and a tote. This is only a small portion of my belongings. Half of them are going to arrive sometime this week, half of them are packed away in a storage unit. Julia gave me the key last week. I’ll be able to use it when I’m eighteen.
Along with my bags, is a pet carrier. Inside is a one-eyed black kitty cat that I have named Nikolai. Julia and my therapist gave him to me so that I wouldn’t be lonely. I don’t think he likes me that much, but at least I can pretend he listens to me. I took some spiked bracelets and some leather from my mother’s jewelry box and fashioned them into a collar.
Julia carries my suitcase and tote. I lift up the pet carrier, trying not to wake up Nikolai. I fail, and listen as he skitters and hisses and throws a tantrum.
“Quit it.” I scold.
Nikolai hisses.
I sigh “What’s his name again?”
“Who’s name?” asks Julia.
“My…” I cringe inwardly “dad.”
It physically hurts me to say that. Or it’s my pride. Maybe both.
“His name is Marvin. Marvin Iva-”
“Ivanov.” I butt in.
My full name is Cassandra Ito-Ivanov. My mother’s was Nina Ito. She was Japanese, and very insistent on giving me her last name.
We approach the house and I stop dead in my tracks. What, the heck. His house is nice. Extremely nice. It’s made out of reddish brown bricks, and has off-white trimming around the windows and front door. The roof is triangular, and is a green patina color. It was clearly painted to look that way, it’s too smooth to be oxidized copper.  Two Composite columns frame the front entrance, leading onto the patio. Above it is a square tower with three windows. It has a beautiful segmented turret roof with four sides and flared edges. Two rectangular One Lite Casement windows trail up the front, along with a gable window sticking out from one panel of the roof. It is topped with a finial. On the front right side of the house is a rounded corner tower with a witches hat turret, and two sets of oriel bay windows. One near the witch's hat, one near the ground.
To top it all off, this house is next to a river. A freaking river. Only rich people have houses on rivers.
“Wow, Cass.” Julia is being insensitive again. “You must feel very lucky to get to live here.” she smiles.
“No. I don’t.”
I would be lying if I said I didn’t like the house. It looked haunted. Like the ones you read in horror stories. But it’s too nice. Far too nice for someone who has never once paid child support.
We get up to the patio. I set Nikolai’s carrier gently on the ground. Before Julia can ring the doorbell, I jab at it at least ten times. My index finger getting whiter with each jab.
“A little excessive, don't you think?” she says in a cautionary voice. Eyes narrow and lips squished into a line. I don’t respond. My mind rages like a scalding hot pot of water. Ready to boil over and burn anyone who dares to add to the fire. My leg shakes.
The door opens. A cool breeze lightly blows my face. I can hear something cooking.
In front of me is a tall, lanky man who’s features I can fully make out despite the lack of light. And everything about him, from his gait to his odd smile tells me one thing.
This man is not my father.