The Story Of Adeline

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

In my sleep though, normal was the farthest thing from what I was feeling. The dream that haunted my that night was terrifying, so impossibly horrible that it seemed like the makings of fiction. Sadly, it was all too real. There was nothing. I felt empty. The only thing that existed was the fire that threatened to consume me. It crushed with its weight and intensity. It burned my flesh with a fierce hatred, eating through me with ease. It drowned me as it spilt through my lungs, devouring me. My skin was on fire, sparks igniting and tearing through me.

Cold wracked my bones, freezing the very blood that ran through my veins. I wanted to die. Nothing could be worse than this hell. And then I crashed through the nothingness, shattering it like glass. I landed, feeling like I dropped straight out of the sky, like my bones were made if knives and needles, cutting through my skin as they broke. The fire left, but the pain never faded.

I stood in a dim room with a woman, who was an older version of myself. She was so lovely, with curly black hair and blood red eyes. Her features were sharp and twisted in an angry, animalistic snarl. She looked wild and dark, like a goddess if chaos. She glared at me, and I could feel her contempt radiate through her. Though I loved her, she despised me. In her arms, was a blonde baby with bright purple eyes. She looked just like I had before I was Corrupted. She was the most beautiful thing in the world. I hated her. I hated her with all I had in me because it was her fault I felt this emptiness, this crushing weight that threatened to shatter my bones and steal my breath. Her fault I would never know joy or love.

The fire came again, tearing me apart. I couldn't see my mother or the new baby anymore. What I saw could only be described as evil. Men, women and children being tortured. Flesh burning. Bones breaking. Blood splattering. Limbs tearing. Every second their screams rang in my ears, their pain becoming my own. Because it was my fault. Because I was evil.

When I woke up, I didn't scream. I lay there silently, letting the tears run down my face. I'd started crying in my sleep, the pain was so intense and real. I could still smell the burnt flesh and the sulfuric orders of Hell. The piercing screams still rang in my ears. But all it was was a dream, it wasn't real. I tightened my grip on reality. Despite the imagined hellish nightmare is had just lived through, I was puzzled. The baby girl was me. The black-haired woman was supposed to be my mother. So, who's body was I in? Who's thoughts did I hear? Why were they forced through such hell, and why did they hate me? And lastly, why was the woman who held my infant self not my mother?

Wiping the tears from my face, I stood, careful to be quiet. It was still dark, probably early morning, and Lily still lay sleeping in my bed, her red hair like a halo around her. I smiled sadly, she looked so peaceful that I was almost jealous. I crept over to my dresser, running my hands over its wooden surface. Finally, my hands met the small silver box I was looking for. I took it in my hands and the walked silently to my bathroom, closing the door before turning on the light. I set the box on the counter. A stray tear slid down my cheek and I brushed it off. This held all I had left of my parents. I was only five when they had died in the accident.

I opened the little silver box and held back more tears. The first thing I saw was my mother's silver wedding band. She would've given it to me on my wedding day, but she hadn't lived that long. It was an elegant silver band with a round, simple diamond. It was beautiful, and beside it, lay my father's ring, another simple silver band with tiny diamonds set in a row around it. I lay them both on the counter and went on.

Next was a necklace my mother had given me on the day of my baptism. She had always been very religious. It was also silver and lay on a thin, delicate chain. The pendant was a tiny cross with a intricate design. I only wore it on special occasions, but I always kept the matching bracelet on. I looked down at it now, seeing the chain circle my narrow wrist, the silver cross laying flat against my skin. I smiled, thinking of how much my mother had loved the simple piece of jewelry.

All that was left in the box were two folded pieces of paper. I gingerly opened both of them, spreading them on the counter next to the necklace and rings. One was their wedding certificate. Their names, along with the date of their marriage were written across it in a neat font, their signatures scrawled at the bottom. Mr. Jonathan M. Parker and Mrs. Leila K Parker. 5/13/1993.

All that was left was as small picture, faded and wrinkled with age. The picture showed a man, a woman, and a young child. They were all smiling, sitting together on a picnic blanket on top of a grassy hill. The man had brown, slightly graying hair. His skin was tan and weathered. His eyes, heavy set and deep, lit up with warmth though, in this picture, and so did his smile. We lived on a small farm that my farther ran and he wore his work clothes of a worn plaid shirt, jeans, and muddy boots. My father had creases in his forehead, showing how his work took its toll on him. He wasn't a young man anymore, and it showed, but he still looked happy and his bright eyes and smile were un-aged.

The child had her arms draped around the man's shoulders. Her hair was a light gold, almost white, like sunshine. It fell over her shoulders in waves. Her pink t-shirt, jean shorts, and white sneakers were old, tattered, and stained with grass. She beamed up at the camera, missing one of her front teeth, her purple eyes shining.

And lastly, the woman, my mother. She was beautiful. Her floral sundress came past her knees and white sandals adorned her feet. Dark brown hair fell down to her chest in curls and framed her face. She was a small woman and my father loomed over her. She looked fragile and delicate, like a flower, but she had always been my rock. She looked up, smiling kindly, her lips pink, though she never wore make up. And most beautiful were her colorless, unseeing eyes. My mother had been blind, but that never stopped her from being strong, brave, and beautiful.

This was all I had left. This and small snip-its of memories. My mother braiding my hair, her fingers always soft and gentle. Her voice, melodic and sweet as she sung me to sleep. And my father, lifting me over his shoulders as I peered over he crowd at Santa Clause, who sat on his mall throne, surrounded by little kids. Or when he sat me in my first horse, a white mare named Honeybee, and held my small hand in his large ones as I shook, terrified of her height.

I held my head in my hands, feeling tear sting my eyes. I wouldn't cry, my parents would've wanted me to be happy. I gathered their things and placed it back in the beautiful little jewelry box they'd bought me when I'd turned five. I remembered the day of the picture. I'd lost my first tooth, so my parents had taken me out for a picnic. I'd played on the grass, rolling down the hills as my mother and father laughed and ate happily. That was one of the best, and last days of my childhood.

About a week after this photo was taken, Aunt Vee had come and picked me up from school, tears streaming down her face. This was the first and only time I'd ever seen her cry. Neither of us had spoken until we had driven back to her house; I was too shocked. Once we were home, I asked her what was wrong. She explained to me, voice broken and fumbling over words, how angles were put on earth only as long as God felt you needed them. Then, he took them back. She looked at me, the tears in her heart visible through her eyes. God had taken back my parents, and three others that day, when a car spun out of control, crashing into my parents and six other cars.

After that, I sat on the floor, my head between my knees. Sobs wracked through my body as I thought of my parents, mourning their deaths that I had yet to get over. Thinking of my mother and her strength, I composed myself, wiping my tears and splashing water over my face. It came back to me then, the reason I had gone back down memory lane.

Looking in the mirror, the face of a black haired, red eyed woman flashed behind my pupils. She looked like she could have been my mother, something I could have never said about my actual mom. Or either if my parents, for that matter. I had never bore any resemblance to them. Aunt Vee shared my blonde-ness, but her hair was more platinum blonde, and mine was the color of sunlight. And where did my eye color come from? I'd never put much thought into it, just always supposed I was some freak of nature.

Sighing, I realized how insane I sounded. There was nothing there, no connection between the black-haired woman and I, because she didn't exit. She was a figment of my imagination, nothing more. All she was was a creation of my subconsciousness. Looking in the mirror, the girl who stared back at me had eyes of purple, not red, and hair of gold, not black. But she did look terrible, like she'd been through hell and back, her eyes puffy, skin red, and hair tangled from the restless sleep. I shrugged though, stripping from my clothing and grabbing a towel. This was nothing a shower couldn't fix.