Black Eyed: A Novel

Chapter One: Elissa

1

A blessed breeze lifts the loose strands of hair resting on my shoulders to dance in the air. The wind is welcoming, calming. Here on the porch it is strong and confiding, but away from the shadows and cool wooden steps, the sun blares down on the land with no indication of mercy.

It's almost unbearably quiet, with the sounds of corn husks swaying in the breeze and the distant chirping of insects being drowned by the booming of my own heartbeat and breath. Maddening.

I stare at the great expanse of vegetation encircling the house I have called residence for eight years now, losing track of time. Have I been here, staring, for seconds, hours, or days? Or have I been on this porch since the beginning? Time does not touch this land, the days and years meld into each other. The skies melt into different times, blues turning to violent reds to leaden violets. Weren't the heavens once blue instead of the bruised brown that now stretches across the horizon?

My eyes peel away from the skyline, trying to find something interesting. There are no singing birds, no dawdling insects scurrying across the dirt, no live grass blades to gratifyingly pluck from the earth. Nothing, with boredom almost palpable in the air. A sigh escapes from my chest, thick and heavy of disappointment. My tongue clicks on the back of my teeth, a cluck joining the wind.

I lean back against the porch's steps, the paint chips and splinted wood digging through the fabric of my shirt, and lazily play with the rubber band fastened around my wrist. It snaps back, leaving a red mark that slowly balloons against the pale skin, red turning to pink and white. Abruptly, the breeze ceases, bringing with it the atmosphere of comfort and relaxation.

"Elissa!"

It comes from the open door, scraping through its chicken-wire.

"I need you!" The voice calls, demanding.

I scramble up from the steps, eager to do something. The screen door slaps behind me as I enter the small foyer, home to a lopsided table decorated with decades-old stains and one lonesome photograph of newlywed Caroline and Robert, rusted by age. I enter the den, the darkness all-encompassing.

"Elissa, good, I need help cooking dinner. Robert is supposed to join us tonight," Caroline calls, sitting in one of the gigantic brown recliners positioned in front of the television set, its light the only source of illumination in the dark room. The flicker of an advertisement flutters against the walls. She doesn't quite look at me, just tilting her head in my general direction while letting the pixels reflect off her watery eyes.

Caroline doesn't plan to move a finger, which I don't particularly mind. There'd sooner be a god in heaven then for her to cook a decent meal.

"What're you planning on making?" I ask.

"Not sure yet." Translated: surprise me. All right, fine. I'm up for a challenge. As I leave, her head goes back to its usual position.

The kitchen's counters are lined with the same amount of junk as is in the den. Dirty pans from days past liter the stove; recipe books surround the oven, punctuated by splattered food. Sentimental trash overflows off every surface. A dying fly flaps its wings in front of the window.

Dinner tonight will be something exotic and foreign: broken, dusty spaghetti noodles from the shadows of a deep pantry with an accompanying reduction of canned tomato sauce. Bon appétit.

By the time the headlights of Robert's truck flood the windows, Caroline is just getting up to help. He comes in huffing and puffing, his tar-clogged lungs working excessively. He stumbles through the living room, mumbling under his breath.