Fragments - Book One of the Missing

Chapter 1 - Taniel

Taniel counted the tiles on the ceiling once more, like he had an infinite number of times. Just another day, he reminded himself. It was just another damn day. He ran his hands through his knotted hair, his eyes slid across the ceiling. But he couldn't steady his stammering heart.

For the past eight years he counted the tiles when consumed by anger, anxiety or loneliness. Over and over and over again, until his breathing slowed and his mind cleared. In the beginning, there were nights he could count the tiles until dawn. Life in St. Andra's had gotten easier though. And in time, it had help him to forget everything that happened before.

He knew each tile intimately by number and its various imperfections. Behind tile 73, which now looked more yellow than white, was a photo of him and his father. But he had stopped looking. The memories were too painful, made him too angry. There were somethings not worth remembering. Behind tile 41, so worn the corners were starting to crumble, was his makeshift journal, although it was really nothing more than myriad papers thrown together. Not a single soul had ever seen the journal, although they probably knew of its existence. How could it not, when the dream haunted him so frequently?

That morning was no different from the rest. He woke up sweating, mind racing and grasping at the fading tendrils of his dream. Pushing up on his elbows, he grabbed a piece of torn paper and got to work.

The dream was always the same in essence. Or at least he thought it was. Sometimes, the next morning fear coated his tongue like bile, or the ghost of adrenaline ran through his veins. Other days, he could only recall vague details of the scene. But every time it was awful.

He glanced down to find he had drawn the alleyway. It was not the first time he had drawn the alley, but it was the first time he drew her. Gently, as if he were afraid she wasn't real, he traced her shape—barely there and collapsed in the darkest corner. She was always featured in the dream, but he had never seen her face beyond the dreams, could never remember enough to draw her. Her almost non-existence in the alley, and in his mind, sent a shiver down his spine.

Trying to forget about her, it, everything, Taniel pushed tile 41 aside hastily and placed that day's drawing on top of the haphazard pile. His hands were still smudged with lead and left dull grey smudges on the ceiling. Great. In a vain attempt of cleaning himself off and brushing away the memories, he ran his hands down the length of his pajamas. It didn't work.

So, unnerved as he was, he did the only thing that would help—count tiles. 34...35... Today would not be the day that his dream finally succeeded in unhinging him. Not after he had survived so much.

****

He nodded to a few guys in the dreary hall on his way back from the communal bathroom. The steam from the shower did wonders to ease the knots in his stomach and soothe his thoughts. He might have even been cheerful if he didn't know that everything was about to change.

Whistling to himself, he threw on his standard black v-neck and jeans, glad for the thousandth time that St. Andra's did not have a uniform. He pulled on heavy work boots and tied the fraying laces with the sense of finality of tying up another loose end in his life.

Out in the mess hall, he looked around in search of his very few friends and a warm meal. And to be honest, it never bothered him that he only had two friends to his name. Mostly, he liked to keep to himself anyway.

The mess hall at St. Andrew's School for Troubled Boys was enormous and beautiful: dark wood paneling on the walls, detailed oil paintings on the ceiling and hung about the room in heavy frames, light poured through classical stained-glass windows. Taniel always thought that the architect was probably rolling over in his grave knowing his masterpiece was currently occupied by a bunch of good-for-nothing troublemakers.