Life - Life & Death Book 1

Chapter 4 - Zivena

When I wake up the next day, I find a note on the kitchen table from Mom telling me that everyone needed to go into work. I quickly turn on the tv and hear that another missing person has been discovered in Central Park.
"The NYPD has released information that each victim goes missing for two days before being found in Central Park," a reporter drones. "We were unable to obtain any specifics regarding their deaths. However, we are aware that each victim sustained severe trauma to their bodies.
"There have been eight victims in the last four months that the NYPD believe are connected to the same killer.
"These murders are not gender, race or age specific so the NYPD are urging people to travel in pairs or groups in the Central Park region and to remain vigilant. Any strange behavior needs to be reported straight away."
I flick the tv off. That must be the reason why everyone is out. There must be a demon or some other creature involved with these murders.
I sigh and begin to make breakfast. I hate being left out. I know it's only one more day until I'm part of the 'family business' but I've always been impatient.
Seeing as I have the rest of the morning free I decide to head back up to my studio and continue working on my newest art piece. I sit there for hours adding to my painting bit by bit. Thankfully my dream from last night fills in the missing detail. The brownies help out where they can and enjoy being out and about. The same little brownie that I saw yesterday morning, wearing a little dress made out of my old clothes, is helping to keep my paintbrushes clean and ready to use when I have need of them. I rummage around in the pocket of my pants and find a small sugar cube wrapped in paper. I leave it on the little table where she is working and her face lights up like a thousand fairy lights.
As I'm painting a white tailed dear a splitting headache rakes my brain. Clutching my head, I lean away from my painting and a sickening feeling sweeps through my body, making me convulse. In the midst of all the commotion and pain, familiarity rings out.
I cover my paints before heading to my room. I don't need them drying out and ruining my palette. I let the blackout curtains shut me off from the world and slowly curl into a ball as the pain and pressure gradually rob me of painting time.

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It's well into the afternoon when the headache subsides to a numbing throb. When I walk back into my studio to check how my painting is drying I find all my paintbrushes cleaned and lined neatly in a row, ready to be used. With a smile, I leave another sugar cube on the little wooden table and walk out, closing the door behind me.
I desperately need some fresh air and a walk after being cooped up under my blankets. Before leaving the house, I grab a bottle of water, my sketchbook and pencils, an apple, and my gym bag. But before I run out of my room I spot something in the mirror. I lean down to get a closer look. Three scars line my thigh. They are the same shape and length like in my dream but they look months old. It can't be possible that what I dreamed actually happened...

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The sun is still lingering over the skyline and the city is bustling with the constant traffic of people. I jog through the crowds.
Trees, green, and life swallow me as I enter Central Park, and the city disappears behind me. I let my feet take me wherever they want and find myself near the softball field and there's a patch of grass overlooking Turtle Pond. I settle in with my sketchbook and let the warm afternoon breeze take away the discomfort. Others are sitting on the grass reading or drawing and somewhere someone is probably even sleeping. I let out a heavy sigh.
I'm barely twenty minutes into drawing when I feel a small shimmer of distress coming from the pond in front of me. Looking up, I can't see anything. I stand, trying to find what's wrong.
In the bushes, I see that three boys have climbed over the small fence and are pointing at something. Distress and fear flare violently and I feel my heart race.
"Hey!" I call and jump over the fence. "What do you think you're doing?"
The boys, who look about ten, quickly try to hide what they're poking at.
I stride over and push them aside, just for my heart to sink. A small turtle lay on its shell, it's little legs kicking about feebly. There's a crack on one side of his shell and a small gash on his belly. I whirl on the boys.
"What the hell did you do?" I yell. "The poor thing needs to be looked after, not poked at!"
"S-s-sorry," the smallest boy stammers. One of the bigger boys, obviously the leader, glares at him and then at me.
"The stupid thing is going to die anyway. What's it matter?" he says, defiant.
I step closer to him as anger pulses through me. "What does it matter?" I repeat, my eyes flashing dangerously. "That turtle is defenseless and when a creature like that is vulnerable it's up to the bigger, stronger creatures like us to take care of them."
The boy laughs in my face and begins to turn around. I put a hand on his shoulder to stop him and lean to whisper in his ear. "What if someone came across me picking on you and they just turned their backs as if nothing was happening? How would you feel?" I growl and the color rushes from his face. "Scram."
The boys run back over the fence. I rush back to the little guy still struggling on his back and lean down onto my knees. Picking him up, I try to calm him down. I feel the panic and stress vanish but the pain still lingers. I reach for my phone, intent on finding the closest vet or animal shelter – anyone that'd help, when his little feelings vanish.
My heart sinks as I feel the life drift out of him. It's weird but I swear I can feel a tangible force flowing through my fingers like water. Pooling and soaking into the ground at my knees, leaving an empty body behind.
"No," I moan. If those idiot boys hadn't poked at it then it could still be alive. I could have taken him to a vet and they would have been able to help him.
I freeze where I'm crouched as something creeps over me. It's a strange feeling, like pins and needles, that sweeps from my body down into my shaking hands.
Before my eyes, I witness the crack in the turtle's shell sew back together, the small cut on his belly heal into a barely there scar. I stare as his little legs begin twitching. The shock finally hits me like a brick wall and I almost drop him.
I place it back on the ground and shrink back in horror as I watch him push himself off the ground and look around.
What the hell just happened? My thoughts are jumbled as the turtle waddles towards the water and slips in. I jump up, gather my stuff and get the hell out of there. I find the nearest bathroom and lock myself in a stall, breathing hard.
Did I really bring a turtle back to life? Or was he just paralyzed because of the danger? The shock, tension and uncertainty fill my head but I shove them down. Instead I rip my backpack open, change into my gym gear before storming out.
The fresh air helps clear some of the dread as I start into a jog to warm up. Heading back to the softball fields I begin to make laps around the Great Lawn, increasing my speed each time. My mind whirls with the afternoon's events that I barely keep track, but as the sun slowly sets I realize I left home hours ago.
Without stopping or slowing down I hightail it back towards the house and hope a warm shower and my bed will provide the comfort I need.

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As I round the street to home, I notice Mom and Dad's cars out the front. I sigh in relief.
They're finally home!
Even though I have a million questions I find myself hesitating at the front door. Mom would freak out if I told her about the turtle and I can't even guess how Dad would react. If they give me strange looks just for seeing brownies after I grew up I couldn't imagine the looks I'd get from them now.
Instead I rush up to my room and shut the door behind me as my frazzled thoughts leave me spinning. I try to shove them away as I pull on my pajamas and crawl into bed with my computer. If I busy myself with drawing then maybe the thoughts will quieten down and leave me the hell alone.