Shudder

1

I gasped awake, barely containing a shriek.

There was blood -- blood everywhere!

My hands clawed at each other, dragged down my face, over my body and I continuously wiped them and myself on anything and everything within my vicinity that felt like cloth.

My vision was black, but slowly clearing with only slight spots dancing in my line of sight. My heart thundered in my chest and the oxygen I breathed in couldn't rake down my throat to my lungs fast enough.

I was shaking and cold sweat was rolling down my spine, but as my vision completely cleared I was met with the sight of my immaculate bedroom and very clean hands and arms.

I let out a shaky breath, forcing my heart rate slower and my intake of air less so. I clenched my hands at my sides and willed myself to lean back into my pillows.

It was just another nightmare. Just another reminder, the same as every other day.

After that fateful day of stumbling upon my murdered parents and watching their murderer commit suicide, the authorities had arrived with what felt like non-stop questioning that I could only answer so well being five.

They had questioned me relentlessly to the point of exhaustion and finally let me be. I had been moved to a foster home where I stayed for only a few days before being adopted by my foster parents.

Parents I didn't want because they weren't Mommy and Daddy.

They tried their best, but as I grew the divide only grew between us. I was no longer an innocent child after that day, I was plagued with nightmares and even my every waking thought of the lifeless images and scenes of my dead parents and their murderer.

I was sent to counselling that did little good and doped up on all different kinds of medication that really did nothing at all.

I still go, I'm still on that medication, the only difference is I've attended school for eleven long years with little to no friends because of my severe trust issues.

This was my last year though and I couldn't have been more excited.

When I was sure my body was somewhat normal and the urge to scream had completely vanished, I pushed myself out of bed and onto feet that were only a bit shaky.

My foster parents had adjusted to my nightmares and my screaming. They used to come running, but that ceased and soon I mastered the will not to, but sometimes it still slipped through.

I staggered to the mirror just to double check there was no blood and let out a growl at the mess of ash blonde on my head.

My sea green eyes scanned my skin in more detail, positive there was no blood and then I hauled myself to the bathroom.

I flicked on the faucet and pulled the stopper that turned on the shower. I slid in, not waiting for the water to heat all the way and shivered at the cold water splashing my back.

The temperature quickly rose and I was encased in warm droplets soon. I allowed the heated water to wash over me completely before picking up shampoo and scrubbing it deep into my hair, as though I was getting rid of the blood.

The blood that had been splattered on me by my parents' murderer.

I sucked in a sharp breath and immediately grabbed the body wash, pouring out the lilac scent onto a loofa. I scrubbed roughly at my body, harder than before until I was red and raw.

Panting with the effort, I slumped against the shower wall. The blood that had never been there was gone. I felt better knowing I scrubbed away my nightmares; it didn't stop them from reoccurring, but it did ease my anxiety and stress.

I finished up my shower and wrapped myself in a blue, fluffy towel. I paused near the steamy mirror debating on wiping it clear, but I chose to ignore it. Why look at something so...hideous?

I dried off the rest of the way in my room and yanked out a hoodie, tank top and jeans with bra and underwear.

I donned everything and trailed back into the bathroom. Part of me had wished I'd just grabbed the brush and ran out, but I hadn't. Now I was stuck looking at the ugly beast that was me in the mirror.

I was pale, skinny enough that my bones protruded, my ashy blonde hair clung to my skin and my sea green eyes were as dull as an ordinary stone. I wasn't pretty, despite what my foster mother, Claire, said.

I yanked the brush rather roughly through my hair and left it down, a way to shield myself from the onslaught of school and prying eyes.

My hands twitched at the thought of make-up, to try and cover up my ugliness, but even that wouldn't help.

I headed out, ignoring the urge to scrub myself yet again. I grabbed my book bag and trailed like a ghost down the stairs.

"Rori, come eat breakfast," my foster father, Dean, grumbled. I knew if I looked towards the kitchen I would see his disapproving stare at the way I wore my hair. Both my foster parents had wished I'd grow out of the protective and sheltered phase, but witnessing the nightmares night after night hadn't allowed me to come out of my diamond hard shell.

I sulked into the kitchen and plopped onto a stool. Luckily, Claire was gone at work -- busy being a life saving doctor -- or I would've received a lecture from her. Dean merely grumbled and shoved the plate of food towards me.

"Eat, don't want you to waste away."

I stared at bacon, eggs and pancakes drowned in butter and syrup. My stomach grumbled, but after having a nightmare so soon, like always, I didn't exactly feel up to eating. I flicked my eyes up to Dean and gently pushed the food away.

"I'm not hungry, Dean and you know it," I mumbled.

Dean sighed. I knew he hated that I called him Dean instead of father or dad. Even at five I had refused because they just weren't my Mommy and Daddy. I had thrown tantrums until they relented and told me their names or allowed me to call them what I wished.

"Rori Jane Eicker, you need to eat. I know it's hard after the...nightmares, but you really are going to go to waste. Don't make me tell your mother."

"Claire," I corrected automatically. Dean just released another sigh and pushed the plate towards me.

"Just eat and hurry. Don't want you being late for your last first day back to school."

I picked up the fork and did as he asked. I had to receive rides from Dean in the mornings because my foster parents only had two cars and wanted me to 'earn' the right to a car. Oh sure, I could drive and Dean often let me, but they wouldn't buy me one until I could or seen that I was fit to have one.

Finished, I cleaned the plate and left it in the sink. I slipped on my Converses that sat by the door and then slid out the stained glass front door.

As usual Dean was waiting and I slid in the passenger side, deciding against driving today, not with the fresh nightmare of death lurking in the back of my mind.

Dean didn't comment and immediately began driving, the scent of his strong coffee wafting in my nose. It calmed me, but only for those short fifteen minutes I rode in the car.

I was jolted forward and back to reality as the car stopped and Dean was ushering me out of his car, muttering about how he might be late. Dean was a lawyer, he probably had a case this early morning, but I still found he didn't need to be quite so rude.

I slipped out onto the concrete with my book bag slung over my shoulder and peered up at the building I'd called hell for the past three years. I grimaced at it again and prayed for the school year to whisk by.

Oh, Lorette High, how I haven't missed you...