Bleeding Bird

XI

Helen fell asleep in a matter of moments, deeply and entirely gone into the world of rest. She dreamt of birds, and of her father, and of mirrors that she never saw but knew where there. She dreamt of doorways and dark spaces and boys digging graves. She dreamt she was walking in a dark room, that she needed to get to a door on the other side. She walked. And walked. Her hands felt the darkness until they came to a sharp cold. A breeze drifted up her night gown and...

"NO!" a voice interrupted her dream.

She closed her eyes harder, reaching for the knob once more. Where was it? Where did it go? She needed to open the door...

"WAKE UP!"

Helen's eyelids fluttered open and she fell, disoriented into Mrs. Musgrave's arms.

"Helen, Helen," the woman repeated.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Helen repeated. Her head was swimming and nausea was swelling in her throat.

"Get her a glass of water, Rush," the woman commanded.

Hands over her face, she allowed herself to be lowered to the floor and leaned back against the rough frame of what her dizzy mind figured was a bed. She clamped her jaw shut, praying she could stifle the nausea. Suddenly every sensation in her body, and every sound outside of her body felt incredibly powerful. Every touch, every word, was tenfold its normal effect.

"Drink this, Helen," Mrs. Musgrave said, kneeling in front of her.

Still not opening her eyes, Helen's shaking hands reached out for the cold glass. She could feel condensation on the outside as the cup sweated. It somehow came to her lips, and she allowed her jaw to unlock far enough to slip the edge along her bottom lip. Cool water slid over her tongue and down her throat, banishing the nausea and whatever exhaustion gripped her. It anchored her to the present, away from the dream state she had so heavily been in.

She opened her eyes.

She was in the little room under the cemetery where the Musgraves lived. All three of them stood around her, watching.

"Rush, make sure she doesn't fall asleep," Mrs. Musgrave said, standing. "I'm writing a letter to Mrs. Taft. She's going to have to make some changes if she wants to keep Helen away from the mirror." She crossed the room and, gathering a pen and paper, sat down at a low table to write.

Rush and the younger boy sat down beside Helen.

"Hi," he managed.

"Hi," Helen said. She immediately reached for another sip of water.

"Are you afraid you're going to die?" the little boy asked simply, "the last ones did."

Rush gave him a look, but didn't necessarily scold him, "maybe it'll be better this time. The mirror seems to be pretty sure about you."

Helen nodded. "We better hope it is. Helen Taft doesn't wanna go down like this," she laughed. She took another sip of water to stop the tickle at the back of her throat.

Rush smiled, "Good plan."

Helen nodded.

Rush looked around.

The younger brother stared intently at Helen.

They were quite the exciting bunch.