Displaced (Wingless: Book Two)

3. The Last

Charlie

          It was too muggy outside as I headed nowhere in particular. My clothes clung to my skin, making movement a chore. Luckily, the weather reports claimed rain in the next few days, which would be more than welcome. At least that's what Felix said when he was reading his paper.

            Autumn was too far away for a decent climate, but even so, it was too humid. It was like the air was half sea water. My feet made a hard slapping against the pavement as I padded towards home, eager to shower.

           Most of the day I'd spent wandering around town. Not aimlessly, because that makes me sound lost, but without any important business to attend to. Besides, I hadn't seen the city in a while. More than a while if anything past the swamp counted. The only time I'd stopped was to grab a hot dog. The man behind the counter looked at me with pitying eyes and made it a chili dog for no extra charge. I guessed looking like you just lost the love of your life still got you some sympathy if you went to the right hot dog stands.

          The city itself was a blunt shadow, shifting only to open doors for the business men and women, blasting cool air out onto the street. Everyone was going somewhere, or doing something, or talking about going somewhere or doing something. The entire day I was waiting for familiar sounds, smells, or sights to make sense to me.

          Instead, it was all detached and foreign.

          The day had morphed from a plea for recognition to a failed mission. I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans. It was then that the dog caught my eye.

          I froze automatically. Dogs had never bothered me before the night I'd been attacked. In no way was I an avid canine enthusiast, but I hadn't minded petting a furry head every now and then. But ever since I'd begun having nightmares about running, flashes of black fur, and eventually nothing but warm teeth and cold sky, I'd refrained from any recreational trips to the dog pound.

           In the mangy thing's defense, it didn't look at all like the dog that had taken me by the throat and shoulder and used me as its personal ragdoll. It was a run-of-the-mill junkyard dog with tangled matted brown fur, a constant pant, and no collar. Though all signs pointed to innocuous lost pet, something about it said otherwise.

          It was too still.

          Almost like a statue, the dog sat across the street on the sidewalk, staring at me. A chill flooded me, but I gathered the nerve to keep walking. About twenty feet down the street, I dared a glance over my shoulder. The stoic dog hadn't moved an inch except for its head. It was still watching me.

          I shuddered in the heavy heat and hastened my pace. With a surprisingly small amount of steps, I put the creepy dog out of my thoughts and my body closer to home. Unfortunately, my house was the last place I needed to be if I wanted to keep thoughts of her out. I would almost prefer the dog.

          She still lived there, which constantly plagued me as the worst part of her absence. She'd breathed in every room that mattered, walked through every doorway, looked out every window. My yard still bore her crash-site crater; a sight that my stomach never let go unnoticed. It was a fresh dose of poison each time I walked by it. Twice a day, at least.  A now-blurred memory of a beautiful girl, strange and luminous on my lawn pressed persistently to the forefront of my mind. No matter how many times I tried to cling to the beloved thoughts, they merged together, tricking me into forgetting little details. Weirdly enough, it killed me that I couldn't remember what her ears looked like.

         I was too broken up inside to even think her name, much less say it out loud.

I felt my jaw tighten at the thought, but forced it loose as I heard my mother singing inside. Already, I was drained. My mother had gotten worse in my opinion, her insanity spiking to new heights. Her delusions were more intense, more fractured. Her impeccably woven shawl of comfort was fraying at the seams and she knew it. I think her therapy and medications were helping, and she was coming to realize that there was a different way to live. But my beautiful mother clung tight to the dreams, stubborn and in denial.