Wandering Child

Chapter 1-Hit and Run

Eighteen. An age to remember. I remember when I was little, and my parents would throw me a big birthday party. Actually, they would throw three of them. One party for my grandparents on my father's, one for my grandparents on my mother's side, and one for my friends.

When I turned eighteen, though, it was different. When I turned eighteen, I lost myself. My mother told me it was part of growing up, and that I only just noticed it now, but it had started a long time ago. She also told me that I would find myself again. In the meantime, though, I was to behave to the best of my abilities. She was wrong. Very wrong.

When I turned eighteen, I suddenly became rebellious. I hated school and didn't even attend most days in the last few months of my graduating year. When I did attend, I always sat in the back and read a book, or headed to the library to bury myself in a book. That was strange, too.

I had suddenly become aware that I loved to read and I couldn't get enough of books. I became a recluse. I had no more friends. They all seemed to just…drift away; as I spent more and more time burying what I had left of myself in books. At the time, I didn't know how else to explain what was happening to me, other than I had lost a piece of myself on the journey to adulthood, and that I felt I would never see it again. That feeling, however, was the beginning of something more.

I wasn't born to the parents that I had at the time. My parents had never told me, but I found out later that I had been adopted. I never did get to meet my real parents. My foster parents said they were dead, but, somehow, I knew better than that. Somehow, I knew that they were alive and watching over me.

As I reminisced about the good old days, before I had to worry about graduation, I chose a third book. I had already read two that day and couldn't wait to get my hands on another. I was searching through the shelves when I came across a book that didn't seem like it belonged. Kind of like me. I thought bitterly.

I suddenly felt chilled to the bone and pulled my black sweater out of my backpack. As I was putting on my sweater, I spotted one of my former best friends. It was Tammy. Tammy had been the girl that I had poured my heart out to when I had lost my pet beagle, Sally, to lung cancer. Should I talk to her? I asked myself. Never. My little voice replied. I decided to go with my little voice, and I ignored Tammy as she crossed the library and retrieved a spot by her new best friend.

To rid my mind of the feeling that I should go talk to her, I turned back to the book in my hand. It was bound in rough, black leather and I could see, as I turned the yellow pages, that they were not fastened to the book and they looked as though they had been handwritten. The long, spidery writing was, somehow, familiar. Almost as though I had dreamt of it when I was small. That faded spidery lettering that filled my soul with longing. Longing for what, I do not know.

I turned to the front of the book and read the dedication on the inside cover: To my darling daughter, with all the love my heart contains, Daddy. A tear slid down my cheek as I remembered that I didn't have a daddy. At that time, I had begun to believe that my real father and mother were dead. Oh, how I longed to be that cherished child of the past. But I knew that I would always be a wanderer, never having a true place to call home.

I closed the leather-bound cover of the book, and something else about it caught my eye. There on the front of the book, in the top, right-hand corner were three initials: A. O. M. AOM? I thought.What does that mean? I shrugged my shoulders and decided it was worth a try to read. I had a feeling that this book would take me a long time, so I went to the counter to take it out.

The librarians knew me by name, so I wasn't startled to hear them say hello.

"That's not ours," the librarian on duty said when I presented her with the book.

"Well," I said, "I realize that it's very old and worn, but I promise to take good care of it. I won't damage it. I would never damage a book." I said, thinking they just didn't want to let me borrow it.

"You don't understand, Rebecca, it's not ours. The only reason it didn't set off the alarm when someone brought it in was probably because it doesn't have a barcode." She turned the book over and pointed to the bottom right-hand corner of the cover. "See? There's nothing there. So, if you want to read it, you have to first find the owner of the book, and then ask them if it's alright with them if you borrow it." I gave a small sigh as I took it back. "I'm sorry we can't help you." The librarian said for a final time, and turned to her computer.

"Then this book belongs to me, now." I whispered almost inaudibly. I clutched the beautiful book to my chest and walked out of the library. I had a feeling that things were starting to change for me. I knew that it had something to do with the book.

I took one last look at the inside cover and I found something interesting. There was a title. It read: Don Juan Triumphant-The Original Musical Masterpiece. Don Juan? Wasn't that the name of a character in a book? I recalled that the character was supposed to be popular among the ladies. Wasn't it from, like, a century ago? I opened the book to the middle and I realized for the first time that it wasn't a book. It was a manuscript. Someone had left their musical score in the library. That was careless of them. I thought to myself. Still, though, I could always use it. I love playing the piano. Or, at least I had just recently found out I loved playing the piano. In fact, for some strange reason, I could play any musical instrument that involved pressing keys. Except the accordion.

I closed the book and hurried home. Somehow, I had developed a sense of urgency over the past few minutes. I was almost as though something bad was going to happen if I didn't get home right away. When I left the parking lot and climbed on my bike, with the manuscript in my backpack, I spotted an older man wearing a black hoody and a pair of black pants. I immediately turned my bike around and sped down the street.

As soon as I was at least two blocks away, I stopped and turned. I saw the man lumbering into the school. Five minutes later, I heard something that I hope I never have to hear again. I heard gunshots. My body suddenly felt as though it was on fire and I gasped in pain. A shriek followed the gunshot and I saw the man run out of the school like hell. I turned my bike back around, determined to not let this man get away.

As I pedaled, I dug my phone out of the basket hanging in front of my bike and called 911.

"Nine, one, one, emergency." The almost pleasant voice came up.

"Burgundy high. Gunshots. Chasing him. Grover Street. Heading south." I panted out as I pedaled as though my life depended on it.

"A unit has just been dispatched to your location and an emergency unit is on the way to the school. Just hang in there."

I was about to answer, but I had to swerve in between some cars and I dropped my phone just as the lady was about to say something. Then a van ran over it. Dammit. I swore inwardly and faced the front again.

Amazingly, I still hadn't caught up to the guy. He was fast. Really fast. But I knew that, while on my bike, I was faster. I turned the thing that controlled the speed up on my bike and put all those years of soccer practice to use.

I caught up with the guy in seconds. I stopped in front of him so suddenly that I flew over the handlebars and into some bushes. But I had the time to see him get the wind knocked out of him.

I heard the sirens and inwardly cheered. I had done it! Three months ago, I would never have dreamed of accomplishing something like this.

I stood up quickly and was struck with a momentary bout of nausea. I ignored the urge to vomit and stalked up to the guy. I grabbed him by the collar and shook him. He was surprisingly light for someone who looked like he could bend steel. He wasn't particularly muscular, he just looked strong.

"You think you can shoot people and get away with it?" I asked, stressed out to the max and PMSing. The guy looked at me and grinned. I was horrified. Here was a guy who had just shot someone and he was smiling! Well, I would show him. Unfortunately, I didn't get my chance because the man rasped out: "Your time is near, Wanderer. Soon, you will be gone." I watched as his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he went limp. I dropped his collar and stared at the slumped body on the ground. I knew without a doubt that he was dead. How, though, was a mystery.

As the paramedics pulled up, along with the police, I stood where I was and stared at the ground, even after he had been pronounced dead by the paramedics. I looked up briefly when an officer asked me my name and what happened. Numbly, I gave it to him. As soon as he was done interrogating me, he declared that I could go home, but he would need my number and address. I wrote it down on his note pad, and he said I was free to go. I turned and left the scene. As I pushed through the crowd that had formed, I wondered: What's going to happen to me? Will I be accused of murder? And how had I known that something bad was going to happen? I shook my head. I learned later that the person had been shot in the head. They had been sitting in my favorite spot in the library.