The Road That Leads Nowhere:
Chapter One
I'm in the garage, it's past midnight, and though there is a fog clouding my vision indicating me that maybe this is a dream, I can't help thinking that this odd sensation in my bones is too real to be ignored. I came down here, sleepwalked maybe, and got inside my father's car, and I'm still here. Sitting in the dark.
I've always liked this car. It's an old Land Rover. We've had it since forever. Since I can remember, at least. It smells like dust.
Mom told me that there was a time when they, she and dad, did nothing but travel the country with this same Land Rover. That was a long time ago, before I was born. They didn't know where to settle, she told didn't want to. Being young as they were, just married, it felt like their lives had just started. Why stop moving? But in the end they had to kind of make do with where they ended up when they found they'd be having me.
I always thought that maybe it wasn't appropriate - some of the stories my mother told me. But… I can't say I didn't like to listen. The way she talked of the brisk mornings far up north that she'd wake up inside a shabby tent that did nothing to keep the cold at bay with its five inch gash, how she'd curl up against my father's side, looking for warmth, the chirping of the locals birds by the roadside and the grass tickling her face - it felt as if I'd lived it all myself. A little embarrassment every now and then - from listening just when and where I'd been conceived, for example - was worth stories like these.
Sitting here inside the old Rover, I get that same sensation when my mother sits me at the kitchen table and serves me biscuits and milk and starts telling me of when she was young. She always said I was more sensitive than the norm, but that's alright because people used to tell her the same and wanted to fix her head for her, but she knew it wasn't anything harmful.
It's a thing of the heart, she tells me. Some are more open, some not so much. Don't tell your father, I've always kept it a secret from him, but you and I are special. There will be times that you feel like somebody's watching you, or you'll be the one watching… Don't be scared. It's never hurt me; I don't expect it to hurt you.
Up until this night I'd never felt the need to be scared. Most of the feelings I get - I call them feelings because I can't find a better definition - are fleeting and soft. Have you ever woken up in the mornings and felt the brush of your hair against your forehead? Slightly ticklish. They're a little like that, but I don't know where these feelings come from. Or if somebody sends them. If this is the case, then it must be somebody very far away, or maybe there's a veil of static obstructing the message from getting through complete.
The only thing I know right now, lost in this dreamlike fog, is my mother. I know she's away visiting grandpa, but if I close my eyes I know - even before I do so - that I'll see her walking down a dark path, alone. I know that something isn't right, because my mother knows it too, but neither of us can react quick enough when the shadow jumps at us.
I ask them, Who are you? But they can't hear me. Only mom can. She knows I'm here with her. I don't want to be here feeling, as she does, the panic surging from a dark primeval place in us. I so badly want to escape the sharp pain, the tight grip and the stench like mud and animal feces mixed together in the rain, but mom wants me to stay. She needs me, she tells me without words. She doesn't want to be alone.
It's all over in ten minutes, maybe less. I knew it before it even happened, felt it coming and still I couldn't do anything fast enough, saw myself laying there by mother's side on the desolate road that leads nowhere. I know it before I open my eyes again, before my father is jostled awake by the call.
My mother is dead; I feel it in my heart.
A/N: First chapter is short, so next one will come out tomorrow. Just this once. I've like, four chapters ready to go. That's pretty good, right? They're kinda short though. Who am I kidding, I can never finish these things. This is one story I really love though. I invested myself in it.
Here's what I think of good stories: They are honest. They are like friends. They trust you to understand them even if they are not sure they understand themselves. Good stories are honest and they keep you company. They make you feel like there's this other place full of these people that you suddenly start caring about. I certainly started caring about some of the characters (specially Morgan), so I don't want to leave this unfinished. I'll try to make it good for the readers too, of course. I hope this is an interesting story.
If you're wondering - like one of my betas who can't finish reading one chapter before asking questions even though the answers he seeks are like, in the paragraph that follows right away -, What is this chapter? It's a prelude, sort of. Be patient. All will be explained next chappy. Most. All you need to know as of right now is, Morgan knows things. Yes. Supernatural thingies are involved.