Remember Me

Chapter Four

Omens

. . . . .

I dreamed
you were a drowned man,
crown of phosphorescent,
seaweed in your hair,
water in your shoes.
I woke up
desperate for air.

. . . . .

On Tuesday after school, I swim laps in the YMCA pool. After I told Coach Black that I was quitting the swim team, I tried to forget about swimming. Tried not to care. Tried not to miss or long for that freedom of floating, the accomplishment of feeling on top of the water; another punishment gone wrong.

And so I gave in to get rid of that missing, that longing. It's been over a month since I've swam, and I'm weak and tired long before I used to be. My streamline position suffers because my arms are sloppy and my legs are heavy. I can't do my usual flip turn at the end of a lap, and have to stop at the wall, panting like I'm a beginner.

"You're really fast," someone says from the next lane. It's an older woman in a pink swimming cap and purple goggles, and her words are more of a gasp. "How long," she breathes, "have you been swimming?"

Her deodorant is horribly pungent, and I know she didn't bother showering beforehand. "Not long enough," I reply and shoot away from the wall.

I'm not here to socialize like she is.

. . . . .

A good way to avoid eye contact and conversation is walking with your head down. Of course, it's not so good when you don't notice someone has stopped suddenly in front of you.

"Oof," that someone says as I crash into the backside of a red raincoated body, which whips around to face me. Alice.

"I'm sorry," I tell her without hardly breaking stride.

"Hey," she cries and grabs my arm. "Do me a favor."

No. No favors, let me–

"Tell me what Jasper Hale is doing," she demands, ignoring what I'm sure is a look of horror on my face. "Act like you're talking to me."

I watch as she turns back to her locker and spins the combination dial. Once the door pops open, she aims another look my way, and her eyes widen comically when she sees that I'm still looking at her and not in the desired direction.

"DO IT. You owe me."

"For what?" I ask.

"For nearly knocking me down in the hallway in front of everybody!"

I scoff. "That was an accident, and I don't think anyone noticed."

Her lips twist. "Of course not. No one notices me."

"Alice, you're wearing a red raincoat. No one could miss you."

She leans close. "You did."

That pisses me off. "Where's your red ankle boots?"

We look down at her shoes–a pair of black combat boots with silver laces and eyelets. "I don't have a red pair of boots."

She turns and pokes her head into her locker, and I go hot and cold in mortification because I've just mixed up dream Alice with reality Alice.

"What. Is. Jasper. Doing?"

When I don't answer, she straightens and gives me a look that slowly morphs into concern. "You don't look so good, Bella."

To distract her, I finally answer her question. "Looking at his phone." Not a revelation, as most of the people in this hallway are looking at their phones.

Her shoulders slump. She shrugs out of the raincoat, hangs it and begins rearranging the books on her top shelf. And what am I still doing standing here?

The collar of my shirt nearly cuts into my throat as she drags me backwards. "No, you don't. Class doesn't start for another ten minutes."

"Alice! You know what? Jasper is never going to notice you the way you want him to unless you stop noticing him." The words are out of my mouth before I realize what I've said, and I cringe as Alice latches onto them.

"What do you mean?"

I exhale heavily, wishing that the floor would just open up and swallow me. Why am I talking so much all of a sudden? "Just forget it," I say and knock her hand away from me.

"No way, Jose. Tell me what you mean, or I'm going to scream right now."

"You're an idiot–"

Her piercing scream fills the hallway, and the ensuing silence is heavy. Oh my God, I want to kill her.

"What the hell?" A boy a few lockers down asks.

"I thought I saw a spider," she says. "Sorry, it's gone, it's gone."

I glare at her with my teeth clenched. "Like I said–"

Laughing, she screams again. Adds a hop this time. Shoves at me.

"What is going on, Miss Mulligan?" The authoritative voice of a teacher is behind me. And of course he knows Alice. Everyone knows Alice.

"I thought I saw a spider," she says and shrugs.

"In this young lady's hair?" he asks dryly. "Because it looks like you're screaming at her."

"I'll stop now," Alice says with a wink. "I think I've got her attention."

I turn to the teacher. "I need to get to class."

Alice hooks her arm through one of mine. "Not yet, you don't."

"Oh, I think that's a great idea," the teacher says and guides us apart. His hand comes to rest on my shoulder, then he's pushing me along and holding little Miss Mulligan back with the other.

As I move down the hallway with a sigh of relief, Jasper Hale grins at me as I pass. He's got a nice smile and a great head of blond curly hair, so it's easy to see why Alice likes him. "She's nuts, isn't she?"

I smile for the first time in a while. "Certifiably."

. . . . .

There's a kaleidoscope of color outside my firmly closed door, highlighting the outline of it in ever-moving rainbow lines. It beckons to me.

Come. Come see.

I'm afraid. It's too colorful, too much, almost loud and oppressive in its impossible beauty. I know… I know… that if I open the door, I will be sucked into a void. But the more I resist, the more powerful the imperative to go beyond it becomes, until my body moves on its own. I see my hand in silhouette at the door, hesitating, then flattening against it, pushing it.

It sticks.

Won't open.

It's fighting me.

"Annnnnnnnnabelllllllllla," someone screams from the other side. A man's voice. Someone I know with visceral anguish, because the sound of his voice has me throwing myself against the door, but it won't open, won't open, won't open!

"Bella!" Another voice.

I'm pounding against the door and screaming, kicking at it, feeling it give, but it fights back again. Hurting me, shaking me, hitting me back.

"Bella! Bella, wake up!"

I scream up at someone who looks like Mom–what is she doing here–as Dad pins me to the bed, and her face is streaked with red tears. But they're keeping me away from the door and I scream again, because time is running out and–

But the stranger who looks like Dad won't let me go, he holds me down with impossible strength, his face a cross between death and the devil, eyes wild, hair standing on end. Tight, tight around my arms and upper body, and I can't move!

"You can't stop me! Can't stop me, can't stop, can't stop me," I think I'm blubbering. Don't know, I can't hear anything but the thunderous beat of my heart, it won't shut up.

"Oh yes, we can!" Dad says and shakes my shoulders against the mattress. "Now wake up! Wake up!"

He slaps me again, and my face is snapped to the side and I'm suddenly staring at a bunny eared cactus plant on a table.

My cactus.

It careens into focus with a slam, and I wake fully. Painful, ragged sounds erupt from my throat. Can't stop them. More and more, they come faster and harder until I'm retching and throwing up nothing over the side of my bed.

"Good God, what is it, Charlie?" Mom sobs. "What's wrong with our daughter?"

The restraints on my arms slowly ease, and I fall onto the floor at Dad's feet. "Bad dream," I gasp. "Bad dream, bad dream."

Mom stays away, but Dad pulls me halfway into his lap, where I sob bitterly against his shoulder.

"She can't go on this way," I hear Mom say. "Neither can we."

I feel him nod. Feel his body shaking. Or is it mine?

. . . . .

Poem excerpt from Cecilia Llompart's Omens. And my bad, because I rearranged it to suit the pace I wanted.

. . . . .

Please note: Tglenn76 asked if she was missing something, or if she should still be confused about what's happening.

I know there's a lot of missing context at the moment-Bella doesn't know what's going on yet, so neither will readers. I know it's confusing and frustrating to read, especially since the story's unfinished, but I hope you stick with it. I do have a loose plan and know where I want the story to go.