Renhala

  Renhala

  an urban fantasy

  by

  Amy Joy Lutchen

  Copyright © 2012 by Amy Joy Lutchen

  ISBN: 978-0-9882815-0-9

  Publisher: Amy Joy Lutchen

  Cover art by http://phatpuppyart.com

  Cover typography by http://bookish-brunette.com

  Editor: Harrison Demchick @ http://ambitiousenterprises.com

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictious.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for you, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my husband, for his constant support of my numerous rendezvous with Earl Grey tea lattes, to my children for providing the spark that ignites, and to my mother, for simply being.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1: Mad

  Chapter 2: Damaged

  Chapter 3: Enthralled

  Chapter 4: Tender

  Chapter 5: Disillusioned

  Chapter 6: Excited

  Chapter 7: Nonsensical

  Chapter 8: Pure

  Chapter 9: Silly-willy

  Chapter 10: Bewildered

  Chapter 11: Mysterious

  Chapter 12: Deceiving

  Chapter 13: Helpless

  Chapter 14: Tense

  Chapter 15: Repulsive

  Chapter 16: Odd

  Chapter 17: Surprised

  Chapter 18: Defensive

  Chapter 19: Secret

  Chapter 20: Quick

  Chapter 21: Underestimated

  Chapter 22: Renewing

  Chapter 23: Drunk

  Chapter 24: Egotistical

  Chapter 25: Defeated

  Chapter 26: Shocking

  Chapter 27: Concerned

  Chapter 28: Missing

  Chapter 29: Desperate

  Chapter 30: Truthful

  Chapter 31: Exposed

  Chapter 32: Cold

  Chapter 33: Blue

  Chapter 34: Cute

  Chapter 35: Uncomfortable

  Chapter 36: Seductive

  Chapter 37: Welcomed

  Chapter 38: Unsuspecting

  Chapter 39: Pitiful

  Chapter 40: Proud

  Chapter 41: High

  Chapter 42: Sufferable

  Chapter 43: Accidental

  Chapter 44: Exhausted

  Chapter 45: Grumpy

  Chapter 46: Transfixed

  Chapter 47: Shocking

  Chapter 48: Wet

  Chapter 49: Fiery

  Chapter 50: Inquisitive

  Chapter 51: Hidden

  Chapter 52: Shining

  Chapter 53: Momentous

  Chapter 54: Jealous

  Chapter 55: Deadly

  Chapter 56: Remorseful

  Chapter 57: Afraid

  Chapter 58: Brave

  Chapter 59: Released

  There is absolute silence.

  Nothingness.

  A change in consciousness.

  A feeling of being watched.

  The smell of mud, of earth.

  The sensation of birth, of life, of love, of wholeness.

  The sensation of pain, of desperation, of loss, of falling apart into a million pieces.

  Chapter 1

  Mad

  It’s the incessant barking outside that brings me back to my senses. I stop fidgeting with the silver-braided ring in my hand and place it gently in my robe pocket. I gather my strength, and rise from the couch to stand at the window, peeking through the slit in the curtains, not wanting to touch the fabric for any movement signals life inside.

  The demons are out there sitting in their vans and talking between sips of hazelnut coffee, their subconscious gorging on the crimes spoken of by chattering scanners. All the while the eyes in the back of their heads screen this south side of Chicago’s low-income home, hoping for a special photographic opportunity, perhaps the one that grabs and nails that promotion they’ve been cutting throats over.

  I move from the window, trudging in my plaid baggy flannel pajamas and heavy, black terry cloth robe toward the kitchen and stop mid-way, staring at my house slippers buried in the brown shag-of-a-forest carpeting. The slippers sit there, all pink and perky, happy and smiley, with their sloppy floppy ears, staring at me with their stupid bunny eyes, their smirk attempting to defy the darkness of my depression.

  My feet slip into the slippers and make their way to the kitchen, stopping at the mirror as I slide my hand inside my pocket, feeling the smoothness of the ring and slipping it onto my much smaller-sized finger.

  My fingers then rise to touch the stitches in my lip and I brush away my long red hair from the incision on my throat. I clench my teeth and continue walking to the kitchen stove to prepare my daily cup of tea. As I grab the box of Tension Tamer, I find myself staring at a ridiculous princess sitting atop a dragon and wonder what marketing idiot came up with the idea. I plop the bag in my favorite teacup and notice a new sharp chip in the rim.

  The cup is one my mom bought me, with a cute little cottage surrounded by lilac bushes and dragonflies etched into the china and a cool rune on the back.

  The water steams as I pour it and I decide roulette on my lip shall be my excitement for the day. It beats opening and closing the front door repeatedly, forcing the camera-accessorized vermin outside to scatter, vying for the best position.

  As I bring the cup to my lips and taste the tea, I decide it needs something—something strong, much stronger than just milk and honey. As I open a lower cabinet door, I reach in deep and pull out the hidden half-full flask from behind the blue Tupperware bowls and pour the remaining contents into my tea, hoping maybe this time will be different.

  The ring keeps noisily clinging against the cup, so I take it off and place it on the counter.

  I turn, returning to my indent in my mom’s fugly couch and pick up Bear—my old and mangy stuffed teddy bear—and place him in my lap facing me. I then look around my mom’s house, a house totally void of pictures, even of myself. I imagine my mom saying, “The best film is in here,” as she points to her head.

  Reaching over and pressing the flashing play button on my mother’s digital answering machine, I hear, “Kailey, it’s Amber. I know you’re probably just sitting there, in the dark, sulking. You need to get out with me, or something. Please call. It’s been three weeks now. I need to hear your voice. I need to know you’re okay. Your mom says you are, but I want to hear it from you. I’ll be home after nine if you want to call. I’m going out on a...date.” Another pause. “I miss you. Bye.” I bring the princess’s drink of choice to my lips and gulp it as I stare at Bear, allowing images of Amber, my best friend, to spill before my eyes, ending with an oddball one of Amber asking me if Bear has fleas.

  I then feel the sudden movement of the hounds outside. My eyes tighten and I down my whole concoction, hoping for relief—anything. They are closer and I can feel their ridiculous eagerness, then I feel her. Three... two... one... The door swings open as she shouts profanities—something about cameras being shoved somewhere nameless.

  “Damn reporters!” she screams as she slams the door with her foot, her hands busy with grocery bags most likely filled with my many requests. She freezes and looks at me. “Kailey, you need to change out of those clothes. And open the curtains! And let the dog in!”

  She puts the bags down and throws open the cu
rtains, letting the unforgiving rays of the sun pierce my eyes. As she bends over to pick up my empty tea cup, she sniffs it.

  I look away, feeling no effects from the alcohol, wishing I would. “I’m an adult. Six years of experience at it, too,” I murmur, ignoring her penetrating stare by looking down at my bunny slippers. I immediately sense her worry and add, “Mom, I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I need something to take the edge off. Nothing is working!” I bite my lip, waiting for a reply.

  “What do you mean, nothing? Kailey, what else are you doing?” I look up into her eyes which have begun filling with tears.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say, “because nothing works.”

  She says nothing as she picks a newspaper out of a grocery bag and tosses it to me. “Here’s your daily newspaper, you junkie,” she says. I see her hesitate at her poor choice of words. “Why do you even read those stupid personals?”

  I pick the paper up and glance at the headline picture of some disfigured animal the nearby zoo attained, describing it as an unknown species found wandering Dan Ryan Woods. It apparently attacked three innocent joggers.

  I begin shuffling the papers to find the personals. “Some SM has to be looking for a crazy, tattered and broken SWF,” I whine.

  My mom inhales deeply and I see her wince as she bends over to pick up the bags. It brings me to my feet quickly and I say, “Mom, let me help you. You shouldn’t push it. The doctors said-” Her piercing gaze tells me to sit back on my ass, immediately. I do.

  She picks the bags up and heads into the kitchen. I hear: “I can do a simple act like bringing in groceries. Don’t worry about me. But you, my dear, will be doing the cooking.”

  From where I’m sitting, with only a little maneuvering, I can see her standing near the counter, staring at the ring on the counter. The burrow between her eyebrows deepens, and then—in a flash—she moves about, stashing away the groceries with her unnatural speed that peeks out at stressful moments. It always baffles me.

  “Don’t let those idiots outside get to you,” she advises, slamming the back door shut after letting our dog, Kioto, back inside.

  Kioto, my huge 110-pound akita, walks swiftly with her wide-spread gait through the front room, staring at me as she walks by on her journey to the front window. As she peers at the strangers outside she growls a long and deep growl, one of pure disgust. She then barks one loud noise of warning to those who have gotten too close.

  “It’s not just them! Something is wrong with me,” I sputter as I pet Kioto on her head. “I don’t know what. Maybe psychological, maybe brain damage, something. These feelings... ” I throw down the papers on the couch.

  My mom walks to me slowly, then places her hands on both my shoulders. “Honey, anyone who has gone through something as traumatic as what you went through would undoubtedly have strange feelings. Feelings of mistrust, anger, perhaps a heightened sense of empathy, are all perfectly normal. Remember what your psychiatrist said.” She then lets go of me and places the ring back in my hand as she walks toward the front window to scowl at the morons outside. She extends her middle finger through the window, humphs, and then turns to me and flashes me sign language for “I love you”: thumb, pointer and pinky finger extended while the other two fingers are bent down. This is something we’ve shared since I climbed out of the womb, and it makes its appearance at special moments.

  I return the gesture, but vent, “That quack of a psychiatrist? She never even really listened to me. She sat staring at that stupid picture of her boyfriend on her desk the whole time we were there. Oh, and occasionally glanced at the clock. I know you saw it, too. And when she did have questions for me, why were they all detailed questions about it?”

  “Him,” my mother corrects me.

  “It!” I scream as I gaze into her eyes, pleading her to believe me as my scream turns to sobs. She grabs me and holds me tight as I sob into her shirt. I wipe the fabric where my nose begins dripping ooze.

  “Don’t worry about the shirt. Just let it out, Kailey. You are going to get better. Things will get easier for you. It’s only been three weeks. It’s just going to take some time and some work, by both of us. I am going to help you through this,” she says as she squeezes harder, making my bruised rib scream in pain. “No matter what it takes, we are going to get through this,” she whispers.

  I flinch as her sudden anger actually crawls along her skin and onto me, constricting my throat like an anaconda on steroids, and I choke from it, as well as from my own tears.

  Chapter 2

  Damaged

  I pray for two months that, every time I wake up during the night to visions of my attacker and the sensation of being punched in the head, my pain would end, and the memories would stop. This was a mad thing which didn’t even blink while cutting and punching. It seemed human, but the hatred in its eyes was more; something so dark couldn’t be only human. And the arm: the grotesquely wet and slimy green arm that slipped from underneath my grip as I begged for mercy was far from human. The arm that groped and prodded private places. The arm that was recorded on security video—video footage from the rear of my apartment building that made its way to television channels, and played day, after day, along with other various recordings of other odd and extremely dangerous creatures that seem to be randomly appearing across the country.

  For two whole months, my mom cooks me my favorite foods: fried, fattening things, and we rent movies and eat popcorn and chocolate covered raisins until we feel like puking. I enjoy bonding with my mom, but eventually feel the urge to be in my own place once again—somewhere I don’t have to close the bathroom door when I pee, and somewhere I can hide without remorse. Also, the vultures that once camped outside have disappeared, to only have taken root in some others’ misery, I’m sure.

  One day, trudging through thirty-mile-per-hour winds in my childhood neighborhood and feeling exceptionally restless, a giant, blustery barrage of leaves hits me in my face, along with a page of the Chicago Tribune. I grab it off my face and quickly scan it before throwing it back to the wind. It’s a list of nearby apartments for rent, all within my price range. I continue standing, allowing the wind to pound me, as I take the ring out of my pocket, twiddling it in my hands, unknowingly.

  A bird caws, and I then make up my mind to make the move. The ring suddenly draws my attention, and as I stare at it, I think of the day it ended up in my possession. It was the second time that I could ever recall, that my mother actually spoke of my biological father.

  Soon after my attack, my mom dragged me eighty miles to meet some old stoner acquaintance of hers from her “best-forgotten past.” They spoke briefly as I waited on the front porch, and when my mom finally emerged, she simply said, “This was your father’s, once. Keep it safe.” I didn’t reply, since I was angry from making the trip with her, since it clearly stirred up memories of “a stupid asshole that abandoned a mother and child” (exact words from the first time my mother mentioned my father). And why did I need any more drama in my life? But, I have to admit that once the ring was placed in my palm, the weight and coolness of the metal seemed to ground me, almost giving me a renewed sense of support.

  I then lean forward and shuffle my feet home, gathering the courage to talk about apartments with my mother.

  After much arguing, the only reason my mom agrees to let me search for a new apartment—since I can never go back to the old—is Kioto. Kioto can scare the stink off a skunk, and always gets people backing up on the sidewalk. It’s odd thinking that the one day I needed her most, she was off at the veterinarian’s office getting fixed while her mommy was being beaten to a blood pulp. I can honestly admit I’ll still be afraid to be alone, even with her, but the thought of myself as an old maid living in my mom’s house has me packing before I’ve even found an apartment.

  After a week of viewing rental properties, in-between my mom’s numerous doctor visits, I find a cozy third-floor, one-bedroom apartment in a six-flat with plenty of people around
, not many windows, and plenty of locks on the front door.

  My mother’s uncle, Robert, and cousin, Ricky, who were there for my mother after my father left, help me move in, and make sure I have protection in my new place. It may be illegal, but who am I to argue? I feel silly, but they make sure there is something available in several rooms for self-defense. There’s a Taser in the kitchen drawer, a few choice weapons (which feel mighty comfortable in my hands) on closet shelves and a five-pound decorative marble ball next to my couch, courtesy of my mom. Kioto is there, too, and she sniffs around the place, checking out all the dark spots, then returns to me, apparently agreeing with my choice. She nuzzles under my hand and licks me once before turning to walk to the front door, nestling into a ball.

  After a lunch of Mexican food, permission to reside is granted by my relatives after much checking of locks and views from my windows, and my great-uncle and cousin leave, walking to their respective car and truck, leaving just my mom with me. I cannot say goodbye to her as she packs up her purse, preparing to leave, because I’m scared. Our eyes meet as she picks her head up, and she says one word: “Sleepover?” I nod, and she pulls out an overnight bag that I never noticed from a pile of my boxes. But as she does, she quickly bends over, reaching to her side near her back. I quickly grab her as she says, “I’m fine! I’m fine. Just a hard day for me.”

  “Your hard days seem to be increasing in number,” I declare, as I help her unpack her pajamas and numerous heating pads. She brushes me off, telling me there’s plenty other things to do besides look in her bag at her underwear.

  “Believe me, they’re nothing to look at,” I joke. She whips me in the butt with a towel.

  I rub where she snapped me and then attempt to move a box that I saw her carry in today and realize that it was most likely one of the heaviest boxes of the day. She moves into the bathroom to unpack her toiletries and I start crying to myself, softly.

  Mom may be only fifty-five years old, but she has the body of a seventy-five-year old. She’s been cursed with polycystic kidney disease, and has scars up the wazoo from various attempts at shunt sites for dialysis. She has a spine made up of some experimental foam never approved by the FDA, a clamp in her brain to keep an aneurysm from exploding in her head, and someone else’s kidney in her body. Bad things do indeed happen to good people.