Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html Never Alone The rough bark of the tree bit into my back as I pressed against it, terror forced my heart into a frantic staccato rhythm. The wan moonlight from the crescent moon above filtered through the bare branches above me, allowing me enough light to see shapes and forms, but nothing in detail. I tried to control my gasping breath, knowing the slightest sound could give me away and lead to my death. I was being hunted. I was the prey. I heard something approaching, thrashing noisily through the dry leaves behind me. Only my hunter would be so careless as to make so much noise. Stealth was no longer to his advantage; I knew he was coming for me and we both knew he wouldn't stop until I was dead. I could stay still and hope he passed me by or I could make a run for it and hope to outrun him. Fear won out over reason and I launched myself away from the dubious security of the tree. Maybe the noise the hunter was making would drown out the sounds I made as I fled blindly through the trees. It seemed like the very forest was conspiring against me. Branches smacked across my face as brambles grabbed greedily at my clothes. I tripped and stumbled over roots that were seemingly thrust between my feet. Each time I fell, I doggedly bounced back to my feet and continued running. I knew I was bleeding, I could feel the warm liquid running down my face, mixing with the cold sweat of panic, but I felt no pain. I had no room for anything but fear and the will to survive. Suddenly, I burst into a clearing. My mind barely had time to register the rectangular hole gaping obscenely in my path like a grave waiting eagerly for its grisly occupant. I veered to the left in an attempt to avoid it, but I came too close, my foot fell at the edge of the opening and the soft earth crumbled, sending me crashing into the black void. It wasn't as deep as I'd thought; only a couple feet at the most. I struggled to get up again, but this time agonizing pain shot down my leg and I collapsed back to the earth. I rolled over just as a dark shadow fell over me. I looked up to find a figure looming over me, silhouetted against the sky, his features cloaked in darkness. The hunter had caught his prey. I knew with a sudden grim certainty that this was to be my grave. * * * I awoke with a start, my heart pounding and my T-shirt wet with cold sweat. I sat up, pushing my Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html damp hair away from my face and took deep, gulping breaths.Calm down , I told myself. It was just a dream--the same dream I've been having periodically for years now. I used to wake the whole house up as I came up out of the nightmare screaming and crying. I'd learned to control my reaction somewhat, but it was still no less terrifying. Eventually, my heart rate began to return to normal and my breathing evened out. I was wide-awake now and knew from experience I wouldn't be getting much sleep for the rest of the night. I glanced over at my clock radio and saw that it was almostfour o'clockin the morning.It could have been worse, I thought with a sigh. The last time I'd had the dream a couple months ago I woke up at two-thirty. I'd barely made it through the next day at school I'd been so tired. I slid out of bed and peeled off the clammy T-shirt. Unlike my dream, the sky was brightening with false dawn and my room was lit with the ghostly illumination. I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror on the back of my door and stopped. I looked awful. My shoulder length black hair hung damp and limp, framing my face with its sticky tendrils. Dark circles surrounded my deep brown almond-shaped eyes, set in a broad face with high cheekbones. No one ever had any trouble guessing that I was of Native American heritage. I fit theHollywoodstereotype perfectly, even down to my less-than-average height and lean, fit body. Throw a loincloth around my narrow hips and I was ready for my close-up. My looks came to me naturally. My mother was a member of a local tribe called the Mocatans and my father was a Lenape Indian fromNew Jersey. They'd met at a Powwow back in the days when Dad was a championship competitive dancer and were married a year later. I was born less than a year after that and, in a fit of Native pride, I was named Jacy, Native American for `moon'. I may have looked like your typical Hollywood Indian, but my life was far from it. Instead of living in a wigwam in a serene village, I lived with my family in a two story farm house in a small town inMaryland - and our home life was anything but serene. I was the oldest of six kids, and at sixteen, I was expected to take on a lot of responsibility. I didn't really resent it, but my parents were pretty strict and their expectations were maybe just a little high. Between school, my part-time job at the Dairy Queen, and my family responsibilities, I didn't have much time for myself. I moved away from the mirror and groaned softly as I remembered what day it was: Sunday. See, my family is very religious. Before you start conjuring up images of me in a sweat lodge, it's important to know that shortly after I was born, my parents “found the Lord” (who knew he was missing?) and became born-again Baptists. This meant that in a few hours, we'd all bundle into the family van and set off to Sunday School. Don't get me wrong, I don't really have a problem with God or church or whatever, but I haven't really decided if it's all for me just yet. I resented being told what to believe Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html without being allowed any say in the matter. I walked over to the window and lightly touched the painting sitting on the easel.Still wet. Art was my therapy. Whenever I needed to get away for a while, I'd lock myself in my room and paint. Oil paintings were scattered around my room, leaning against the walls, propped up on my dresser, and stacked under my bed, even in my closet. I guess if I had to categorize my work, which I was loathe to do, I would have to call it abstract. Some of the images were recognizable if you used your imagination, but some were just designs that held significance to no one but me, expressions of my emotional state at the time they were created. Only a few close friends had ever seen my paintings, and none of them had known quite what to make of them. Not even my family had seen them. I bought all my own supplies, which was the main purpose of my part-time job. I moved the canvas on the easel off to one side and propped up a new one; its crisp whiteness a little intimidating at first. I'd prepped the canvas already, so I could just start painting. I squeezed out some fresh pigment onto my palette, dipped in my brush, and began to paint. I'd chosen dark, brooding colors to match my mood. I slowly got lost in the creative trance I seem to slip into when I'm painting. I didn't notice as the room started to brighten with the sunrise, or when the sounds of my family waking up began. The next thing I knew, Mom was banging on my door. “Jacy, are you up?” she called, causing me to jump as my concentration was broken. I blinked in confusion for a second before answering. “Yeah, I'm up,” I called back. “You'd better get a shower now or you won't have time for breakfast,” she said. I listened to her footsteps retreating down the hall as I stared at the almost completed painting before me. Consciously, I hadn't been painting anything in particular, but apparently my subconscious had been busy. The painting was all dark blues, purples, and black; dark vertical stripes against an only slightly lighter background. It was very foreboding and it didn't take much imagination to recognize this painting; it was clearly the setting from my dream. With a sigh, I dropped my brush in the jar of paint thinner and painfully forced my cramped fingers to open. I'd been painting for hours without a break and my hands were complaining bitterly. I picked up the painting and carried it to my closet, where I carefully set at the front of the stack of paintings I kept there. I called them my Nightmare Series. I had one for every time I'd had the nightmare since I started painting about a year ago. They all bore a striking similarity but only a few were finished, Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html and those had been painted all in one sitting. I never went back to them; in fact, I never looked at them again once they were put away in the closet. I closed the closet door and went to get ready for church. * * * Isn't it funny how you can look back on your life and see how, if certain things hadn't happened exactly as they did, your life would have turned out so drastically different? Things that seem so terribly insignificant at the time turn out to be major life altering events when looked at from the right perspective and the things that seem of such great consequence often lose their importance with time. One thing I've learned is that it's the little things you have to watch out for. It was a couple days after I'd had the last nightmare and I was working at Dairy Queen after school. I was at the front counter, which meant I was taking orders, serving ice cream, making milkshakes and so on. It's always busier at the front counter during hot weather and today wasn't an exception. I'd just served up two ice cream cones when they walked in. I'd seen the girl around at school. She'd been in a couple of my classes, but I couldn't remember her name. She was an attractive girl, dark chocolate skin, glossy black hair that she now wore tied back with a colorful scarf, warm brown eyes behind small glasses. It was her friend that caught my attention however. He was tall and thin, short dark hair that he wore carefully messy, dark brown eyes under impossibly long, dark lashes, and his skin tone was the same as mine. I knew immediately that he had to be an American Indian as well. I'd never seen him before, I was sure I would remember him if I had. I couldn't seem to tear my eyes away from him as they approached the counter. What was going on with me? I'd seen better looking guys than him before, but they'd never captured my attention like this. There was just something about him, something that I couldn't look away from. Thank goodness, neither of them had so much as glanced in my direction; they seemed to be caught up in an argument of some sort. “I don't know why it's such a big deal,” the girl was saying in a very annoyed tone of voice. “All I said was that I didn't want to meet him,” he snapped back, his eyes flashing with barely controlled anger. “You're the one making a big deal out of this.” Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html “Two chocolate chip cookie dough Blizzards,” she ordered, still without looking in my direction. As I made the desserts, I continued to shamelessly eavesdrop. Hey, if you're going to have a loud argument in a public place you should expect to be overheard. “Why don't you want to meet him?” she demanded. “Why do I have to give you a reason? Why can't you just accept that I don't want to? Maybe I have reasons I don't want to share with you.” “I thought I was your best friend.” “Oh for God's sake, you're such a drama queen.” “I'm a drama queen? If that isn't the pot calling the kettle black!” “It's not like you tell me every little detail about your life.” “I practically do. I just don't understand why you can't tell me why. He's such a nice guy.” “I didn't say he wasn't a nice guy.” “Then why won't you meet him?” “Can we just drop this? Please?” They fell into an uneasy silence as I thought about their words. Could he be gay? It sure sounded like it from their conversation. I didn't know any gay guys personally, although there were a few at my school. I'd certainly never considered myself gay. I was attracted to girls even though I'd never dated -- my Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html parents thought I was too young. I'd never really been attracted to guys…at least before now. I glanced over my shoulder to find him watching me appraisingly. I felt a blush immediately spring to my cheeks as my head snapped back around. Luckily, my skin tone is dark enough that a blush doesn't show easily. He probably knew I'd been listening now. How embarrassing. I concentrated on their Blizzards, which were almost done. “It's because he's chubby, isn't it?” the girl snapped just as I was turning around with their finished desserts. The guy gave a huge beleaguered sigh. “Look, he's just not my type, ok?” He gave me a smoldering smile and I almost tripped over my feet. “Unlike him,” he said deliberately locking his eyes with mine. If I hadn't set the Blizzards down already, I'm sure I would have dropped them. As it was, my mouth went dry and I suddenly couldn't seem to remember what to do next. The girl gave me an exasperated look. “How much do I owe you?” she asked slowly, as if she was talking to a mentally challenged child. I shook myself a bit and quickly rang them up with a shaking hand. “I'll get it,” the guy said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wallet. He counted out the exact change, his fingers scraping suggestively against my palm as he handed me the money. He smiled again as they turned to go. “I don't know why you do that,” his friend hissed. “Do what?” he asked innocently, shooting me a final glance over his shoulder. “Mess with poor boys' heads like that.” Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html “Don't start.” I watched as they left, still arguing as they went. I wondered if that was how they always were and, if so, why they were friends in the first place. I took the next person's order, but kept an eye on the two of them as they walked across the parking lot. I was filling a cup with soda when I felt the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stand up. I spun around to see the guy and girl still arguing. She'd stopped walking and he was slowly backing away from her, gesturing angrily with one hand. While I watched, he reached the curb without realizing it and stumbled off…right into the path of an oncoming bright red car. I watched in horror as the car threw his body into the air like a rag doll. I couldn't hear from inside, but imagined the sickening thud as he slammed into the ground and lay there unmoving. I gave a strangled shout and dropped the soda. I couldn't believe no one else even seemed to notice what had happened right outside. I leaped over the counter and ran for the door, exploding out into the intense humidity of the September afternoon. I came to a skidding halt as I realized they were both standing in the middle of the parking lot, still arguing. What was going on? Had I imagined that whole scene? Their words were lost to me as I stood there trying to figure out if I was losing my mind. I rubbed my face and when I dropped my hands, the guy had started slowly backing away from the girl, gesturing angrily with one hand. I felt a chill sweep over my entire body as the hair on my neck once more stood up on end. My mouth worked for a few seconds but nothing came out. Just as he was about to step back off the curb I found my voice. “Hey!” I yelled. He stopped and his eyes met mine as the girl turned to give me a look that clearly said, “Drop dead.” The red car drove by harmlessly behind the boy. I registered all this with half a thought, since most of my brain had stopped thinking about anything else the second his eyes had met mine. “What?” the girl demanded. “I…you…” I had no idea what to say now. My mind went completely blank. “Be careful crossing Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html the street,” I finished weakly. The guy raised one eyebrow as a slow, sultry smile spread across his face. “We'll do that,” he said, his voice making the words sound impossibly sexy. “Thanks for the reminder.” He turned and made an exaggerated point of looking both ways, then turned back to me. “How's that?” he asked. My face was burning in what I was sure had to be a visible blush this time. Great, now he thought I was a complete nutcase. And maybe I was. I still didn't understand what had just happened. Of course, why did it even matter what he thought of me. I'd probably never seen him again. Instead of answering, I turned and walked back inside. My manager was waiting at the counter. “What was that about?” she asked, sounding rather irritated. “I…” Once again I was at a loss for words. What was I supposed to say? That I'd had some weird psychic moment, seen the future, and rushed out to save a life? Yeah right. I didn't even buy that one. “I thought I was going to get sick,” I managed to say. Come to think of it, I just might. I must have looked as bad as I felt, because she seemed to accept my excuse. She really wasn't a bad boss at all. She pressed a hand to my forehead. “Maybe you should just go home for the day, get some rest.” I nodded gratefully and slipped off my apron. That sounded like a great idea. “What are you doing home early?” Mom asked brusquely as I came through the back door. I sighed. Mom was okay, but she wasn't the most maternal woman you'll ever meet. She could definitely be a little controlling at times. I was basically a good kid so it didn't bother me too much, but she often gave my younger brother Michael a hard time. “I was feeling sick at work so they sent me home,” I said. Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html Mom's eyes narrowed. “Then you'd better go on up to your room,” she said quickly. “I don't want some virus going through the whole house.” I wasn't about to argue. I climbed the stairs to the second floor and quickly shut myself into my room. Being the oldest had its advantages. I'm the only one with a room to myself. My two younger brothers, Michael, who is fourteen, and Raphael, eleven, share one room. So do my three little sisters, the twins Gabrielle and Ariel were nine and the baby of the family Dina, who is five-years-old. I threw myself across my bed and allowed myself to think about what had happened at work for the first time. Not that I had any idea what had happened. None of it made any sense to me. Or it did, but my mind refused to accept the obvious explanation. I didn't believe in all that psychic mumbo-jumbo…did I? I was so confused. I pondered it all for a while before finally just deciding to ignore it. It's not like I ever talked to the girl and chances were that I'd never see the guy again. I felt a strange pang of regret at that last thought. What was it about that guy that had so totally swept me away? There was no way I could be gay. Mom and Dad would totally freak out. Besides, I liked girls. A nagging voice at the back of my mind suggested that maybe I was bisexual, but I quickly told it to shut up and mind its own business. I thought about trying to paint, but I wasn't really in the mood. I dozed off eventually and didn't wake up until someone tapped on my door. “Huh?” I grunted groggily. The door opened and Michael stuck his head in. “Mom wanted me to see if you want dinner,” he said. I blinked at him for a second before the words sank in. “Yeah, I guess,” I said, sitting up. He pushed the door open and came in with a plate piled with food. “Thought you might so I made you a plate,” he said with a grin. “I can't eat all that,” I protested. Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html His grin grew wider. “I know. I'll help you.” I couldn't help but laugh. Mikey seemed to be at that age when his stomach turned into a bottomless pit. He could consume huge amounts of food and still not be full. “Mom still doesn't want me around the rest of the family?” I asked as I cleaned off the small table I kept next to the easel to hold all my art supplies. “Nope. She's not taking any risks. Apparently, I'm an acceptable loss.” I laughed again. Mom and Michael were constantly butting heads. It wasn't that he was a bad kid, but he was definitely headstrong and determined to do things his own way. I pulled the table over to the bed to we could both sit and eat. As he set down the huge plate of food, I noticed his eyes drinking in every detail of the room. He didn't come in my room very often, and when he did it was usually only for a few seconds to give me some message from Mom or Dad. I suddenly felt very self-conscious. His eyes fell on the painting sitting on the easel. It was my latest work-in-progress, a loosely interpreted landscape using bright primary colors. “So this is what you do when you lock yourself up in here?” he asked, flipping off the question as if commenting on the weather. I nodded. He stood up to get a closer look. “Be careful; it's still wet,” I said when he reached for it. He observed it quietly for a few minutes, then turned his attention to some of the other canvases I had stacked around the room. The food was all but forgotten; his reaction to my work my only thought. After several minutes of inspection, he turned to me with a surprised expression. “These are really good,” he said.