The Hidden Prophecy Trilogy

2. Nightmares of Light-1

Kinza pushed the gate of the chain-link fence open, letting it clatter shut behind her. Even though she didn’t see anyone else the rest of the way home, she still wanted to get inside. You never knew who was out and about, lurking in the bushes.

The house was small, one-story with an attic—a few worn concrete steps leading up to a small porch. A bay window looked out onto the front lawn. Grams had taken the meager grass space and turned it into a wild garden, unchecked hydrangeas, ferns, sunflowers, and something that looked suspiciously like a w**d crept over onto the edge of the sidewalk. A little gnome was barely visible between the tall stems by the fence.

She jogged up the steps and let herself in, touching the swirling carving in the doorframe as she went inside. It looked like a series of overlapping infinity signs, with no clear beginning or end. She had no idea if it was actually lucky, but it had been there for as long as she could remember. Once, when she was twelve, she touched the carving before school, praying that she would do well on her math test. A week later, she got the results back; a perfect one hundred. Now she touched it every time, just in case. The screen door creaked as it closed, and she immediately threw the deadbolt into the lock and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Baby, is that you?” Grams called from the kitchen.

“Yeah, I’m gonna change real quick!” she called back, stepping into the hall. It was only the two of them, but the small spaces made them get creative with what they had. The front entry had shoes piled under a short bench covered in boxes, mail, plastic bags, and some of Kinza’s school books. Cases of pop sat on the floor next to it, and an overflowing coat rack hung up above, with an umbrella lying crosswise on the hooks. Kinza kicked her worn sneakers under the bench and shuffled to her room to change. She hated wearing her dirty clothes from the day in the house.

The front hall opened to the living room on the right, with the bay window looking out front. Dated but dangerously comfortable sofas faced a flat-screen tv on the side wall. Bookshelves with a hodgepodge collection of items stuck in at strategic angles stood to one side. In them were her parents" books, picture frames of them and Kinza when she was little, a medal from a spelling bee she had won in eighth grade, a picture she had drawn when she was ten, and a forgotten grocery list.

She kept going straight down the hall, passing the bathroom first and then into her bedroom on the left. Grams’ bedroom was just after, and at the end of the hallway was the backdoor.

After a quick change into a pair of men’s boxers that she bought just for comfort and an oversized t-shirt, she walked down the hall to the right and into the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, it was compact, but it was Kinza’s favorite room. Knick-knacks hung on the bright yellow walls that her mother had painted fifteen years prior. She had faint memories of sitting on the floor while her parents had slapped a few tester colors on the wall. There was a little window over the sink, looking out on the backyard, and a wooden table pushed up against the adjacent wall.

Grams was sitting at the table, hair wrapped up in a silk scarf, tying dead flowers with bits of twine. She liked to take the dead flowers and hang them on the ceiling, saying that it made her feel like she lived in a little fairy cottage. Kinza never made fun of her, even when the dried petals drifted down to collect on the linoleum.

“Lasagna in the fridge,” she said, not looking up.

“Mmm.” Kinza hummed, opening the fridge and pulling out a huge slab of lasagna before sticking the whole thing in the microwave. She sat down across from Grams and dropped her head into her arms.

“That bad, huh?” Grams asked.

Kinza just groaned into the table before flipping her head up. When she was little, she swore that Grams was an otherworldly, all-knowing being. She always seemed to know how Kinza was feeling, even if she hadn’t uttered a single word. Grams used to have Band-Aids ready when Kinza came back inside from being out all day, knowing that she would have scrapped her ankle on her bike pedal. On days when Kinza had given herself a stomach ache from worrying over her grades, Grams had a cup of ginger-chamomile tea hot and ready when she came home. She was always there, especially during the hardest times in Kinza"s life.

there, She remembered having a relatively happy childhood and parents that were strict but loving. They never had much for money, but it was enough to get by. Grams had always lived with them, babysitting when both her parents were at work. There was always someone around for Kinza to talk to, to laugh with, or on rare occasions, to argue with. The four of them would crowd in the kitchen on weeknights, everyone trying to get a bite to eat before bed, Kinza giggling at the chaos. But that was before.

She knew from the fact that the memory came up over and over and from the fact that she couldn’t ever tamp it down, it was a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder. She’d looked it up once, and there it was, nicely labeled with a neat row of symptoms. Knowing the word for it didn’t make her feel any better, though. She had gone through therapy, seen counselors, but it couldn’t erase the past.

On birthdays and holidays, she would sometimes fall asleep with the memory of Grams sobbing in the hallway, yelling at Kinza to go back outside. She had been nine, playing down the street at the park with her friends. Stomach rumbling for lunch, she ran home, hoping to get her dad to make her a PB&J with slices of banana. All she found was Grams crying on the floor, frantically waving at her to get out. She remembered being so confused, never having seen Grams like that before.

On her way back out the door, she caught a glimpse of her mother’s hand poking out from the living room; her ever-clean fingernails curled into her palm. The police sirens could be heard around the neighborhood just a few minutes later.

That night, after what seemed like a hundred people had been in and out of the house, after police officers had asked her a million questions, after the bodies had been wheeled into a van, Grams had taken her to a family friend’s house for the night. They slept there in the same bed, and Grams had told her that her parents had been murdered.

Kinza had known what that meant, but it didn’t stop her from being confused. Why would anyone murder her mother? The same woman that sang at the top of her lungs every time her favorite American Idol star came on? Why would anyone murder her father? The same man who would nod stoically along with her mother when she scolded her but would sneak her a candy bar under her door afterward? She couldn’t wrap her mind around it, and the detectives never found the suspect either. The absurdity of it had made her angry.

It took until her tenth birthday for the grief to fully hit her when she realized that her parents were never going to sing “Happy Birthday” to her ever again. She bawled in Grams’ lap for hours that day, letting out months of pent-up sorrow. Over the years, the anger and sadness eventually turned into grit, and grit eventually grew into determination. The word the counselors used was “resilient,” and she knew that was true. While she was resigned to the fact she would never know why her parents were killed, she fully intended on living a life that would make her parents proud.

why Well, she tried anyway.

Right at that moment, with four classes worth of homework, Karin’s “gentle” request to work harder tomorrow, and the smell of reheated lasagna, she was struggling a bit.

Kinza launched out of her chair, hoping that the food hadn’t splattered too much in the microwave. Grams would have her scrubbing the whole thing for hours if she did. “I just have a lot of homework,” she said.

“I was talking about those nightmares,” Grams replied, gathering bundles of dead flowers together.

Kinza froze, fork halfway to her mouth as she stood in the middle of the kitchen. “Ugh, you noticed? I didn’t think I was making that much noise.”

“Baby, I’ll wake up from a pin drop clear across town. I sure as hell can hear you tossing and turning and blabbering in your sleep.” Grams looked over, eyeing her from head to toe with a knowing expression. “It’ll be over soon. Just drink more of that lavender tea I left on the counter there.” Kinza looked over, and sure enough, a steaming mug of faintly purple tea sat by the toaster. She supposed she came home at the same time every Tuesday, but the fact that it was the perfect temperature at that exact time was impressive.

“How do you know it’ll be over soon? I’m pretty sure they are getting worse, not better. Maybe I’m allergic to that tea or something.” She sat down across from Grams again, and a few strands of hair reached down into her lasagna, so she shoved them back.

“No, no. Just drink the tea. It’ll be fine,” Grams said cryptically, brushing loose petals into a pile.

“Do all nigtmurrs get bebber beffo they gep worf?” Kinza said with a mouthful of lasagna.

“Chew your dang food, girl.” Grams laughed. She stood up to place her dried flowers in the corner where a few other bundles waited to be hung up.

Kinza finished her food and washed her plate in the sink, letting it dry on the rack. She had decided to just get up early to do her homework. “All right, I’m, like, stupid tired, so I’m going to head to bed. Night, Grams,” she said, kissing her on the cheek. She headed to her room.

“Kinza?” Grams said.

Kinza popped her head back around the corner. “Ya?”

“Drink your tea.” Kinza dutifully grabbed the mug and gulped it down. After a quick trip to the bathroom, she shuffled back to her room. Her bedroom was the smaller of the two, Grams had the master, but she liked the coziness of hers. Tangerine walls that she had painted herself made the room look bright all the time. Her bed was shoved into the corner, with a mound of pillows and blankets on top. On the other side of the room was a desk littered with homework, makeup, a flat iron, and an old dresser sat next to it. Pieces of jewelry scattered the top around papers, loose change, way too many hair products, and a picture of her and her parents on Christmas when she was little. Grams said her room looked like a bomb went off, but Kinza considered it to be more like ordered chaos. Things were exactly where she needed them to be.

Just before climbing into bed, the faint tingling sensation returned. Out of caution, she walked over to the window above her nightstand and parted the blinds, peering out.

She saw nothing but the chain-link fence surrounding their yard, the house next to them, and a sliver of the street, illuminated by the nearby streetlamp. Even at this time of night, she could hear a dog barking, neighbors yelling from two houses down, and the faint sound of an ambulance on the expressway.