Magnolia In An Icestorm

Heart racing with fear. Sharp, shallow breaths seizing in my chest. Words exploding like gunfire, the smell of vodka heavy in the air. Dad found Mom's stash of the white powdery medicine she puts in her nose. She thinks I told him, the bedroom door crashes open with a crack. Mom snatches my arm, her grip like an icy vice, the bruises popping up quickly. She kicks me down the stairs, slaps my face when I cry. She'll teach me how taddle tales get treated. I swear she will kill me one day, but I use my forearms to block her blows Then, her sharp Donna Karen heel is flying towards my stomach and right when she kicks me I lurch- I sat straight up in bed inhaling gulps of air like a fish out of water, comforter still clutched in my fists and pressed against my chest. I was soaked in a disgusting layer of sweat that left my pink plaid boxer shorts and gray tank top stuck to me in the most uncomfortable of ways, the cotton all twisted and clinging like a second skin. Looking around my small one bedroom in Queens, I saw the darkened outline of all my boxes packed and stacked up with tape and bold black sharpie, the room nearly void of anything but cardboard and my panting to catch my breath. Puffing out my cheeks and slinging myself back to the bed, I flailed my arms out on my sides and closed my eyes to see if the images were still there. Still clinging to my subconscious I saw them vividly, so I decided to get up and try my other method of pushing them back down. I padded over to the full length mirror hanging over my now empty closet door and looked into my own bright emerald eyes. "I am strong. I am smart. I am beautiful. I am proud of who I am, because I fought to become her. I'm proud of who I am, because I fought to become her. I'm proud of who I am, I fought to become her." I repeated my mantra looking straight into my own fierce reflection and found the racing in my heart began to recede and calm. It was no wonder they had resurfaced, those memories always did whenever I was under any kind of stress. And I was a little stressed, or maybe anxious was a better word for what I felt. I was moving to London tomorrow, taking up residence on Baker Street. I was part of the NYU Fine Arts Department and we were invited to perform Jekyll and Hyde at the Grand Royal Drury Lane. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, but as I was soon to graduate, I wanted more. So, when a job opportunity arose from my minor, Historical Literature, I took it and applied for my work visa. Smiling and confident in my decisions, I pulled the faded photo from the corner of the mirror realizing I must have forgotten to pack it. It was my college premier as Mimi from Rent, my bestfriend Kendrick had played Mark and Kat, Katherine Nash, was Maureen. I was still under aged, nineteen to be exact but, we were in a seedy bar in the Village and I was drunk off of cheap wine for our cast party. Kendrick was posed provocatively and bent over between myself and Kat, while we made obscene hand gestures. Everyone was feeling the Boheme spirit that night, and our show had been stellar. It reminded me how much I had defied the statistics of children from abusive homes, because I had two of the greatest friends in the world, and the stage had never frightened me. In truth, I probably should have had extensive therapy for what I'd been through, but more than my past traumas I hated talking about what happened to me. We all have our demons and ghosts, mine are no different than those of many others. Likewise, this isn't fifty shades of grey and I don't have some intense need to beat anyone with a cane for what my parents put me through. That's not therapy. Neither is talking to some stranger in some chair with a pencil and paper who has no idea how I cope or who I am. More to the point, the nightmares only come up when I'm stressed, because they really aren't nightmares, they're memories surfacing from my subconscious when the walls weaken just enough in REM cycle. What can I say? I read a few books on psychology and night terrors and during finals week, I've had to pull a few psychological tricks to prevent myself from mentally melting down from those resurfacing terror tantrums. The thing is, I may have been stressed but I knew I was doing the right thing. I had always wanted to study abroad, and while leaving Savannah for New York had been a big change, that had been my parents' decision and now I needed something bigger. London had called to me from the silver screen and its brilliantly lit West End stages since I first began theatre at six. I started young because when I tried to join choir in prep school I quickly learned I had a knack for belting and couldn't quite soften myself enough to sing with the group. Plus, extra curriculars meant more time away from home, and for a kid like me there was nothing better. But I was offered a great job at a small museum in London, offering literary lectures on the great works of the ages, and I'd get to study and decipher original texts from the likes of Shakespeare, Jane Austen and many more classic authors whose words have lived on decades after their bodies have decomposed. I knew this was the opportunity of a lifetime. And while I'm doing that for steady income, I'll be auditioning for every role I can, sans British accent to add variety to the London theater scene. Now there would be an entire ocean between where I came from and who I am now. Thinking over how my life would change tomorrow, I felt that flutter of excitement and decided I should sleep. Grueling rehearsals and then the premier in two nights meant I'd need extra rest and relaxation. Singers have notoriously weaker immune systems and the last thing I needed was something putting a stopper in my peppy step. I was ready... no matter what...   The woman's body was carved like a human jack-o-lantern and then placed center stage, a single white spotlight shining down on the gruesome scene. Detective Inspector Derek, the silver fox, ran a hand over his crew cut hair and did a mental count of the victims. Four leading ladies in a month, all of them carved and lain in the spotlight of this theatre, by their hand a red rose and a note from the Phantom. He rolled his eyes knowing the forensics team would dust for prints and find nothing, the lieutenant would make biased guesses at a suspect and another show would close early. Most of the understudies were far too afraid to take the place of the women eventually found laying on the polished hardwood floor. Derek couldn't really blame them, since a trend seemed to be occurring. Fishing his mobile from his pocket he dialed the one person he knew would be less than excited to find their killer had stricken again. "Ah brother mine, how glad I am to have caught you." Michael Blakeslee said with a tight smile upon his arrival to the crime scene. Derek merely scoffed. "You knew I'd be here. You knew for how long." Derek told him, eyes narrowed. "I'm here to bring it to your attention that this case has now become a matter of national importance." he told him, voice even and face stoic as ever. "What for?" Derek asked, sounding every bit the irritated brat. He knew his brother had of course gotten him this job, knew the expectations looming. Derek was meant to close every case to prove his worth for the prestigious position.  "The New York University of Fine Arts is bringing its presentation of Jekyll and Hyde to the theatre and should one of them end up dead it will cause a great deal of strife for myself. Our relationship with the US is stable but delicate. There would be outrage if for any reason it did not appear we were imploring our best efforts.I plan to have MI6 coerce the leading lady to assist us in monitoring the performances and help us capture the guilty party." Michael told him. "I don't need your meddling Mike. And I do not care about what would be an inconvenience to you." Derek said mockingly, before turning and striding to the street corner to hail a cab back to his flat across town. In truth, he wanted to solve this case as badly as any other, but he sure did get a thrill from ruffling his elder brother's feathers. He preferred to pretend he didn't care, playing at casual as if this wasn't another serial murder.