Aon

Chapter One

Horror couldn’t describe how I felt. Nor could the words pain and shock give visual aid to my emotions in that moment. How did it come to this? Why did it have to end this way? Those questions raced through my mind all at once. The warm sticky blood coated my trembling hands as I grasped his cheeks desperately in hope.

“Liam, look at me! Say something!” I pleaded.

His eyes remained unfocused as he gasped and trembled on the cold, hard pavement. The hole in his chest pulsed with blood like a physical heartbeat. The thick liquid pooling around his icy body with its rusty metallic scent.

“R-run, Anne.” He choked, spitting up blood as he clutched onto my arms.

“Liam! No, no, no, don’t do this to me. –Liam, come back! Don’t go –oh God, please! You can’t-”

He choked and gargled, his body suddenly stiffening. His eyes widened as the thick crimson fluid trickled down the corners of his mouth. I froze in horror, every beat my heart gave, was slowed to a tormenting thud inside of my ears. I couldn’t breathe as words caught in my throat; couldn't see with the tears blurring my vision.

“No!” I shrieked.

I screamed and shook him as the light –the soul –the depth in his eyes slowly began to fade. His eyes peered up into the heavens with an unnatural and emotionless gaze.

“Liam?” I rasped, the footsteps behind me growing closer. “Don’t leave me…”

“Your turn, sweetheart.” The voice slithered.

I didn’t fear my death. Instead I lifted my chin and looked up into the empty shadows. When I looked, he stood in the darkness waiting like the spirit of death. His dark brown orbs peered back at me as I waited in fear for what was to come. The gun clicked and I knew the gunmen had set his aim on me, cowardly taking aim on my back.

“Come my flesh and come my heart,” the song left his unmoving lips, “-follow me across the wood. Put your eyes upon the blaze, stretch your hand and grasp for me.”

He extended a hand to me, his palm igniting with a black flame. It moved like a black mass slowly frothing out from his flesh and creeping through his fingers. I lifted my hand to grasp it, when the gun thundered its fatal blow. My body jerked forward, frozen as the bullet tore through flesh and drew out my last breath. He gazed at me as the pain enveloped, slowly pulling me under, deeper and deeper into the abyss of nothingness. Deep down where shrieks of dread and cries of pain wailed.

“Filthy Aon.” The gunmen spat.

I scream of terror tore out of my throat as I sat erect and strangled the covers tightly in my grasp. My eyes snapped around the room in fear while my heart soared and my body trembled. I was surrounded by the darkness of my bedroom, with the familiar rattle of the rotating fan at the foot of my bed. A cold sweat beaded across my temples and throat as I gasped to gain back the breath I lost in my scream.

I went through all of the emotions again. The shock, the horror, and the pain I had endured in those moments. I couldn’t keep away the tears and the cries that made me rock back and forth in a self-soothing manner. It was as if it happened again. As if I awoke in the hospital in relief to be alive, only to learn Liam didn't make it.

I cried my throat raw and until my eyes were swollen and sore from the constant wiping of my eyes. I couldn’t brush it under the rug like I could by day. Dusk always brought the visions back. It wasn’t just a nightmare, if it were, my brother would have rushed in wielding a bat instead of being six feet underground. He died over two years ago, when I was eighteen. And yet, it feels as if he died just yesterday. Who would have that a grocery run would have ended like that?

I’m twenty now, but I feel as if I’m locked back in time. Back in that distant alley, where the blood used to stain the pavement and the walls echoed its past. I had seen a counselor after it happened, Mrs. Morris. Such a lively lady, I pity her for the silence and violent tendencies I put her through. They shoved pills down my throat and coaxed me into believing it was a part of gang violence. But they couldn’t help me forget, no one could.

I was kept in a hospital room for almost two weeks, so I could be observed carefully. Not just because of my wounds, but for my mental state. Of course, I was sane, but when I made no move to speak to them and the nightmares woke me in a panic. It took all the nurses on the night-shift to restrain me. All I could see was the masked figures coming for me, echoing those last two words before the gun fired. It usually wasn’t until I was strapped to the bed, with sedatives being pumped into my veins that I realized where I was and what had happened.

My records claim I have P.T.S.D. –Post Traumatic Stress Disorder– and I was assigned medication; a bright blue and yellow pill to keep the flashbacks and dreams at bay. But it never works, they always come back with vengeance, adding in him with ever nightmare. Who I have decided to call, The Spirit of Death. He wasn’t even there that day, I have not a clue who he actually is. I only know he appears in my dreams now, never helping, always mockingly watching and singing that hypnotic tune.

I had counselors after the incident, but I never truly cared if someone thought I was sane or insane. I would simply stare at them until the hour was up, then stand and leave once I was allowed. I had become isolated and distant, it was all I could do to endure the nightmares and the strange dreams I awoke from in terror and confusion. Sure, I was never a social person to begin with. But it didn't help me gain any more confidence than I already had when it comes to trusting strangers.

I racked my shaky fingers through my damp hair repetitively in an attempt to calm myself. But it was useless, every time I closed my eyes, I’d see it replay before me again. Just the thought, it turned my stomach and made my mouth water in nausea.

It was true. I was shot, but somehow, I survived in pure luck. The bullet had missed my heart and lung and settled beneath my left shoulder blade. I didn’t know who the shooters were, or why they had done it. It has been tormenting me these last two years without knowing. I only knew that the masked female and male had somehow known Liam and me, but they never revealed why they were after us. It left me on edge, and it took over a year for me to convince myself that the people I met on the streets weren't them. But even to this day, I question everyone that surrounds me.

They shot Liam, not because they were after him per se, but because he was protecting me. He threw himself in front of me like a shield and took the bullet without hesitation. He always had protected me, but I never knew why or from who. What had they wanted? Why did it have to be me and Liam? Why didn’t they just shoot me and leave him be? Did they know I survived? And if they did…

Why haven’t they gotten me yet?

I shuddered away from the thought and shoved away the covers as my stomach churned. I needed to get out of the room, away from the darkness and reoccurring nightmares. I stumbled blindly to the doorway as the watering of my mouth triggered the gag reflex. I hurried down the street lit hall of my apartment building, with a hand tightly clasped over my mouth to keep whatever came up –down.

I quickly flicked on the bathroom light and thrusted open the toilet seat just as I began to dry heave. Nothing would come up; my stomach was empty and the only thing I could get up was stomach acid and saliva. By the time the last heave came, my throat was rubbed raw and my stomach ached from the muscles that spasmed in each heave. I shakily slumped back against the wall, an arm limp over the porcelain bowl, and my cheek pressed against the cool edge as I peered around the tiled room. I was mixed between emptiness and exhaustion.

I was alone, I have been since Liam died. I was a homebody. I didn’t have many ‘friends’, if you want to call them that. I have regretted my decision to keep people at an arm’s length at times, but I’d rather suffer alone and torment myself than cause another mortal misery.

I wanted to curl into a ball, to deflect what had happened as much as I could. But I couldn’t. I had a job to get to in just three hours.

It was a hassle to get onto my feet again, a tremble wobbled my legs and the lack of sleep left me lightheaded. The nightmares came every night, with Liam dying before me and him suddenly appearing. It’s stressful trying to balance work and the lack of sleep I suffer every night. One day, I would just like to go to bed and wake up, without remembering a single thing in my dreams, without feeling the pain, without fearing the past… but I now know that it is impossible. I will forever have these nightmares. With or without my medication, it will always torment me.

I sighed once I gained footing, combing back my damp, tangled, ginger locks with my fingers. When my eyes caught the glass of the mirror, I almost flinched away from it. My green eyes were bloodshot to the point it looked rather alarming, and my cheeks were red and swollen from crying. I looked absolutely horrific, which has been happening a lot lately.

I couldn’t sleep, it was no use to even try with my thoughts whirling and blurring. If I were to try, I would certainly wake again even worse than before. Instead, I flipped on all the lights in the apartment for precaution. It was a habit that I began to find some sort of comfort. I hastily began to dress into my uniform that consisted on a pair of denim jeans and a red and white polo, then coiled my lengthy hair into a bun. I took my time. I had no rush. The bus ride alone to work would leave me enough time to think. At least the daily morning routine left me something to think about, other than Liam, him, or any other horrific nightmare my mind seems to create.

By six O’clock, I had at least three cups of black bitter coffee to tie me over until the espresso heading into work. It wasn’t my favorite, if anything, I had to force it in without triggering the gag reflex again. I was on a buzz that left me lightheaded and nauseous, but that strange feeling had become the norm in my life. It was the way I coped. The way I survived.

I hardly remember the bus ride down First St. or the familiar streets of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, then up towards Market Street where the rustle and bustle lied. But I never usually do, my thoughts are usually my main attention point during that time. By the time I remember anything or acknowledge where I’m at, I’m usually standing just outside the doors of Benny’s Grub. It wasn’t the best job and it didn’t pay much, but it was the only job I could get at the time with my medical problem. A lot of jobs turned me down because the label P.T.S.D. seemed to scream ‘mental nutcase’ to most employers. I didn’t show signs of it, but they simply didn’t want to hire someone who could suddenly snap. But I couldn’t complain, at least I was paid to stand behind the counter, take orders, and give the customers their food and drinks.

It was somewhat of a cozy development, tightly nestled between a thrift shop and a hair salon. It was a bricked building, with an attachable awning colored in red and white. The green door sat ajar, scrapping the sidewalk whenever a customer graced us with their presence. A wide window, half the length of the front, gave a nice view of the used car dealership across the street. In bold black letters that were beginning to peel away read Benny's Grub. The original owner passed away about six years ago, now it's run by his grandson.

But don’t be fooled, even though it doesn’t sound like much on ink and paper, it kills my back and makes my feet sore by the end of my shift from being on my feet all day. Besides natural aches and pains, I still have problems with where the bullet stopped, that shoulder gives me trouble and most of the time I find myself having to sit to breathe. I should probably exercise and seek out further physical therapy, but I saw no use sometimes. I had nothing and no one to please, I was merely a capsule with no reason or goal to achieve.

When I walked through the front door, I was greeted by the bell and a nod of acknowledgment by Angie, the griller of the day. She was a sweet little lady in her mid-forties, with round cheeks and large pale blue eyes. She was about an inch taller than me, ranging at 5ft 1, with a stout form she wore proudly in womanly curves. She was like an Aunt in some ways with how much she thrived on gossip, sometimes motherly in others. It depended on her mood.

“How was your weekend?” She inquired as I slipped behind the counter.

“Fine.” I sighed, tying the red apron around my waist.

“What did you do?”

“I read a book and binged on takeout.”

“That’s my girl.” She grinned.

The only person that knew of my medical condition was my manager. I was allowed to keep it a secret from my coworkers. The only complication was popping the pills at lunch and supper, but no one asked why I took the bright blue and yellow pill. They simply turned the other way whenever I popped them into my mouth.

Angie and I were the only ones in the building until Josh, Becca, and Timothy showed up at seven. They were between the ages of sixteen and twenty, a bit rowdy and loud for my taste. So, I mostly ignored their flirting back and forth, their pranks, and their banters. They created their own drama and I was in no mood to get involved. I took my breaks with them, but it was a mutual understanding: I ignored you, you ignore me, and we live happily.

I mostly associated with Angie, but even then, I didn’t bring my personal life to work, or take work drama home with me. It was a work standard Liam had taught me as I grew up, and one I lived by to this very day. He had always tried to instill the leadership value into me, to teach me to become a leader, to overcome struggles and lift my head and continue on unscathed. He always told me, “You were made for great, Anne. No matter what happens, don’t forget who you are”. Well, so far, I haven’t exactly lived up to his words… I mean, I’m working in a burger joint.

By lunch rush, I was on my sixth coffee and sweating buckets. The heat of the fryers and grills, and the constant moving from station to station makes the building rather stuffy and hot in my view. Didn’t really mingle well with my asthma, to say the least. My cheeks were beet red, my movements jittery from the coffee, and my bangs had loosened from the bun and pasted fast to my cheeks and neck. I probably didn’t look pleasant, because most of the customers I greeted and smiled at looked rather perplexed or confused by my appearance. I suppose they thought I would answer them sharply or spit in their diet Sprite in spite. I wasn’t the type to let my emotions get into my line of work. I was there for the paycheck and to wear a happy smile while I’m at it. Not to depress everyone with my tales of woe.

At one O’clock I had a thirty-minute break to eat, and by the time I finished eating, I had twelve minutes left on the clock. I decided to sit outside on the benches to cool off until 1:30, then returned with two minutes to spare once refreshed and calmed. It was a jostle, because after a certain point the two minors left and two more replaced them. They were underage, so they could only work a certain amount of time, unlike the full-time I and Angie had to pull.

The business slowed at three, and the manager, Mark, dropped in for a short inspection before leaving a half hour later. It was a pleasant shift, but I was looking forward to five O’clock, when I would clock out and George, my replacement, would clock in. Time ticked until I had fifteen minutes on the clock, and just then a flood of customers came in for the dinner rush. It wouldn’t be an easy switch with George, but I didn’t worry about that now, George hadn’t even gotten their yet.

I had no trouble the remainder of my shift, well… that is, until I stopped puzzled, believing taking my pills with caffeine had finally made me see double. When I turned to greet the next costumer, two men that weren’t there a second ago, stood in front of the counter. Now this wouldn’t have caused me to give a double take, but the fact they were twins, did. They were symmetrical in every way possible, and their ages were varying between mid-twenties and late twenties –it was hard to tell just by looks. They had golden waves atop their heads that hung to their chins, with narrow emerald eyes that peered down at me with a fixed gaze. They were tall beings, with slender torsos and long arms that they crossed over their flat chests. Their faces were thinned, their noses narrow in width, with a thin-lipped mouth that pulled into a straight line in thought. They both wore a flannel shirt that hung loose from their slender frames, with the top three buttons unbuttoned to expose their pale throats, and a pair of black jeans that hung from their hips. They stood still and tall like pillars or statues, watching me in that split second I had to examine them as I approached the counter.

The only difference in their appearance was the color of their shirts: one red and one grey. And for some reason unknown to me, I found my eyes drawn to the one in red. He seemed to peer at me with a mixture of shock and guilt, but I had no clue why. I didn’t know either of them.

“Hello, welcome to Benny’s Grub. May I take your order?” I greeted.

The man in the red flannel eyed me, his brows puckering and his body tense as he peered at me. He went to open his mouth, but the other stopped him with a sharp glance.

“Yes, thank you.” The man in grey flannel responded with a soft –soothing voice. “We would like: a double cheese burger, a bacon burger, two large fries, and two large Cola’s.”

“Alright…” I mumbled as I logged the order into the computer system. “And is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” I smiled as custom. “I’ll call you when your order is ready, sir. Would you and your brother stand off to the side, please?”

Both moved in sync to the side as I rung up the next customer and called out their order. I eyed them as I continued my work, but they seemed rather strange to me. Not because they were twins, I have seen my share over the years. It was the way they looked at me, and still looked at me now. It made me feel as if they were talking about me when they turned to each other to murmur in low voices. It worried me and made me anxious until their order was finished, which was a huge relief to me. I tried to tell myself it was just the stress of the day playing tricks on my mind, but something in my gut told me something was off about them. Especially the one in red. My eyes were drawn to him and he peered at me with just as much curiosity and anxiety.

I filled the sodas and dropped the bags off on the counter as their order was slowly filled. Both men were partially turned from the counter, mumbling back and forth when I placed the last bag in front of them.

“Sir?” I interrupted.

Their eyes flashed to me at once as I attempted to smile, but I felt it on my own face, the caution and the apprehension.

“That will be $21.53, sir.”

The one to speak –the man in the grey flannel- pulled a wallet from his back pocket and handed me his bank card. As I swiped his card and finished the transaction, I caught his name written in gold on the front of the black plastic object.

Jacob Freewood.

It wasn’t noticeable –my glance –in fact, it was accidental as I handed him back his card.

“Thank you for coming to Benny’s Grub. Please, come again.”

He gave me a nod, a nod I’ve come to call the ‘guy nod’. Almost all older and younger men do it to say ‘hello’ or ‘thank you’.

It was a short interaction, hardly suspicious or memorable. Other than their uncanny resemblance and their odd glances towards me. It was a strange sense I had, as if I had a gut feeling that they were speaking about me and/or knew me. I shrugged it off by the end of my shift and vowed to never think of it again.

I mean, what would be the coincidence I would meet them again?