Always Me

By Kelly Riad

Nicky’s life is privileged and sheltered, but has never felt like her own. Her body’s marked by a scar that no one, not even her parents, has been able to explain. She’s haunted by nightmares and hallucinations of violent scenes that feel more like the memories of a very troubled soul than the typical dreams of a seventeen-year old girl. From blood-painted basements to cold guillotines and dark forests, these visions are taking their toll on her sanity.

When she first meets Xander in class, she sees him bleeding from a gaping wound in his neck. His shirt soaked red, he laughs while she trembles and messes up her class recitation. After the vision passes, she’s left with a burning hatred for him and an irrational fear that he’s a threat to her life. But soon, that relents to wary curiosity and suspicion. Xander knows more about her than he should. And when she sees the scar on his neck—just like hers and in the same spot she had seen gushing blood in her vision—she knows it’s not just coincidence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kelly Riad
• Release date: Aug 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465871657

Book preview

Chapter 1

"So as through a glass and darkly,

The age long strife I see,

Where I fought in many guises, many names,

But always me."

—General George S. Patton

Nicky tapped her pen and pulled her hand from the lock of hair she’d been twirling around her finger to check her wristwatch for the fifteenth time in the last forty-two minutes.

She also counted the footsteps of what she now estimated were seventy-six sets of feet passing by outside in the hall, as well as the uses of the word okay by her Western Thought and Culture professor—which was one hundred and sixty-four, indicated by the little marks she made along the top of her notebook.

Western Thought and Culture was just a fancy way of saying history class and Nicky loathed history. She didn’t see the point in rehashing the past. What’s done is done, and there’s nothing you can do to change it.

After beginning the fall semester, she had been relieved to return to the routine she had known for the last three years. She couldn’t believe it was almost over. Though the boarding school’s small campus on which she lived had become home, she still found her excitement at coming back surprising, especially remembering how she had felt when her parents first informed she would be leaving her friends and public school behind to begin high school at the elite, highly selective Damascus Academy.

She had been reticent about the private school nestled in the crowded pine trees of Southern Arkansas, remote and alone. It didn’t exactly promote a lifestyle of freedom and expression. There were no parties, no on-campus dancing. Dress codes were strictly enforced, as was curfew. Weekly chapel must be attended. Her mother loved it.

When she first stepped foot on campus, she couldn’t think how she would survive her freshmen term let alone the next four years. The school was small enough to bless a sneeze from the other side of campus. But once she had settled down and made new friends, she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. Even if that meant every professor knew her name, whether she wanted them to or not.

Out of habit her hand went to her stomach. Beneath her black blazer her fingers pressed the scar—a two-inch sideways cross just below her left ribcage. A scar she’d had her whole life, but neither she nor her parents could remember what injury had created it. Or at least that’s what they claimed. For parents as involved as Nicky’s were, she found it hard to believe they didn’t have a mental catalogue of her every knick and bruise.

Touching the scar was like opening a photo album of images as strong as memories, only ones belonging to someone else. They had been called hallucinations by the professionals—more like a landscape of terrors—but they had always felt more than that.

Hallucinations were brought on by foreign substances or were a symptom of a neurological disorder, but these images belonged to her somehow. They entered her mind the way one recalls the moment they first rode a bicycle without help, or in her visions’ case, were impaled on that bicycle.

She knew the images would invade her thoughts when she touched the scar, but she still couldn’t stop herself. Sounds and smells she couldn’t explain would remain with her all day: residual nightmares that possessed her. It had always been that way, every day of her life. She couldn’t remember a time without the hallucinations.

The rank of one filled her nose with a putrid rot, turning her stomach. She quickly moved her hand away when the classroom door opened and a kid with big glasses and bigger hair poked his head inside, interrupting her professor.

Um, Dr. Allan? he asked, his voice squeaking, puberty yet to grace the boy. Dr. Copperpot wants to know if he could borrow one of your students for a little bit?

Nicky’s professor pushed his own glasses up and looked at the boy.

Who does Bob need? he asked.

The boy’s eyes darted to Nicky before nervously looking back at Dr. Allan. Several students noticed it and looked at her, too.

Nicky Roman, he said.

Nicky sat up straight.

Sure thing, Dr. Allan said, turning back to his dry-erase board, black marker in hand. Go on, Nicky.

With her frown surrendering to her curiosity, Nicky pushed her chair back from the long conference table, leaving her books behind as she stood up. She smoothed down her skirt, taking her time before leaving after the big-haired boy.

He didn’t talk to her or even look back as he raced up the stairwell to the next floor. She followed along at a less urgent pace, her flats lightly tapping against the white linoleum, and was greeted with a warm reception in Dr. Copperpot’s classroom.

Nicky, my dear! the English professor cried out with a wide smile, holding his hand out to her. A quick glance to one side of the room—set up in the same conference style as her classroom below—only showed Nicky a few smiling faces, giving nothing else away as to the purpose of her summons. But Dr. Copperpot didn’t make her wait long for a reason.

Gripping her thin, pale wrist and arm in both his hands, he looked at her rapturously. She fought back a grin at the haphazard head of the English department in his favorite purple t-shirt with the neon green dinosaur on the front. It stretched tight across his round belly and his hair fell in its usual ashen, messy way. Dr. Copperpot never cared for dress codes and being the most beloved professor on campus, was often given a pass.

My willowy beauty, he said with grandeur in his speech. "Star of the Damascus Academy stage and thespian of my own heart, we are discussing the late, the great, and the oh-so-handsome Lord Gordon Byron. And in honor of our South-most location and in light of your love for the poet, I thought you could grace us with your wonderful acting skills and provide us with a little Byron recitation, á la a sweet, Texas twang."

Last year after Nicky had played the femme fatale in Sartre’s No Exit and the year before, Julie in Neil Simons’ Jake’s Women, Dr. Robert Copperpot had become her biggest fan, even writing her a sonnet in support of her—albeit small—body of work. She felt he thought too greatly of her acting skills, and wouldn’t have denied a little nervous hesitation at reciting a Byron poem now.

But she couldn’t bear to disappoint the professor and she did love Byron. So smiling her most disarming smile, she asked, Which poem would you like me to recite?

Like a birthday balloon, the old man in the purple shirt inflated with giddy glee and pulled out a piece of paper on which messy photocopied writing had been scribbled.

"When We Two Parted, my dear," he said before stepping back and giving her the space at the end of the table as a stage.

Nicky grinned. She knew the poem by heart; it was one of her favorites. She held the paper out before her—a prop, really—and opened her mouth, stopping suddenly to cast her cool, grey eyes sideways, raising an eyebrow.

With a Texas accent, correct?

Correct, he said. Dazzle us with your drama!

Nicky came from Texas, but she arrived on campus finding that, compared to the students from Arkansas, she had no southern accent. So pushing back her long, chestnut hair and bending her elegant neck over the paper, Byron’s famous words were on her tongue as she drawled out the stanzas with fake, molasses charm.

When we two parted, in silence and tears, she purred, the corner of her mouth tugging up in amusement at herself and the situation. Half broken hearted, to sever for years. Pale grew thy face and cold colder thy kiss…Surely that hour foretold sorrow to this…

Knowing the words by heart, she allowed herself to look away and make eye contact with the other students—to connect, like she was taught by the theater director, with her crowd. As her gaze journeyed to the chairs near the window with the dark canopy of trees outside allowing breaks of light through, she spoke the words, They know not I knew thee, who knew thee too well—, and stopped, stifling a gasp.

The boy sitting a few seats down to her right had a wound in his neck—a black and deep hole from where blood poured, shiny and gushing, soaking the front of his white dress shirt and the undershirt beneath it. He didn’t even notice.

Her heart drumming in her ears, the world seemed to stop at the sight of him; all warmth left her face and her stomach tightened. But then she blinked and the blood—the hole—was gone.

She had never seen him before, but somehow he looked familiar; he felt familiar, like she had always known him, always hated him, and that sudden sensation plucked the words from her tongue.

It had been the strongest hallucination attack she’d ever had. In the back of her mind, images flashed in such quick succession—a smoke-filled, bloody basement, a crowd sneering from below a tall platform, a knife in her ribs—that she had to place a hand on the table to steady herself.

In an arrogantly casual way he leaned back, one arm draped along the back of the student’s chair beside him while the other rested on the arm of his own chair. The light danced across his golden, wavy hair, the messy tresses glowing in the sunlight and with his hazel eyes fixed on her he raised his hand in a small wave.

In that moment her heart stopped and in her mind she saw him making that same gesture. That time his hair had been longer and his clothes different: a dirty cotton shirt, suspenders, and brown, tattered trousers.

Blinking several times, she looked back down at the paper, mentally trying to calm her shaking hands and compose herself in order to continue with the rest of the poem.

How long had she been staring?

But the words were blurry and even looking at the paper she could see his grin in her mind. She could see it as though she had seen it before, as though she had known it her whole life. A grin that had angered her countless times, stirring up a hornet’s nest of fury in her heart with just its presence; the whole moment felt too familiar. And yet she had never seen him before today.

Frantically she searched for the words.

Long…, she whispered, swallowing against her dry throat. She struggled to find the writing on the page, the boy’s face blocking everything else in her mind.

Long…, she repeated, not understanding how she could have completely lost control of herself this way.

This had never happened before. She had never messed up a recitation, and when she glanced up, that grin still taunted her, somehow more arrogant.

And now a cocked eyebrow and an expectant tilt of the head accompanied the grin. Her stumble amused him. He had crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for a spectacle from her, expecting her to not recover; everything about him mocked her.

The paper slipped from her fingertips. She looked down, watching as it fluttered beneath the table. Her mind hazy and her attention still focused on the grinner, she looked back, murmuring an apology to the professor before she bent down to retrieve the poem. But upon rising back up, the table stopped her and she banged her head on it, the sound exploding into the room as loud as the pain.

Standing up with her hand on her aching head and her cheeks prickling with heat, she found the boy’s face bright red, ready to explode with laughter.

It all lit an inextinguishable fire of hatred that suddenly cleared her mind.

Long, long, shall I rue thee, too deeply to tell, she spat the words out, too upset to care about any kind of stupid accent and slammed the paper on the table. Curling her fingers into her palms was the only way to stop her hands from shaking.

She glared at the boy who now sat bent forward with his head hanging, shaking it, his shoulders bouncing with silent laughter. She dug her nails into her skin.

He had made her flub her lines. She didn’t care how it appeared to the rest of the class; she scowled at him with unmasked malice.

All eyes watched her and she wondered what they thought of her flawed performance. Fortunately the professor was so enamored with her she could have broken into an Irish jig without him caring.

She found slight comfort that it appeared by the masks of indifference, only the boy had found her mistake amusing, even if he smiled warmly at her now.

But the damage had been done. The self-control in which Nicky prided herself had been shaken. And she would never forgive this boy—whatever his name was—for being the iceberg that sunk her.

Dr. Copperpot thanked her, the class clapped, and Nicky turned away, body still petrified as she stiffly walked out the door.

Without warning, Nicky’s world had been upturned by someone whose presence left behind a path of destruction worse than what any tornado could inflict on the trailer parks of Arkansas.

She returned to her class shaken and angry, her head still throbbing with a slight headache threatening her temples. A small voice inside of her wondered if her reaction wasn’t slightly unwarranted, if she might have taken offense unnecessarily, but that voice didn’t stand a chance to the sounds of the screams, crying out in agony in her ears, tormenting her ever since she said good-bye to Dr. Copperpot.

The hallucinations wailed inside her head, had chased her down the stairs.

She did her best to ignore it, sitting through the remainder of class with every effort to calm her trembling body while voices moaned with painful death all around her.

She had grown too accustomed to the visits of the oratory hallucinations to look around for the source of the sound. She knew it was all in her head. And if she let it get to her, she would start to convulse uncontrollably. She would be treated as though she had fallen into an epileptic fit. It had happened before, when she was younger. They would try to treat a physical ailment, when she knew—or had been told by countless mental professionals—that it was simply all in her head.

Seeing him had triggered the worst episode she’d had in years and never before had they involved an actual person. Though she tried to listen to Dr. Allan, tried to focus on his voice, the other voices began.

They started out small, like someone from the back of the room suffered a migraine and groaned in pain, but the groaning grew into a chorus of cries. A massacre serenaded her, begging for mercy, praying to God for help, but she knew no help would come. They would moan and groan, until the gurgling of blood cut them off.

Her hands itched to cover her ears, so she clutched the arms of her chair until her fingers turned white. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut. She wanted to scream for it all to stop, please make it all stop!

But instead she sat staring at nothing, barely blinking; face pale, expressionless, with the faintest of trembles on her lips.

Chapter 2

Damascus Academy promoted a private school preparatory culture and therefore offered areas on which the students could choose to focus. Nicky always loved reading; she loved reading poetry even more. English had been a natural selection and with it came Dr. Copperpot as her adviser.

She knew his office hours and she knew the schedules of the students who served their work study in his department. After her class had let out, she haunted the stairwell across from his office door, hoping the boy and the other students who had witnessed her tragic reading had already left. She pushed the sleeves of her black blazer further up her arms and righted her black and gold plaid skirt on her hips.

Once she felt comfortable no one witness to the devastation remained, she hurried across the chasm of space that was the brightly lit hallway and ducked into the office waiting room.

The desk used by the students sat empty and the professor’s door stood cracked open. Lightly rapping her knuckles on it, she peeked her head inside. Toys and collectibles gathered from around the world littered the shelves and credenza. Framed photographs of Dr. Copperpot with students and friends rested on every flat surface available.

His office offered a warm welcome, like Santa’s workshop, and Nicky always loved visiting him. He owned the most interesting collection of oddities, a piece of conversation starter that would spur hour-long talks. His students loved him and as evidenced in his office by their faces and work on display, he felt the same way.

Dr. Copperpot looked up from his work, large, wire-rimmed glasses masking his face, and smiled.

Nicky, dear, what brings you by?

Nicky had always been a proud girl. She hated to apologize. But she hated feeling like she had disappointed someone she cared for or respected. So though she felt her nerves like live wires sizzling beneath her skin, she lifted her chin and looked at the professor and said, I just wanted to apologize for the mess I made of the poem in your class. You expected better of me and I failed you.

Nonsense, Dr. Copperpot cried as he removed his glasses and stood up from his desk. He came around to Nicky’s side and placed a calming hand on her shoulder. I thought you performed beautifully. And I think only you have the grace and composure to pull off even the most wicked of knocks to the noggin.

She looked up in shock to find him smiling wide. She couldn’t help but smile with him, despite the profound embarrassment she felt. Turning around in the doorway, she let him lead her out of the office.

It was still pretty bad, she admitted. He brushed it off with a wave in the air.

Yesterday’s news, dear.

They stopped in the hall, just outside, the corridor now much emptier than it had been before with the next set of classes in session. The missus tells me she ran into you while taking our niece to visit her grandmother at the nursing home.

Yes, I saw them there last Saturday. I volunteer on the weekends and sometimes during the week.

Sharon said Maggie just raved about you. How you let her pet one of the birds in the birdcage and even pushed her around in a wheelchair.

Nicky smiled at the memory. It’s nice to have someone young in there. I think it awakens something in the residents. Let’s them remember what once was instead of focusing on what will be. And she’s a beautiful, little…

A sound—someone crying out down the hall—made Nicky trail off and turn, looking over her shoulder. The professor still spoke, undeterred by the interruption.

Well, you have a fan for life now. She’ll expect you there every time she goes to visit.

I look forward to it.

The voice cried out again, and she looked but saw nothing. But seeing it didn’t mean she couldn’t hear it.

It was happening again. The scream became a wail, shattering down the hall toward her and she could hear gunshots firing now; they drowned out Dr. Copperpot’s voice, lost in the haze of the hallucination firmly taking root in Nicky’s reality. His lips moved but no other sound prevailed over the massacre in her mind. She couldn’t help looking for it this time, searching the hall.

Nicky!

She turned to the professor and barely saw his look of concern as the moans of the dead crowded her.

Nicky, you’re as pale as a ghost. Are you alright?

Yes, she said, struggling to control her voice when she wanted to shout above the cries. She swallowed down her own cries of anguish. I have to go. Thank you for seeing me.

Before he could reply, she spun around and hurried down the hall, breaking into a run once she turned the corner and stopping only after she threw herself into the bathroom and locked herself in a stall. Cowering in its corner she covered her ears, squeezed her eyes shut, and waited for it t stop.

In the bright afternoon sun, the student commons in the center of the U-shaped campus roared with activity. Just beyond the buildings, the river that cut through the school grounds ran along on its lazy destination. The stone steps gleamed bright while a clear sky hung overhead.

Life at the small boarding school felt like something from a Disney movie, with the birds singing, a cool breeze blowing, and students standing around in groups laughing. But Nicky took no notice as she blindly followed her roommate, Katy, while she walked along the cement path connecting the different departments.

She often found herself following Katy without questioning where they were going. When she allowed herself to be pulled through life, she could focus on fighting off the hallucinations, appearing normal on the outside. But today she was just too engrossed in conversation to pay attention to anything else.

Both girls were tall and slender, referred to as the Twin Towers by the rest of campus. Katy was actually the only tall one, a few inches above Nicky, but because Nicky held herself with such an aloft posture, she was often thought of as being taller.

They weaved gracefully through the crowd to their mailboxes, a quick check before heading to lunch in the cafeteria across campus. Nicky still reeled from her unpleasant encounter that morning. She hadn’t seen him since, but she couldn’t get him out of her head.

The image of his face—that grin—had burned itself into her brain, accompanied by the most unpleasant thoughts. It took her nearly twenty minutes to calm down in the bathroom. And once the screams had ceased, visions of death and violence continued to pop up in her mind. The encounter with him had unleashed a crush of images, relentlessly tormenting her. It did nothing but make her hate him more.

Nicky couldn’t understand how he could have affected her so or why thinking of him made her shake with fear and hatred. She still trembled when she met up with Katy.

She didn’t tell her roommate about the encounter because she didn’t have to; Katy had already heard. Well, at least part of the story. That Nicky had been asked to read a poem to Dr. Copperpot’s class and hit her head. Nicky couldn’t shake the embarrassment of it all now that the story had gone public.

While poorly attempting to comfort her, Katy had found the whole thing amusing, especially after Nicky told her about him.

His name’s Xander, Katy said after Nicky finished the recount of her utter humiliation, describing the boy in full detail. Alexander Day. He came in with us our freshman year.

Nicky turned on her. He’s been here that long? Katy nodded. Nicky looked ahead, eyes searching as if somewhere in the crowd things would start to make sense. How come I’ve never seen him before? This school isn’t exactly big.

No, it’s not, Katy said, choosing her words carefully. But it’s not unlikely for you to have missed him. You don’t really venture too far out of your comfort zone, and he’s not exactly the type of person you associate with.

The daughter of a Hot Springs judge, Katy was a true Southern Belle with a future that included a white gown and coming-out ball. Nicky and Katy had bonded immediately due to their similar upbringing. With short, blonde hair and an innate athleticism, Katy was the perfect companion to Nicky’s pale, romantic beauty. She embodied the same calm reserve as Nicky, but wasn’t prone to the sullen moods that occasionally darkened Nicky’s steely eyes.

Nicky didn’t respond to her roommate’s assessment, her gaze drawn down; she couldn’t argue when Katy was right.

Together they entered the building. Like most of campus, the Commons was made of red brick, the steep stairs posing a sharp edge that made Nicky cautiously aware as she walked down them. A few students trickled out of the fast food restaurant on the ground floor. Others corralled around the mailboxes and convened outside the bookstore.

Katy continued. He’s here on a soccer scholarship.

A jock, Nicky snorted.

A small percentage of Damascus’ students attended the school on scholarship, unable to afford the staggering tuition alone, with the majority of them being sports-related.

Immediately it painted Xander in a different light in Nicky’s mind.

I don’t think he’s a jock…, Katy answered thoughtfully.

Nicky thought about Xander’s streamline frame and lean build; so opposite of the thick-necks on the football and baseball teams, and had to agree with her roommate.

I’ve seen him in the library a lot, Katy said. Actually, I think he works there. He hangs out with the foreign guys. He’s a really good soccer player. I don’t know if he’s dated anyone here, but I’m sure a lot of girls would love the chance. Even if he is Catholic.

Nicky leaned against the wall of small mailboxes while Katy bent down to peer inside hers. Hugging her books close to her chest, Nicky asked, So, what else?

Katy frowned and wrestled with a package shoved tightly inside the metal box.

What do you mean? She tugged back and