Annabelle Burns Dies at the End

By N Felts

Annabelle Burns doesn't see the world the way most people do. A unique mental condition manifests her dreams into reality. Make sense of the world-altering events transpiring against the backdrop of a young girl's already overburdened mind. With a protagonist this unreliable, the only thing you can be certain of is that Annabelle Burns dies at the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: N Felts
• Release date: Apr 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311246639

Book preview

Chapter One:

The Rain

Just beyond the five-star crash test safety-rated tempered glass, the falling droplets of water disengage from their approved flight plans with what you might call apprehension. The molecules of hydrogen and oxygen can’t be expected to understand. The very fabric of a reality which defines them has abandoned their simple cohesion to a lawless existence, and so, they twist. They twist into gradually forming helixes slowly encircling a larger, cylindrical vortex of water obfuscating the metronome of passing lights. She smiles. This is something new. “Deeper” her subconscious beckons, luring her mind’s eye beyond the tranquility of the all-new fully-loaded two thousand sixteen Toyota Prius, and into the spectacle of water and light. The overwhelming sensation of cold is shocking, even upsetting at first, though it quickly becomes invigorating as she feels her every pore drinking in the crisp sprinkles of moisture grinding against her skin. She twirls like a ballerina in slow-motion, whirling whimsically into the chaotic beauty of the maelstrom reflecting against her wide-eyed stare. The car she has departed tilts away, gravity having no rational hold on the dimension she has entered. A traveler with no need of possessions or preconceptions, she feels the barrettes drift out of her dark, brown hair while her shoes glance against the tips of her toes as they all weave weightlessly into the enchanting storm.

“Anna?” A voice calls from some distant horizon—lost in the angelic song of the elements pulling her into an intoxicating embrace. Rhythmic beams of light pulse against the water’s surface, building into a crescendo of pure, soothing brightness just above her floating form. Golden-hued feathers suddenly pour into the whirlwind, encircling the spirals of water, and dancing through her seemingly submerged hair. Glowing as if they have fallen directly from heaven, the inconceivably soft plumes tickle her tiny frame as they rapidly brush harmlessly past. An involuntary giggle escapes her lips as she bashfully shies away from the playful onslaught of tumbling quills. A brief glance into the rearview mirror confirms what the man expected. His little girl’s eyes are a thousand miles away, her tiny form cringing beneath her seatbelt while she happily giggles to herself. “Anna,” he tries again—more sternly this time. Outside the van, an umbrella in the form of magnificent angel wings bursts open above the girl’s head, reflecting the otherworldly scene as if each feather were an ethereal mirror. The whirlwind of water and light triples in circumference, and Anna is left staring in wonder at an indiscernible woman’s face—shrouded in glorious light. The moisture and cold are instantaneously gone from her, the identity of the angel before her gradually being revealed as she draws ever nearer. A sharp gasp of air causes every hair on her body to stand straight up, and within the same instant, the delusion is obliterated. Forced back beyond the glass containing her in the backseat, and violently dispersed into the meek rainfall it diligently prevents from reaching her.

The brief squeak of rubber grinding against a wet windshield sounds again as the wiper blade falls back to its default position. The fantasy destroying noise is quickly followed by the rise and fall of a sheet of paper being torn in half as another car passes by. Upon seeing her emerge from her daydream, Anthony Burns returns his focus to the road with a dismissive smirk. “She’s getting worse” he must admit, though he doesn’t truly understand what the admission even entails. It started as attention deficit disorder, then proceeded into derealization disorder, finally arriving at what he feared the most: we-don’t-know-what disorder. The meager amount of research he conducted on his own led him to the same simple conclusion. Her specific symptoms have never been exhibited by anyone before her, and so, he leaves the diagnostics in the assumedly capable hands of professionals. He isn’t the type to second-guess a doctor anyway.

The predictable result of a fatherless home, Tony is as complacent and unconfrontational as they come. The product of a line of strong, and often overbearing women, he was programmed at an early age to know his place, and avoid offending. A handsome enough, thirty-something software engineer—he is rarely seen in anything other than slacks and a dress shirt of varying pastels. Hidden behind a pair of thick glasses are the chiseled eyes of an ancient warrior, but an aversion to eye-contact coupled with the amplification of geekiness render this a feature known by none. Subservient to authority to a fault, he is the personification of going along to get along. Despite his very genuine love for his family, he would probably call for help before confronting any manner of danger threatening them. It’s gotten him this far in life, and he has no intention, (or reason for that matter) of changing it now. His gaze swings to the right and lingers for a moment. Rhonda Burns seems just as vacant as his daughter moments ago, her lifeless eyes lost in the dull glow of her Apple something-or-other—now with facial-recognition applications, biometric security, and more!

Rhonda could be considered an ambitious woman, but only within the context of a carefully controlled, corporate system. She has always strived for what she wants, but it is often something dangled in front of her conveniently. She would be attractive, if only she were capable of forgoing the recipe of creams, dyes, and powders she could not bear to be seen without having applied daily. Meticulously trimming her burgundy hair to chin-length hardly accentuates her natural good-looks either. Her social status is not to be trifled with, having accumulated more followers, tweets, pins, friends, and other desperate cries for attention on social media than most teenagers. While she stands firm and demands respect in the workplace, she tends to devolve into an irritable zombie in her free time until she must bear the cross of obligation once again. Despite her best efforts, her daughter sits behind her, patiently waiting to arrive at destinations unknown. She loves her dearly (of course), but more often than not, she ponders what wonders she could have accomplished if only the birth control were effective.

The multitude of buttons, knobs, and colorful screens illuminating the dashboard fail to divert Anna’s attention. The gentle tapping of rainfall and steady hum of recycled air flowing from the vents are not enough to interrupt her perceptual dream state. Her eyes drift down to her yellow skirt, and secretly, dive much further down into the stitched rows stretching horizontally across her lap. Her consciousness plummeting and perception shrinking, she is soon staring out across a vast landscape of identical cotton hills, arrayed as far as the eye can see. The spongy material is only just thick enough to prevent her feet from dropping between the hemmed strands of vibrant yellow. An energetic trek into the strange land has only just begun when a gentle breeze causes the ground itself to ripple like a thin curtain near an open window. Frightened at first, her grimace immediately becomes a delighted grin as she soars through the air. Repeatedly pressing against the impossibly soft ground, it seems to peel itself away from her as it billows, leaving her in a state of destinationless flight until it gently pets her form again. An intentional throat-clearing noise doesn’t pull Rhonda’s attention from her phone right away, her eyes finally forced to part from the digital display when her head absently tilts to face her husband. Rolling his eyes in his daughter’s direction doesn’t quite convey the message, but an irritated glance over her shoulder prompts an exasperated sigh from his wife.

“Jesus, just turn on the radio or something,” she blurts out, jabbing a finger at the console. Her husband’s inaction facing even the simplest of issues has driven her over the edge in recent weeks. More often than not she feels as though she is raising two children, and the daily grind of doing so has significantly intensified her impatience. An old hip hop song is the first that plays, and Rhonda is pleased. “Hey, I love this song,” she smiles, turning to find Anna’s eyes coerced back into the moment by the sudden booms and snaps vibrating the speaker system. She does love this song. She feels as though she is back in high school, she just got a car, the boy she likes kind of likes her too, and her life is full of possibility and potential. The lyrics are an incantation—a prayer to invoke those better times, or at least the sensation of infinite youth she took for granted. The rhythm washes away the brief moments of frustration, and like an aural pacifier, it pulls her eyes back to her touch screen with absolute complacency.

Annabelle Burns can’t help but pout. If she were a superhero, the backseat would be her kryptonite—a fisherman, her Moby-Dick. What everyone around her calls daydreams and delusions, she prefers them over this so-called reality any day. They don’t understand. She explains, and they nod, but the truth of what she is experiencing