Shuttered Vision

By Suenammi Richards

Fiona Canters dreams a lot. All of her life Fiona has listened carefully to her dreams. As her magical family knows they tell stories that the world need to pay heed to. Fiona's art is always a pale shadow of the brilliant color and light that her dreams bring into being. So when an unknown stranger begins to appear in them, she has no idea what to do with him.
For Colan Abrams life has seemed to exist in a constant nightmare. His demons remain with him on waking and seem to only be pushed away by the tide of sleep. There he gets to see her, and she drives away all the pain and anguish for those brief blessed hours that sleep finds him. Always Colan thought this specter was a figment of his imagination. A woman created from his dreams to pull him away from his hellish existence. Until the day he met her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suenammi Richards
• Release date: Jun 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370770885

Suenammi Richards

A Dallas Texas native, she is currently a freelance graphic designer and web developer living in Tampa, Florida. Her background includes visual art, graphic design, technical writing, musical composition, and vocal performance. She has graced stages of Baltimore and Dallas theaters as a live vocalist and composer of music for repertory dance concerts for college programs. She began writing romance as a hobby as she completed her Bachelor's of Science in Simulation and Digital Entertainment and has continued as she completed her Master's in Learning Technologies with Drexel University. Register on my blog for a free copy of Sandra's Social www.suenammirichardsromance.blogspot.com

Book preview

SHUTTERED VISION

Those With Sight

Book One Life Goes On

By

Suenammi Richards

Published by Christina Freeman

© Christina Freeman w/a Suenammi Richards, 2017

eBook Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please go to any online vendor to purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To the me that believed any and all dreams could come true

To the ones that always guided me through

To the ones that could never believe

To the ones that tried to deceive

I thank you for all that you do

I thank you for keeping me true

‘For nothing can be seen, made or foretold without art.

The artists must be acute of vision, consorts of sound, and scribes of renown. I call on 3 sets of creators with a view unconventional and will unbendable.

One of handled art with brush to canvas and visions of failed passions.

One of traveled time in scenes, lulls, set and dark flashes.

Those of sight with vision unbound to see the world that is now found.’

-Clairvoyance Warren

PROLOGUE

She was surrounded by flowers. They ranged in fragrance and hue. Some were lilac, some daisies, lavender, roses, orchids, hyacinths; it was the colors that captured attention. Unlike any she'd ever seen. They were vivid, vibrant shades of sun orange, amethyst purple, sapphire blue, ruby red with amazing emerald greens. Some shown in multi colors like red and green for bloodstones. Dark carnelian red, smoky iridescent quartz. She stared into her sky. It always looked like sunset with vivid blues and purples mixing with reds and oranges. Cloudy enough to make a lovely image, but never so cloudy that it seemed gloomy.

She inhaled deeply as she lay in the field of flowers understanding the message she was being given. The scent of white sage floated. It was laced with the fragrance of the flowers. Eyes closed, she pushed deeper into herself. From her field, she could determine all she needed to know. She needed to find who was calling her. Someone had been calling her for months now. Always the thought lingered, this one is a stranger. This one doesn't want to be found.

She felt the pressure of a hand. It was larger than hers, firm and rough. The breath on the back of her neck was steady and calm. He lay right behind her. He lay right under her. He lay right beside her. In this place, he was practically a part of her.

She tried to turn around to face him, but was stopped. This sensation was odd for her. These things were always under her control. No one got to make choices for her here, yet he was stopping her. She pressed harder and was met with more force.

Abruptly she turned. The world pitched to black. She was falling through her field. The flower base was being ripped away as her nose was assaulted by burning flesh. Her eyes flew open and she saw the petals smoldering beside her as they all fell. She looked down to see herself falling towards pits of lava, banked flaming mounds of earth and oceans of burning water sizzling away. The air salting with it's demise.

Creatures colored with flame and smelt snapped their jaws at her ready to devour. Flame winged imps and demons swarmed above them taunting them with the kill they couldn't have. They were whipping them into a frenzy. Sea leviathans with several heads and tails swam freely in the burning oceans eating all that crossed their path. Stubby, stumpy moss covered beasts resembling jackals roamed the flaming mounds unheeded. There was peril at every stop.

She threw her hands in front of her face to shield what was coming her way. Then suddenly she stopped falling. An arm secured her at the waist. Strong arms pulled her around. She pressed her now tearstained cheeks to his neck.

Who are you? Why have you brought me here? she asked.

I'm sorry. You were never meant to be here. I like your field, a deep masculine voice replied.

What hell are you from? she asked distantly.

The worst kind, the one of my own making. The male voice resonated back with a hint of irony in his tone. The sound rumbled softly in her ear.

She vaguely noticed that they were moving upward. Within moments she was as she was before. She was on her back in her field. His presence there but not intrusive.

How did you get here? she asked him. She was careful knowing that if she tried to face him again she would be dumped into his hell.

I don't know. I've been trying to figure it out. But I'm selfish enough to not mind if it doesn't bother you. His voice held a slight twang. It was in the vowels. The tones were dulcet and rich.

The sound distracted her but she needed to push to the point. You need my help, she said softly.

I have all the help from you I need. Right here in your field. He spoke to her simply with not a care in the world.

There was just something so familiar about how he spoke. She couldn’t put her finger on it. It's more than that. You don't understand what I am. What I do. No one shows up here that I don't already know. She insisted trying to get him to see.

I should go -- he started in a tense tone.

She clucked annoyed then pressed, No wait --

See ya next time, Flower girl. He said wistfully as his voice faded.

Fiona awoke from a dead sleep with the stranger's voice still clear in her head. She clutched her head and doubled over in her bed for a moment. She looked down realizing she had fallen asleep in her painting outfit. A paint stained tank and some equally paint stained cotton shorts. Usually she at least got the tank off. Her latest series had her at the canvas till she nearly dropped.

She straightened and with a deep sigh reached for her journal to start cataloging the points of her dream. She could analyze it when morning came. As she lay back when she was done, she realized that she was a little shaken. Who was that man haunting her dreams? He had been there for months now. Over the course of time, his presence had gotten stronger as he felt more comfortable with her.

At first it had been just a brief but untimely intrusion. She hadn’t even really noticed anyone was there. Almost like an itch that was easily scratched, she had determined it was nothing and it became so. A brief irritation she had swiftly evicted. Somehow, he had found other ways in. He had made her sanctuary his safe haven.

Fiona lay back down. She sighed willing herself to go back to sleep. Maybe by the light of a new day she would be able to make sense of this oddity.

CHAPTER ONE

She liberally applied the paint to the brush dabbing the canvas at the right spots. It gave the flower she was working on texture and depth. It almost felt like the vivid shade she had seen in her dreams. Unfortunately, there still wasn’t any amount or type of paint that could fully capture the texture of her dreams. She placed the shades on her brush in the sky now and dotted the horizon.

The music playing in the background only made her hum slightly to herself. She followed the rhythm and cadence. She always painted to classic rock. There was something primal about the way it moved. The way it was played connected her with her dreamscapes almost seamlessly. She imagined that bands like Led Zeppelin and Deep Purple composed their music in that same place. That was why it drew her there so completely.

Dreams were a subject of varied intensity and meaning for Fiona. She knew it was odd because most people discounted dreams as merely unrealized desires, hopes and ambitions. Small confessions from a person’s subconscious mind to their conscious. These are the explanations given to them by the practitioners of psychology. These ideals and thoughts have helped countless people deal with their neurosis and fears. For that reason, Fiona didn’t necessarily disagree with these thoughts. She just thought it was rather limited.

Fiona Canters grew up differently than the rest of the free world within the United States of America. When 5-year-old Fiona first told her mother about one of her extraordinary dreams her mother had smiled pleased. She asked her daughter to tell her what they meant. Confused Fiona had not answered. The very next day she had been privy to the conversations the women in her family had away from husbands, boyfriends, sons and fathers.

Fiona dreamed last night, her mother had told her mother-in-law excitedly.

Does she know what it means? her aunt had asked anxiously.

Her mother proudly shook her head then and recounted the dream for the listening gaggle. With gasps of delight and praises to the Almighty they had all regarded Fiona differently.

The Canters were a French Creole line. Originally, they intermixed with a line that had roots from indigenous tribes of America, Africa and Ireland. Now they were a rainbow people. The shades of relatives spanned the realm of possibility.

Fiona’s mother was Salvadorian. Her skin the color of burnished copper. Her hair fell blue black tightly curled and silky across her shoulders. Her light brown eyes always alight with seemingly forbidden knowledge.

A Canters man, her father was tan skinned by nature. His dark eyes and mixed features made it hard to place into a particular ethnic set. From that, Fiona had emerged a shade lighter than mahogany. Her eyes an almost eerie shade of dark grey. They looked lit from within as the iris closest to the pupil was a paler grey than the midnight that it changed into as it floated to the rims.

Witch eyes, her grandmother had said that night as the women talked. She took the child’s measure for the first time.

Fiona had starred up innocently into the clear hazel eyes of the paler woman. She felt that nagging suspicion of being in the presence of something that was more than it seemed. Of course, as a child, she had no true idea of what it was. Just this sudden unmistakable unshakable awareness as she peered up at the woman. Always waiting for her to change form right before her eyes.

She had always been fearful of her father’s pale, hazel eyed mother. The woman had eyes that saw too much. They saw everything and communicated with the souls of others without their knowledge. These were things she had heard whispered growing up among the others.

The others were the ones of her family that had been born without that extra thing that most of the women had. It was a generation skipping instance. Every once in a while, a woman in their line was born without that extra sense of the world, without the vision to see into others through dreams, premonitions and senses that were a family birthright.

They were raised in a different way than those with sight. Still loved and shown the same affections and care. They were kept away from the ones who bared stunning signs and levels of awareness. It was a courtesy to both sides. The children would grow to understand and appreciate each other before they interacted. This way they could understand their differences and not treat each other badly over them.

Before the conception of every child, the women of the family dreamed. During the pregnancy, the women dreamed. They dreamed of the child they would bare. They would know before modern technology whether a boy or a girl would be born. When the mother conceived, her entire existence was enrapt in the being she carried. Through their personal dreamscape, they would understand the nature of that child. How it should be raised and what it should be led to do.

Even those born without the special gifts procured to the blood line were dreamt of. Regardless of whether it had been given sight or not. One day they may raise a child that most likely would be given sight. Regardless, they needed to be raised in a fashion to be able to deal with their child’s gifts. That was why all dreams and premonitions centered on the child.

Fiona was the exception. Fiona’s mother Alejandra calls that time in her life ‘el negro’: The dark. For the first time in her life, she knew what it was to live as most people do. She had only common sense, instincts and logic to guide her way through. All of her dreams during Fiona’s conception and birth had been shielded from her. All premonition and sensory insight dulled to just instances of déjà vu. Her mother-in-law said it was because the child she carried was blank. Meaning there was nothing to see.

For the longest time, they thought Fiona was going to be stillborn. Her mother’s gift hiding what was to come to save her enduring the pain more than once. Due to the circumstances of Fiona’s conception and birth she was raised with the children that the family knew possessed none of the gifts.

"At times, mi amor, I can see what I must do with you and then I do it and like that it’s gone," her mother would sometimes whisper at her temple as she put her to bed at night.

It wasn’t until much later, at the age of 10 as Fiona started to have actual premonition episodes did she understand what her dreams as a young child meant. Slowly over the years the pieces had started to put themselves together. They implied things about her that was unnatural even for her family.

She jumped away from her thoughts at the ringing of the phone. She knew it was going to ring a split second before it happened. Ever since she started dreaming about the stranger, her life had been no longer clear cut and easily identified. She had entered into a state of perpetual déjà vu. It was driving her nuts. If she stuck to the script as it was dictated mere moments before it happened things would churn along. If she deviated at all, everything went black. Everything.

"Bueno," she answered knowing it was her mother.

"Fee-Fee. Que mal?" her mother asked with worry in her tone.

Fiona dropped her head back on her shoulders as they slumped. She sighed into the phone. The trouble with being a little supernatural is that everyone closest to you was also a little supernatural. Or in the case of her mother, a lot supernatural.

If one rated whatever they were, psychics, clairvoyants or the most popular but dated term witches, her mother was teetering somewhere on the high end. It was often commented on during family reunions that Alejandra Escobar was without doubt one of the strongest outside of the Canters line anyone had ever mated with.

"Nada madre. Just some darkness," Fiona responded in a sing songy voice reserved just for her mother.

The real issue was that her mother, with all of her power had a block. That block was and always would be Fiona. For others, she would sit and meditate for a few moments and be able to ascertain the problem. With Fiona, she only had a glimpse of something not being right and then darkness.

The family had tried for years to figure it out. No mother/daughter relationship in the family history had ever produced such results. Usually mothers and daughters could practically tell each other what they were wearing over a phone call.

Fee-Fee, her mother started in a warning tone.

"Madre de Dios, Fiona cursed under her breath. It’s nothing, I’m fine," she finished a little loudly.

What did you dream last night? her mother pressed not impressed with her tone.

Fiona knew she was going to ask that. I’m not sure honestly, she found herself saying despite not really wanting to admit it.

Fee-Fee, her mother pushed harder.

The man, she paused as she was struck by a dizzyingly sharp disorientation of déjà vu. She changed the next words she was about to utter. A man was in my field with me.

Her mother was silent. She could feel her trying to peel back the layers of her mind, trying to see what her daughter saw. Fiona waited until she gave up. She always tried and could never do it completely. Just foggy images and uncertain feelings.

In your field, what did he look like? Alejandra asked cautiously.

Fiona shrugged as she started to walk in a small tight circle around the little table that held her phone stand. She banged her feet loudly on the hardwood floors as she treaded.

I don’t know, didn’t get to see him, she admitted with a frown on her brows.

You can’t know his face when you meet him, Her mother surmised.

Fiona wasn’t really convinced. Who’s to say I’ll meet him, came from her mouth casually. As soon as the words left her mouth she staggered and caught her head. With a deep breath, she revised by breathing out, Maybe.

Fiona braced herself at the table she stood near letting the déjà vu wave pass over her. The knock on the door made her jump, even though she knew it was coming.

Mama, I gotta go, Cody’s here, Fiona rushed out of her mouth.

Tell him hi for me, her mother conceded with a sigh.

"I will. Te amo." Fiona smiled as she said it, loving her mother’s hate of conversations ending before she was done.

"Te amo," Alejandra returned warmly like she always did.

She gratefully hung up the phone. Her spatial disorientation was so much worse when she spoke to her mother. It wasn’t intentional, she knew but her mother factored much more heavily in what was happening to her than anyone knew as of yet. Which was why the things that she said to her mattered so very much. She didn’t have to watch what she said with anyone else except her mother. That within itself brought her pause.

She shook off the thoughts and answered the door. Her best friend slash boy toy slash fashion consultant slash all around messiah stood looking at her in a hooded fashion. He was gorgeous, six foot something or another Norse God with the few playful inches of dirty blonde hair ice blue eyes and sharp features. He was one of those guys that knew he was beautiful and didn’t shy away from it. Well built, not too slender, not too bulky just right and just the thing to throw a girl for a loop. That is if he wanted anything at all to do with them.

Why aren’t you ready? he asked in an accusing exaggerated tone. His deep voice pressing loudly into the room as it always did.

My mother, she says hello by the way, Fiona deflected automatically as she rolled her eyes at him.

He sighed and pressed himself against the closed door in a dramatic fashion. Face, come on, the gallery opens in 30 minutes. We gotta make tracks, my love. He actually managed to say the end sweetly despite starting so tart.

Fiona smiled at the nickname. He had started calling her Face as a play on her name. Fiona’s middle name was Andrea. Were she a traditional Salvadorian girl, she would’ve had to take on her mother’s family name as well. That would have made her Fiona Andrea Escobar Canters. Switch the last two names and her initials spelled FACE. It was perfect he had told her the night he dubbed her. Then he had expressed how beautiful she was and implored her to forget any A-Team references this dubbing might bring about.

Fiona sighed deeply knowing that she was trying to avoid thinking about the gallery opening dead on. This was her biggest opening yet and she was terrified of it.

She looked up into the handsome visage of her best friend. Making tracks, give me 5 minutes, she muttered in a cowed fashion.

She turned and headed for her bedroom with him hot on her heels. And for Godsake’s Face, give that patchwork dress a break, he insisted as they walked.

She frowned at his instructions. It’s the most comfortable, she grumbled back.

And least flattering. I told you, doll, we’re not just selling your art. We are selling you. You are a gorgeous womanly number. He gestured loosely towards her as he spoke. Not like some of those other girls that do this art thing. They sell their intellect and their depth. Why, he stopped for a dramatic pause. "Because they don’t look like you. We need to platter up those double Ds, hug that Venus de Milo rear view you got going on and keep those babydoll lips plump and moist." He smacked the last at her and winked as he beelined by her.

She was looking at herself in the mirror on her bedroom door while he was talking trying not to roll her eyes at him for maybe the 4th or 5th time since he showed up. She always lost count. He was now in her bedroom laying out what he thought she should wear. Fiona knew he was right and she appreciated his advice. He’d been doing this part a lot longer than she had and experience was key. It was just that she felt like a prostitute when she presented herself a certain way.

He was behind her now efficiently French rolling her tightly curled jet black shoulder length hair. He bent and placed his face next to hers.

I wish you could see what I see. Cody said softly at her cheek.

He put his large hands on either side of her face as he stood to his full height. His fingers traced her cheekbones. "These are higher than most women you see on magazine covers, after they have been PhotoShopped. He framed her chin as he voiced his thoughts. It’s the shape of it, almost square but softens to a smooth oval right here. He traced over her cheeks continuing his play by play like commentary. Full enough to give your face depth and character yet not plump enough to be perceived as fatty. He brushed over her nose and forehead then spoke with a little bit of reverence, perfect arcs, your nose is a little long but your forehead is a little short, gives balance. He framed her eyes. Amazing eyes, he sighed in his jealous voice. First thing I thought when we first met, and the same for your lips, if I liked women…" he ended in the absent way he always ends compliments on her looks.

Fiona rolled her eyes. Maybe 6th time now. You always say that, she huffed out.

He met her eyes in the mirror his tone flat and serious. Because it’s always true.

She narrowed her eyes at the look he was giving her knowing his wheels were turning much too hard today.

He starred at her for a few moments then a beauteous smile lit his face as he commanded, I want you to do a self-portrait series.

Fiona cringed, CJ, I hate self-portraits.

He shrugged. I have no idea why. You have much better subject matter than 95% percent of the world, he said in that sardonic way she secretly loved.

He paused then continued thoughtfully, You paint what you dream but you never paint yourself in the scene. Where are you? What are you doing? How do you feel?

Fiona shook her head, her mind not quite wrapping around that. I can’t capture that, she said sullenly.

Bullshit, Cody called. You’re afraid of it. Why is that? he pressed.

Fiona was quiet. Which even she realized was odd for her.

That’s what I thought, he bit out melodically. He reached behind him and presented a slinky black dress. As penalty for not being able to answer, you wear what I want you to wear tonight.

Fiona stared at it in horror realizing he had it the whole time. Where were you hiding that? she accused.

He just huffed and smiled.

CHAPTER TWO

Fiona smiled blindly up at the man that had yet to actually look her in the eye.

So, you say your dreams are your inspiration, he said lazily in a distracted way. He paused thoughtfully, his eyes saying a thing or two about his own dreams as they ran over her cleavage to her hips and then back up. So, this piece, he loosely gestured to the one they were standing closest to, What kind of dream inspired this?

Fiona politely observed the man in front of her. He was about 30 years older than her at least if his not graying, but whiting rudely receding hairline was any indication. His beer belly was lovingly outfitted in a black shirt that was open way too low showing an equally white bush that she was afraid had eaten many women in its time. This was supported by sallow white linen pants that showed off his practically concaved rear end. His accent was not an American dialect, European most likely. Fiona had nothing against Europeans honestly, but she did have expectations in regards to the bathing habits of men she did anything social with. All that mixed in with the British teeth, come on.

Fiona looked at the painting in question. "Silent Tears," she practically breathed out feeling once again the overwhelming emotion that had caused her to paint it. She walked up to the canvas, the man forgotten as she stared into its murky depths for a few moments.

Silent Tears had come to Fiona three years ago. The dream had been simple and matter of fact. She was about to lose someone very close to her. The loss was to be hidden until the time came for it to occur.

The canvas was shrouded in darkness, murky purples, blues, greys and blacks surrounded what was an indistinguishable human form. The sex was indeterminable because of the murkiness. All that could be seen clearly was a hand reaching out from the piece as if looking for help.

Fiona turned to the man. He was actually paying attention to her now as she knew he would be. Cody called it her Double A: The artist aura, every single one no matter their media had it. The barely tapped but tangible essence of creation that made a person do what they did for a living. Make things where there was nothing before. He said that Fiona practically glowed with it when she talked about her work. It made her captivating to the most cynical. Which was why he made her work these shows.

This dream accompanied the death of my father, her words sounding hollow to her. She could never say it right. It felt like ash on her tongue.

What she didn’t say was that she had the dream months before her father had died. It was a sudden accidental death in an automobile maybe six blocks from the home he had shared with her mother in northeast Austin. She and her mother had both been rendered blind to it. All things indicated that had anyone known it would’ve been a simple matter to prevent it. For whatever reason, his death had been necessary.

The man was immediately contrite as his eyes finally moved over the piece instead of the artist. I lost my father when I was very young. Never really knew him, there was new energy in his speech as he spoke. He met her eyes finally. You knew your father, he stated knowingly.

Fiona nodded as her eyes welled a bit with tears. She cleared her throat. Then she managed in a much steadier voice than she thought she was capable of, Very well, he was one of my best friends.

It’s him, the figure. The man nodded to the painting as he spoke his, odd accent catching on the e’s.

It’s him, it’s her, it’s anyone, everyone we’ve lost, Fiona uttered slowly. The trained response was failing from her lips like always whenever she was asked.

How much? was his next question as he was now lost in the piece.

She stared at the man,