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A Dark Revelry

🇺🇸MJRomo
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Synopsis

Chapter 1 - A Dark Revelry

Chapter One

I shouldn't have read the old diary I found hidden in the barn. The journal of Monica McKay had appeared harmless enough. Just an old, dusty journal from the nineteen-seventies. It was thick and covered in brown leather, with an old, rusted lock resting in the front, confining the mysteries it held within. I don't know what made me look under the timeworn board, but I went straight to it on that chilly November morning, as if I'd known it was placed there, just begging to be read. But the old farmhouse my parents bought, along with the land and the barn, the woods, and the broken-down corral, were all foreign to me.

But I'd walked right to the shelter, opened the heavy, creaking door, and traipsed to the sweet spot. There wasn't any conscious thought behind my actions. It was all rather methodical, robotic, as if something or someone was inside me, guiding me to the back corner of the feeble structure. The board gave easily beneath my cold, prying fingers, and the two broken pieces of wood lifted and nestled in the ground, wrapped in burlap, was the journal.

My heart pounded when I reached for it, unwrapping it as if it were a Christmas present, and I was just a child of six and not seventeen. But this farm was boring, as was the small midwestern town, and I left all my friends behind in California. I suppose me finding that journal was the most thrilled I'd been since leaving the life I knew behind to follow the dreams of my eccentric parents.

They loved old things and hated city life, for both had been raised in rural areas and longed to have me experience the hell they called home. I'd hated the move and the quiet life they adored but I hadn't a say. My vote was overruled, and we moved to the boondocks. In school, I was surrounded by strangers, deafened by voices all unknown to me. I was cold inside, lonely, and finding that book three months later filled me with exhilaration.

I'd raced to the privacy of my room, by-passing my mother who was canning spiced apples, and my father who was working in his office. Undoubtedly writing another bestseller, I assumed, and threw myself onto my brass-framed bed, eager to read what was inside the brown book. I hoped it wasn't something boring, needing a thrill brought back to me, even if my emotional circulation would be revitalized through the words of someone else.

What I got was something which would change my entire life.

I tugged my coat off and rubbed my hands together to warm them. Being from California, living not five miles from the San Diego beaches, I wasn't used to such cold. There was nothing about this world I was used to or liked, even. The house smelled of paint, after my parents hired workers to refurbish the entire place in a matter of weeks. Mom had asked me how I'd wanted my bedroom, and, in true teenaged fashion, I'd rolled my eyes, my expression telling of my indifference.

So she'd made the choices for me, turning my room into a nineteen-thirties bedroom replica. The walls were golden and the accessories teal. The trim was done with seashell designs and paintings of flapper women lined my walls. She'd placed peacock feathers in tall vases around my room, and I wouldn't admit I liked it.

Admission meant surrender, and I wasn't done rebelling against this move, believing my surliness would change things. Of course, it didn't, but I tried.

Pushing my dark hair from my shoulders, I laid on the teal comforter, staring down at the rusty latch, wondering if I'd be able to open it. It was so corroded and ancient, and I was sure the pages within might have mildew. But the buckle gave with ease, something I should have paid attention to. If something is easy, one should evaluate why that is. It was as if the diary wanted to be opened, the pages desperate to be read by my eyes.

The book's leather spine creaked as I parted the pages. I'd noticed the parchment paper was flawless, no mildew, not even yellowed from age. The paper was tissue thin, like the pages of a Bible, and I ran my fingertips over the first page, its cool, smooth texture making me shake. So silly, I thought, feeling this excited over a journal. But I couldn't quell it. It wasn't unlike running into an old and dear friend after years of hiatus. Upon opening the book, I smelled the scent of a strange perfume, not old musty paper, but something akin to the expensive wines my parents enjoyed on special occasions.

Strange, I mused, leaning in to inhale the fresh fragrance closer. The scent was faint but there, a mixing of wine and something reminding me of crisp autumn mornings. I didn't know why such an aroma would accompany a decades old book, but it was there, and never waned for as long as I had it. I smiled then, a naivety I curse myself for now, as I considered the first sentence of the found journal.

I was such a fool. Fool! Fool, fool, fool! Should have thrown the fucking thing away! Burned it! Shredded it and strewn the pieces of it into a nearby field for the birds to make their nests out of, rather than allow that first sentence to draw me in as it did. It was a magnet, and I a coin fastened to it from start to finish. But how could I have known what awaited me in her words? Even as she warned me, how could I have believed such a fantasy?

Only it would turn out that it wasn't fantasy, but reality, waking nightmares of epic proportions. And I would become consumed by it all. I would learn through the allusive Monica McKay that there is more out there than this life. Realms beyond our own that we are not meant to learn about. We are incapable of wrapping our heads around the truth. I would give anything to have the chance at basking in human ignorance. I would accept the opportunity with abundant gratefulness. We must stop seeking more, for the truth might be out there, but it is dark and once the door is opened in our minds, it can never be closed again.

Monica learned that, as did I.

The first part of her journal was typical, I suppose. The mindless rantings of a lonely and depressed adolescent. She spoke of her mother who had died the previous Christmas in nineteen-seventy-three. Monica was covered in sadness by the loss, for her mother had been the girl's best friend, something I couldn't relate to since my relationship with my mother was often strained. Her father worried about his only child withdrawing like she did and, for her sixteenth birthday, had bought her the journal in hopes she would express herself to the book since she didn't confide in anyone else.

Her heartfelt writings regarding her sadness were palpable, and I felt tears burn my eyes as she wrote of her mother, a sadness brought from the realms of the past and into the present through the written word.

… I'm forgetting what she looked like. Forgetting the way, she smelled and the sound of her laughter. Sometimes I remember how her blue eyes lit up when she was happy and that she had dimples that popped when she laughed. Her voice was musical to me, but I can't remember why anymore, and I hate how it's all fading away, like she never existed. The house is so cold now, and empty. Dad is lost too, and I wish I could talk to him, joke with him like we used to. But neither of us seems to have the energy anymore. If only she hadn't gone out that day. It was snowing, the roads icy, and she was never a great driver. How can a person be alive one minute, then just gone in the time it takes to bake a pizza?

I attend Mayfield High and seem to be the most hated girl in the school. When mom was alive, I could tolerate Lisa Steinbeck and her shitty disposition when it came to me. She is my personal bully, and she makes my life hell at school. Mom would always tell me to look at the source after I'd confide in her all the ugly things Lisa said and did to me. It helped. Lisa is the head cheerleader, sure, but she is as dumb as a box of rocks and useless. I might have the body of a twelve-year-old boy, as Lisa likes to point out, but I am preparing for Harvard. I have the drive and the grades to get there. I will one day be America's first female president! Just see if I don't.

And Lisa will be on her ninth marriage while cleaning out her trust fund, panicked because she can't find a job that pays enough to satiate her lust to spend. God, I hate her. Mom would be disappointed to hear me say that. Dad as well. So, I will share that only with you, dear diary, and not say it where anyone can hear me. But I hate her. From the top of her blond head to the bottom of her tiny feet, I hate her. She's cruel and seems to breathe happily if she has me broken beneath her heartless words. Without mom, and with dad's mind so far away, I can't handle her as I once could because now, she mocks my mother's death as well. I want to hurt that girl. Sew her damn lips shut until she can't talk any longer! My father is a deeply religious man and would be appalled if he read this. But I can't stand the pain anymore! Can't stand the heartbreak! I can't keep turning the other cheek. One day I will fight back, consequences be damned. I don't always think like my father likes. I listen to rock and roll, my favorite being Steppenwolf, and if he knew, he might explode. I smoke weed too, with Jonny Fields and Olive Kane. Jonny has kissed me a few times as well and although I'm not ready to go all the way with him yet, I think one day I will. I have my secrets and don't wish to give them up. They are a part of me, and I know my mother would have understood…

I wince when I consider how she was tortured in school. I no longer had a bully, but I did in California, the only aspect of my old home I didn't miss. Whereas Monica was small and thin, I was average and fought with my weight all the time. Monica described herself as the only redhead in the school and gave examples of all the harsh names Lisa and her crew gave her for being a ginger. I have dark hair and eyes, so at least Meghan Derringer hadn't had that to torture me with.

So far, the kids at Mayfield High, the same high school Monica attended, ignore me. Most of the kids there have known one another since kindergarten and their friendships were divvied out long ago. There wasn't much room for a newcomer, which was okay.

I figured that it was better to be invisible than bullied.

Just then, I heard my mother call to me from the foot of the stairs, announcing that it was time for dinner.

"Wash up and come eat, Ellie."

I blinked, looking away from the handwritten words, neatly penned in black on white. I was surprised to find my room covered in dusk's blue shadows. I must have read for hours, but it didn't seem like that much time had passed. Stretching, I closed the book and slid it beneath my pillows, not wanting to share my treasure with the rest of my family. It was nice connecting with Monica, feeling her life merge with mine. In that way, I didn't feel so alone.

Stretching, I went down to eat, hoping that we weren't having chicken again. Mom wasn't the best cook on a good day, but cooking chicken seemed to be her handicap. Most of the time it was burned on the outside and almost raw inside. God, even descending the polished staircase I could already taste the salmonella.

She tried, though. She always tried, and I was much too selfish to notice. So lost in my own egotistical troubles, I never once noticed hers, or dads, or anyone else's for that matter. Even as I stared at the blackened flesh of the fried chicken while considering a life being vegan, I never stopped to consider how long it had taken her to make the attempt. Isn't it the heart involved that should matter?

But I'd been anxious about moving from all I'd ever known, angry that I'd had to sacrifice my life for their happiness. That night I'd sat in a sullen silence, fiddling with my food in obvious disgust while my parents did their best to ignore my attitude. They laughed at shared jokes as I'd scowled. They'd smile at me, trying to involve me in their conversations, even as I'd rolled my eyes. It was what I gave them ever since we'd arrived in Mayfield, and I wouldn't see the err of my ways until it was too late.

But there was a moment when my father took his plate and left the table, when I considered Monica's words regarding her own mother, and the loss she felt.

… gone In the time it takes to bake a pizza…

Death was something which didn't occur to me. I'd not dealt with the idea of mortality and that we all die. I stared at my mother, watching her nibble on a piece of toast, and after long giving up on engaging me in chat, stared out of the window of the kitchenette, contemplating the night beyond. She really was pretty, my mother. She reminded me of a porcelain doll. Her brown hair pulled away from her face and her dark eyes, so like my own, were focused as she chewed. I look like her, I mused, just as Monica looked like her mother. She didn't write that, but I pictured her that way.

The idea of my mother fading away as Monica's did left a strange coldness inside of me. And I stood, leaning down, and kissing her alabaster cheek. The action startled us both, and she looked up at me in surprise, a small smile touching her full lips. I didn't wish to lose my game of attitude, so I turned away quickly and dumped my food in the garbage before putting my dishes in the sink. I wanted to return to the journal before bedtime. It was Sunday night and school was the following day, so I couldn't flounder long in Monica's world. I can only imagine how my mother sat at that table, stunned by the first show of love I'd given her in months.