Short Stories From The Reaping Covetous Series

           

Summary of the first book in the series, Reaping Covetous:

REAPING COVETOUS is told from the main character, Leah McKnight’s point of view, and is set in the fictitious town of Covetous, Indiana.

Seeing her cousin Cecile’s blond head of hair bobbing down the aisle instantly lightens Leah McKnight’s workday.   That lightness quickly dims when the angry spirit of a recently deceased woman, Sarah Nichols appears.  Doggedly pursuing her still living husband, Sarah keeps screaming about dying rosebushes.  In an instant, Cecile’s kind demeanor switches, taking on the personality of the harpy chastising her husband.  Leah only wishes this was something new, but Cecile has suffered from this all her life. 

Leah’s been able to see and speak with the lingering spirits of the dead since her first memory.  Restless and often downright confusing, thankfully, if Leah ignores those spirits, they kindly reciprocate.  Cecile’s never been so fortunate.  Unable to see or hear them, instead Cecile’s brain gets bombarded with their toxic emotions.  Years of personality flips along with the debilitating migraines that follow have left Cecile nearly housebound. 

It’s frustrating.  Leah’s been able to tell her cousin the why of the problem but that’s done nothing to solve it.  Everything changes one seemingly normal day at work when a customer dies of a sudden heart attack at the end of check out lane three.  Death is nothing new to Leah.  Having discovered her parents’ bodies at the tender age of sixteen, Leah knows the smell of death.  But contrary to what half the town of Covetous thinks, she wasn’t actually present when her parents were killed.  Now, standing there as the stranger’s spirit leaves his body, Leah sees her first reaper, Andy. 

Meeting a reaper is nothing like Leah ever expected.  Cagey, condescending and more oddly alluring than anything she’s ever seen, Andy’s distaste for the living is obvious.  Despite Andy’s personality flaws, Leah soon learns there is a reason some spirits don’t move on.  If a spirit turns from their reaper, they won’t be able to see them again until the reason they turned from them is resolved. 

An idea sparks within Leah’s mind.  If she can figure out the why, maybe it will allow those lingering spirits to see their reaper again and move on from the plane of the living, clearing the field for Cecile.  Reaping all the lingering spirits in Covetous is a pipe dream, but every little bit has to help, right?

Leah’s first attempt is a disastrous failure. Soon after, Leah is called into the police department to identify a recent photo of a man suspected of being her brother, Bobby – the same brother who murdered her parents almost six years ago.  Why Bobby killed their parents and left Leah alive is unknown.  Bobby’s future plans are an even greater mystery.  Unsure of Bobby’s intentions and feeling helpless, Leah’s even more determined to help Cecile. 

Changing her game plan, Leah goes after a different spirit, Sarah Nichols.  Although numbingly painful, Leah learns why Sarah’s rosebushes are so important, why Sarah continually calls them her children.  Solving this problem, Sarah is ready to move on and Andy reaps her spirit.  

Despite the emotional toll the reaping takes, Leah’s still happy.  Sarah’s spirit has been reaped, leaving one less emotional bomb waiting to explode in Cecile’s mind.  For the first time in a long time, Leah feels proactive instead of reactive.  So why does Andy look like someone just punched him in the gut? 

Leah doesn’t understand Andy’s reaction anymore than she understands why she seems so drawn to the reaper when every last one of her remaining survival instincts is screaming at her to run away.  Despite the strain, Leah is determined to help Andy reap other lingering spirits.  Leah did it once; she can do it again.    

Shorts from Reaping Covetous are below: They are posted from oldest to newest. Each story will be broken by a new picture and title. Scroll down to read each one. If needed, trigger warnings will be given prior to each story. Please heed these and skip if they might affect you negatively. Thanks so much and as always, take care and be well. MJ May.

The Importance and Impact of Cecile:

A Reaping Covetous Short

Two new pictures joined five others littering my bedside table, bringing the total to a whopping seven.  Mystery didn’t surround their appearances.  The blame lay at my younger cousin, Cecile’s feet.  Even now, rummaging around her backpack produced another one.  It was the fourth featuring my cat, Ashes. 

“I took this one,” Cecile proudly proclaimed.  “She really likes the new treats I asked mom to buy.” 

That’s probably what Ashes was doing in the picture, eating a treat.  With her head down all I could see was the top of a gray forehead and a couple of ears, it was hard to say for sure.  Regardless, I remained quiet, unwilling or maybe unable to change the status quo.  For her part, Cecile seemed content with how things were going.  Chattering away, I figured my cousin was just happy she’d been let out of the house.  Honestly, I was still more than a little surprised Cecile’s mom let her visit.

“You girls doing all right?”  Aunt Joyce’s head popped around the edge the door.  Wearing dark, navy scrubs, it was evident she was working.  Aunt Joyce was a critical care nurse at Covetous Community Hospital.  I’d been transferred out of critical care and onto the psych floor two days ago.  The restraints holding my arms down were removed this morning.  If I’m a good girl and don’t try anything else, they plan on moving me into Covetous Behavioral Health where I’ll be getting a nice, cushy room where everything is bolted down and there are less sharp objects than allowed on a commercial airplane. 

“Yup!”  Cecile beamed, that ever-present sunny disposition rankling my drugged up calm.  “I just put up a few more pictures and I was getting ready to ask Leah what color she wants her toenails painted.”

That was a new one, a concept that actually pulled a faded grunt from my mental fog.  Aunt Joyce threw a look my way, the one that said she was doing me a favor and trusting me with the safety of her one and only child.  Maybe I wasn’t the only one who belonged in the psych ward. 

“If you need anything, anything at all, you just let them know at the nurses station and they’ll call me.  Do you understand, Cecile?”

My cousin’s head dropped, her eyes down cast on what I figured was a tiny vial of nail polish.  Cradled within her hands, I couldn’t see the color.  With her head down, I also couldn’t see Cecile’s baby blues, wisps of blond hair falling and hiding her face.  It didn’t matter, I knew what I’d see if her head was up – embarrassment, fatigue, guilt.  Despite how annoying Cecile’s cheerful disposition could be, at that moment, I hated my aunt just a little bit for stealing that away, even temporarily. 

“I’ll be fine, mom.  I’ve visited before and everything went okay.  I think – “

“You know that’s not always true,” Cecile’s mom admonished.  “We’ve thought that before and then you had an episode.  The only place you really seem okay is at home.”

Cecile’s body visibly flinched, her hands clenching down on the vial of nail polish. 

“We’ll be fine,” I finally spoke up, my voice raspy from disuse.  “I’ve got the button here for the nurse.”  As if to prove my point, I raised the on call device, an utterly pointless move considering my aunt had been a nurse for well over seventeen years and was well acquainted with hospital rooms and their numerous accouterments.  Lifting the little device showed off my thickly bandaged wrist, clean and new considering it had just been changed this morning.  The matching one on my left wrist was just as thick and pristine.

Aunt Joyce’s eyes traveled from the call button to the material covering a plethora of tiny, black stitches.  Back stiffening, my aunt’s lips pursed down into a thin line.  I couldn’t tell exactly what she was feeling, whether it was disgust, concern or maybe irritation.  It was probably a mixture of all three.  I was under no illusions regarding my aunt’s joy over taking my cat and me in three months ago.  But I was only sixteen, too young to live on my own.  Besides, I don’t think Uncle Jack would have let me live by myself anyways.  I was his sister’s child, the only survivor of that night.  Well, Ashes and me.  Given that Aunt Joyce was severely allergic to cats hadn’t helped matters in the least. 

“All right,” Aunt Joyce grudgingly nodded, her eyes flicking down at her watch before zeroing in on Cecile again.  “My break time’s almost over.  Call your dad when you’re ready to leave.  He’s working from home today.”  Uncle Jack rarely worked from home, but as a lawyer, he could do it on occasion.  Staring down at my wrists, I was fairly certain I knew the reason he wasn’t at the office today, or the days preceding today.

“Okay,” Cecile’s voice sounded light again, the heaviness of before evaporating away. 

“You girls have a good time.”  The twisted look on my aunt’s face let me know she found the words as misplaced as I did.  Then again, what were you supposed to say in a situation like this? 

“I thought she’d never leave.”  Cecile waited a whole five seconds before blurting that out, a roll of her fourteen year old eyes adding the necessary teenage angst.  “Now, I brought a few different colors.  I’m not really sure what you like, so I just gathered up everything I have.”  Cecile was back to rummaging around her backpack, the clinking sounds of little bottles of polish ringing through the air.  “I asked mom if she thought it would be okay, painting your toenails.  She said it should be fine now but we probably shouldn’t do your fingernails, you know . . . just in case . . . “ Cecile’s eyes strayed toward my bandaged wrists, her pink cheeks momentarily blanching.  I’d lost the little monitor on my finger when they moved me out of critical care, but a couple of times a day a nurse came in to take my vitals and they put that thing on my finger, checking to see how well oxygenated I was.  Evidently nail polish messed with that little device. 

“So, we’ve got light pink, blush pink, hot pink, lavender, blue, periwinkle . . . “ Cecile went on and on, with each named color, a vial was lined up next to the last.  I guess I hadn’t been paying attention the last three months, but I didn’t remember seeing Cecile’s nails painted all these different colors.  Then again, one of the nurses this morning had to remind me that Thanksgiving was less than two weeks away.  I didn’t even know it was November.

“Well, what do you think?”  Somewhere along the line, Cecile had pulled out the last of my options. 

Blinking the grit from my eyes, I just kind of stared, completely dumbfounded and unable to make even the simplest decision.  I’d had the same problem last night when the nurse asked me to pick what I wanted to eat.  Food didn’t sound even the slightest bit appealing and I’d stared at the card until the nurse had finally taken it and picked out a couple of things.  I couldn’t remember what they were.  I think I ate some of it. 

“Leah.”  Cecile’s fingers were light against my too pale skin, the tape of the IV catheter almost blending in with the flesh on the back of my hand.  “Do you want me to pick?”

I nodded.  “Okay.”  I hesitated, desperately trying to remember some of the colors Cecil had mentioned, the rainbow assortment blurring before my eyes.  “Just not . . . there was a lot of pink.  Maybe not that.”

Cecile looked like I’d just granted her fondest wish before narrowing her eyes and becoming serious again.  “How about . . . lavender?  It’s not pink, but I think it would go well with your skin tone.”

I wasn’t sure there were any colors that went with nearly dead white, but either way I said, “Sure.” 

The scrape of the chair Cecile pulled toward the end of the bed echoed loudly, the bashful, “Sorry,” whispering through her lips thawed a miniscule piece of my heart. 

Lifting up the sheet, Cecile pulled off the pressure socks I’d been fitted with.  “I asked and they said it would be okay to do this for a little while.  I’ll put them back on after you’re dry.”  Soon my feet were uncovered.  The chill air should have made my toes cold but all I felt was numb and I knew it wasn’t just the pain meds causing it. 

Chattering away, Cecile filled the empty air with noise.  I couldn’t focus; missed most of it, but that didn’t matter.  The steady up and down cadence of her voice pulled me from my own thoughts, those damning streams of consciousness that wouldn’t rest.  I was stuck in a never-ending stream of self-doubt, hate, guilt and pain.  But hearing my cousin talk about my cat, Ashes, the back patio door that Uncle Jack claimed again he was getting fixed soon, the garbage disposal that had decided to give up on life, and the myriad of other things I either didn’t hear or couldn’t remember, gave my brain a break. 

Reaching for a glass of water, I flinched, the bandage on my wrist pulling at the sutures, the changed angle emphasizing the ache the drugs couldn’t completely mask. 

“D-does it hurt?”  Cecile’s whispered words, so soft they cut through the constant clatter of the hospital floor, caught my attention.  Staring at my cousin, her eyes drifted toward my bandaged appendage.  “Your wrists.”

I stared down at my wrist, my eyes unseeing.  Instead of white cloth, I saw what lay beneath – hacked flesh, puffy pink edges of sliced skin, and little railway lines of suture holding everything together.  My left wrist looked similar, the lines a little straighter considering I was both right handed and I’d gone after that one first.  Did they hurt?  They did, but not as much as my chest ached, not as much as my brain lashed out and wailed.  This was a pain that would eventually heal.  My wrists were bearable, my shame not so much. 

“It’s fine.”  I answered.  I figured whatever pain I felt, I deserved.  I’d already asked the doctor not to give me any more pain meds.  She’d almost agreed until she figured out why I’d made the request.  Uncle Jack had also overruled me and since I was technically a minor, he had the authority. 

“Leah.”  That soft, pleading echo didn’t leave Cecil’s voice.  “Please, don’t ever do that again.  I can’t . . . I can’t stand the thought of finding you like that again.  I’ve been having nightmares, that I didn’t get there in time, that I . . . “

I should apologize.  Part of me wanted to.  It was the part of me that knew what I was supposed to do, what societal norms dictated the situation called for.  My mouth remained closed.  Was I sorry Cecile had been the one to find me?  Absolutely.  Did I hate the fact she was having nightmares, on top of all the other things Cecile had to deal with?  One hundred percent.  Was I ashamed of my actions?  Without a doubt.  Did I wish I’d succeeded?  I felt too numb to know the answer.  To be honest, I couldn’t even remember doing it, or at least I couldn’t remember the whole thing.  That was probably best.  I do remember standing in the bathroom, looking in the mirror and all I could see was my mother.  My long, nearly black hair and hazel gray eyes an echo of a woman I’d never see again.  Every time I looked in that damn mirror, I saw the same thing and I was tired of it.  I was tired of everything.  I remember leaving the bathroom, scrambling through a drawer in the kitchen until I found my aunt’s sheers.  The next thing I knew I was back in that bathroom, chopping at my hair, my bare feet puddled within an ever growing pile of dark brown lochs.  Within minutes those strands of hair had been covered in my blood and Cecile was screaming in my ear. 

Cecile wanted a guarantee, she wanted me to tell her it would never happen again, but all I could smell was the constant metallic ring of my parents’ blood.  The deafening roar of the bomb my brother, Bobby’s actions had set off in my head.  Visions of my brother, my twin, holding the gun that ended any semblance of normalcy. 

Without incident, Cecile finished painting my toenails, fanning them dry before dutifully placing my socks back on.  Cecile called her dad on her cell phone and with a promise to be back tomorrow, she shoved her thin arms through the loops of her backpack and left me to the silence of the psych ward. 

One am found me awake.  The pain meds were doing funny things with my sleep schedule, not that I’d had much of one since that night anyways.  Drifting for an hour or two, I’d wake for another three, only to repeat the cycle.  Nighttime was even quieter, the moans and barely audible sobbing of a patient down the hall a little louder in the silence of the floor.  Dimly lit halls and the occasional passing of whatever nurse was on duty my only company. 

Around one thirty, that changed.  I’d heard Thomas Birkingham’s angered spirit when I’d been on the critical care floor.  He wasn’t always around, but seemed to come and go.  Or at least I think that was his pattern.  I’d been in and out of consciousness and couldn’t be sure.  The only reason I even knew his name was that part of his repetitive ranting included saying it.  I didn’t know a lot of spirits who referred to themselves in the third person, but I quickly figured out Thomas did, at least some of the time. 

I didn’t exactly care.  I figured Thomas was long dead – how long, I had no idea.  All I knew was that he was furious about something or another and roamed the hospital halls shouting about it.  Most likely he didn’t realize I was the only one who could hear him.  Then again, given that most lingering spirits totally ignore me, he probably didn’t even know that much.  Turning my head, I reached for another pillow, stuffing it over my head and ears.  All I could do was hope the nurse didn’t come in and think I was trying to off myself again.  Not that trying to suffocate myself with a pillow would work.  I’d pass out before hand and loosen my hold on it enough I’d be able to breathe again.  It was probably the only reason I’d been provided with a pillow at all. 

Voice fading, Thomas’ spirit wandered off the psych floor and to who knows where.  I was relieved when he’d gone.  Not because I was scared of him, but more the fact that he was so loud and obnoxious.  Having seen and heard the lingering spirits of the dead all my life, I was good at ignoring them.  Some were easier to ignore than others and whether he knew it or not, Thomas Birkingham wasn’t one of the easier ones. 

If he’d stayed five more minutes, I would have gotten in trouble.  As it was, I’d already removed the pillow from my head when the nurse ducked her head in to check on me.  None the wiser to what had just meandered down the hall, my nurse asked, “Trouble sleeping?”

I wanted to reply, “Always,” but instead shrugged my shoulders, an action I wasn’t even sure she could see in the dim lighting. 

“Want me to see if I can get you anything to help you sleep?”

The word, “No,” was out of my lips before I could think twice.  After that night, the doctors had sent home a prescription Uncle Jack had happily filled.  Drugged up for the night, I was unable to awaken; the nightmares plaguing my dreams allowed full reign with no way of escape.  It had been one of the worst nights of my life, an experience I refused to replay.  From what I understood, most people didn’t react that way to the sleeping aids.  But I wasn’t most people. 

“Okay,” my nurse, a slightly thick through the middle forty something year old with her hair thrown up in a messy bun, was typically kind.  I figured you had to have a special something to do this job and so far the nurses on the psych floor were living up to my expectations.  “You just let me know if you change your mind.”

“I will,” I answered while knowing with absolute certainty I wouldn’t. 

“Try and get a little more sleep.  From what I understand, you’ll be leaving us in a couple of days.”  She said it like I was getting to go home.  But home was gone and my aunt and uncle’s substitute house wasn’t happening either.  No, I was headed to Covetous Behavioral Health. 

“I brought some magazines today.”  Cecile plopped a few down on the bed next to my thigh.  “I figured you were probably getting bored.”  I think we both looked up to the muted television screen attached to the wall across from my bed.  “I wasn’t really sure what you liked and mom was with me when I picked them out so I couldn’t get anything cool.”

I had no idea what kind of magazines Cecile was thinking about.  From what I could see she’d brought me an Entertainment Weekly, People and something with Johanna Gaines on the front. 

“Ooh, who brought you those?  They smell wonderful.”  Cecile had her nose shoved into a peach colored rose.  There were other roses keeping it company, along with some daisies, greenery and a few other flowers I didn’t know the names of. 

“Dave was here earlier.”

“I missed him?”

“He left awhile ago.”  I wasn’t really sure how much time had passed.  They hadn’t brought me lunch yet and Dave had stopped by sometime after breakfast. 

“He has good taste.”  Cecile’s nose was still buried in a rose, her voice muffled.  I figured Dave probably stopped by the gift shop downstairs and purchased something pre-made, but Cecile was still right.  Then again, Dave had picked Bobby and me as his best friends so maybe Dave didn’t have the best taste in things, or maybe it was just people. 

Instead of leaving the flowers alone, Cecile fussed with them until she’d angled them into a position I could easier see from my bed.  Satisfied, she took off her coat before plopping into the seat by my bed.  “Dad said Dave hardly left your side, you know, when you first went into the hospital.”

I had vague memories of that, of waking up to both Dave and Uncle Jack sitting in what looked like the most tortured positions ever, their heads angled on necks that looked ready to snap as they attempted sleep.  Faces splotchy and dark circles hanging below their eyes, they’d both stayed. 

“He’s scared.”

“Who?  Dave.”  Cecile asked, making me realize I’d spoken out loud.  “Scared of what?”

“Losing me.”  Dave hadn’t said it.  He hadn’t needed to.  Dave was ready to fight, slay all my mental and emotional dragons, to keep me alive and make me whole again.  I would have happily let him if I could.  But some battles had to be fought on the field alone.  Dave might be ammunition for the battle, but I was the one holding the gun. 

Gun.  Images assaulted my brain, memories that normally only came unbidden in my dreams.  Bobby standing by my parents’ bedroom window, the room humid with fetid, blood scented air, my father’s cooling blood thick between my bare toes, the glint of metal hanging from my brother’s hand, the sound –

“He’s not going to loose you.”  Cecile’s sure voice sliced through my memories, scattering them into tiny pieces that would take nearly all day to resurrect.  They’d be whole again come nighttime.  “None of us are loosing you.”  Cecile sounded as determined as Dave.  I wish I held even a quarter of that determination. 

“Now,” Cecile huffed, throwing herself down into the chair Dave had vacated earlier that morning.  “Let’s look at the bulls eye in Entertainment Weekly first, that’s my favorite part.”  Cecile started flipping pages, quickly landing on the last page, twisting the magazine so I could see the pictures as she read the taglines.  She was just getting started when she finally realized there wasn’t a fluid line running toward my hand anymore.  “Oh, they took out your IV.”  Cecile sounded far more excited about the prospect than I thought the event warranted. 

“They removed it this morning.”  I was being moved tomorrow.  From what I understood, I could be moved today but they were waiting for some kind of paper work from the insurance company to come through.  My little padded room was ready and waiting. 

“That’s great.  It’s one step closer to getting you home.”

Besides Ashes, I kind of figured Cecile was the only one who felt that way.  Aunt Joyce was most likely relieved having me out of her house and Uncle Jack . . . I’m not really sure what Uncle Jack felt besides worry.  I didn’t bother telling Cecile her home and my home were vastly different concepts, that my home had been blown apart three months ago and there weren’t enough pieces left to even begin reconstruction.  Cecile didn’t need to know those things; she didn’t need another burden layered on top of the ones she already carried. 

 Time moved on, Cecile’s light, happy chatter about people and places that were as foreign to me as peace of mind, distracting in the most benign of ways.  The nurse stopped by, a different one than last night, to let me know lunch would be coming soon.  Evidently that was Cecile’s cue and with a genuinely apologetic look in her eyes, she called her mom who was evidently technically off work today but was doing something or other in the hospital while Cecile and I visited.  For all of our differences, I was thankful my aunt had been letting Cecile and I have this time alone.  Oddly enough, it helped, at least temporarily. 

“I’m sorry I can’t stay longer but mom has a lot of things to do today and dad had to go back into the office.  She’s going to drop me at home before going on her errands.”  A lot of teenagers wouldn’t want to go running errands with their parental units, but not Cecile.  What most people took for granted was my cousin’s dream come true. 

“It’s okay.  Can you . . . will they let you visit me in the other place?”

Cecile’s face scrunched up, her lips pursed like she’d sucked down something sour.  “I’m not sure.  I asked mom and dad.  I think maybe, but only supervised and it’ll have to be in something like a common area.”  Shooting a look toward the door, Cecile’s cheeks pinked.  “I think we’re kind of breaking the rules as is.  Mom asked for a couple of favors and your doctor thought it might make things better so she okay’d it too.”  Ducking her head, Cecile glanced up, the light blue of her eyes contrasting with her blond lashes.  “I hope that’s true.  I mean, I want to help, to make things better.”

I opened my mouth, ready to say she had, those words surprising me more than anyone, but my mouth closed, my eyes squinting as Thomas Birkingham’s spirit made his appearance on the floor.  Ranting’s distant but still far more audible than I’d like, Thomas was once more railing at the top of his spiritual lungs, his voice already grating on my nerves. 

If I was an expert in anything, it was ignoring the lingering spirits of the dead, but Thomas made that task nearly impossible.  It took me half a second; maybe longer before I pushed Thomas’ spiritual ranting’s to the back of my mind.  I’d evidently closed my eyes because when I opened them again, the Cecile I knew and was coming to cherish was gone. 

“Cecile?  Are you – “

“What the fuck did you do to yourself?”

I sucked in a breath.  Thomas Birkingham’s rants grew louder but they were relegated to background noise, the anger and pure rage shimmering in Cecile’s eyes was a foreign landscape.  Unconsciously, I pulled my arms closer to my body, desperately trying to hide my bandaged wrists.  “Cecile, I think we need to call your mom.  Maybe she can help – “

“Help?  No one in this gods forsaken place can help.”  Cecile stood, the force of movement so harsh the chair she’d been sitting in skittered back, slamming into an IV pole.  “No one helps!”  Cecile grabbed her hair, pulling at the roots and tearing out the butterfly clips holding the edges of her hair back.  Tears were flowing down her reddened cheeks, a feral scream ricocheting off the walls.  Plastered against my bed, eyes wide, all I could do was stare, mouth agape as I witnessed something I’d heard about for years but never seen. 

Darting forward, Cecile’s eyes looked wild, her pupils blown and lips curled back in a snarl.  With the swipe of a hand, she sent all the pictures she’d brought tumbling to the ground, glass breaking as frames shattered.  Darkness started creeping in around the edges of my vision, my breath coming in too short of pants, the machine monitoring my heart rate adding its wail to the chaos playing out in my hospital room.  A rainbow array of scrub tops filtered in, hands clasping, reaching for my thrashing cousin.  Through the middle, my aunt barreled in, pushing away anything and anyone standing between her and her daughter.  Grabbing her, Aunt Joyce wrapped her arms around Cecile, pulling her tightly against her chest and holding on for dear life.  All the while, Cecile screamed, the sound piercing through my brain, adding its agony to the trash pile of my own. 

And then, like a switch had been flipped, the screaming stopped, Cecile’s face going lax as her muscles turned limp, her body a flaccid heap cradled within the arms of her mother.  Sinking to the ground, Aunt Joyce followed her daughter’s decent from madness.  Another episode at its end, a tornado swept field left in its wake.   

“Momma?”  Cecile’s voice was small, the hushed whisper of a frightened child. 

“Shhh, baby.  It’s okay, momma’s got you.”  Aunt Joyce’s voice was strong, confident authority singing through the wreckage. 

“W-what . . . I mean, did I . . . “

“It’s okay.  Everything’s okay now.  Don’t worry.”  Aunt Joyce finally released her charge, pulling back just enough to look over Cecile, cataloging her for any physical injuries.  I wasn’t sure if my aunt could see anything I couldn’t, but to my eyes, Cecile looked a mess.  Hair going every which direction, I could only find one of the sparkly, pink butterfly clips bravely hanging on.  Eyes red and puffy, cheeks splotchy and nose runny, Cecile’s eyes were already beginning to pinch down.  I’d heard migraines often followed episodes like this but I’d yet to see it.  If the pain pulling at Cecile’s lips was any indication, those hadn’t been exaggerated either. 

Silently I sat there, hugging myself, my body stuck and unmoving within the bed I’d been allocated.  Reality seemed to be coming back to Cecile in fits and starts.  Eyes pinched, Cecile’s blue orbs began their trip around the room, settling here and there on the havoc she’d inflicted.   Face falling, a small keening wail slipped through Cecile’s pressed lips when she saw the glass and pictures on the floor, a shattered vase of flowers and their associated water completely ruining the pictures. 

“Oh, Leah . . . I’m so sorry, I . . . “

Before I could say anything, my aunt’s loving eyes hardened, focusing in on me.  “What did you do?”

“Me?  I – “

“I’m sorry, Joyce.”  One of the nurses on the floor was still in the room.  “We heard the crash and came running but Cecile was already so upset and – “

“Heard the crash?  Didn’t Leah page you?”  Flashing eyes back on me, Aunt Joyce stared at the call button I unknowingly had clenched within my hands.  Despite my tight hold, evidently I’d failed to hit that little button. 

“I – “ I stared down at the button, “I didn’t think.  It all happened so fast, and I – “

“You didn’t think?  Well, at least that I can believe,” my aunt stated as she stood, grasping Cecile’s hand at the same time and gingerly helping her to stand.  “You never think, do you?  You just act and this time you didn’t even do that.” 

“Mom, it wasn’t –“

“We’re going home.”  Aunt Joyce proclaimed and I knew she wasn’t including me in that invitation.  Scurrying around the room, my aunt shoved the magazines Cecile had brought into her daughters backpack.  Shooting a look at the ruined pictures, their frames and the flowers Dave had brought in, Aunt Joyce turned back the nurse that was still lingering in the door. 

Without having to ask, the nurse nodded her head.  “I’ll see if one of the janitors can clean that up.  You go on home, Joyce.  Take care of Cecile.”

“Thank you Lisa.”  I figured I’d forget the name within a few minutes, but for now I knew the nurse brave enough to stick out my aunt’s potential wrath was named Lisa.

Grabbing Cecile’s coat, Aunt Joyce directed her daughter’s arms through the sleeves, bundling Cecile up before giving her another tight squeeze.  “We’re going to go home, get some migraine meds into you and put you to bed.  Okay, sweetie?”

Cecile nodded but even that seemed to shoot pain through her temple if the clenched eyelids were anything to go by.  “Okay momma.”

Tucking Cecile under her arm, Aunt Joyce started leaving.  Cecile stopped her, my cousin’s pinched face peeking around her mom’s protective barrier.  “I’m so sorry, Leah.  I didn’t mean . . . “ Cecile looked so damn defeated. 

“It’s okay.  Nothing was broken that can’t be fixed.”

“I’ll try and visit again, if you still want me to.”

“Whenever you want.”

Cecile gave a barely perceptible nod before turning and heading out.  I figured she had to be in a lot of pain to leave it at that.  At the edge of the door, my aunt stopped, Cecile now out of both eyesight and earshot.  “Needless to say, Cecile won’t be back.  I’m not subjecting her to this again.”  Aunt Joyce let her eyes roam around my destroyed room one last time before she too was gone, leaving me alone in silence, the calming beat of my own heart sounding away on the monitor my only company.  Gone were the pictures, Dave’s flowers, Cecile’s magazines and my cousin’s happy voice.  Even Thomas Birkingham had left the floor, his rants long gone as his spirit moved on to another area to haunt. 

Destructive thoughts, my mind and body’s greatest enemy, began filtering in.  Blame, guilt, shame, anger, pain, loss . . . everything negative swam together in a contaminated sea.  Rolling over, I lay there, waiting for the janitor to come and sweep away more remnants of my life. 

When the janitor did come, it was with a barely verbalized hello or goodbye.  Nurses and a couple of doctors visited, each of them offering smiles and kind words, none of which I particularly listened to.  I answered questions with one simple word, grunts or gestures and knew, contrary to what Cecile thought, I wouldn’t be getting out of Covetous Behavioral Health anytime soon.  Tomorrow I’d willfully walk into a building I had no exit strategy for. 

Deep into the night I lay there, my eyes open, staring at nothing.  Not even the pain meds offered me the sleep my body craved.  Around three-forty, I heard Thomas Birkingham reenter the floor, his anger and rage seeping into the cracks littering my brain.  Ignoring his chaotic words, I let Thomas’ tone sweep over me, glad I was too numb to let it truly affect me and also glad no one currently working on the floor had any kind of sensitivity to the not so dearly departed.  Otherwise, Thomas’ sour mood would have . . . my brain trailed off, sputtering to a stop before kick starting again.  Little thoughts, random trains and trails began pulling together. 

Stitches pulling beneath my bandaged wrists, I ignored the pain as I pushed myself up, sitting and wrapping my arms around my waist.  “That can’t be why?” I whispered into an empty room.  “It can’t be.”  But why couldn’t it?  I could see the lingering spirits of the dead – I could see, hear and speak with them if I was really feeling masochistic.  So, was it really such a leap to think that maybe Cecile was affected by them somehow too?  She was my cousin, my flesh and blood.  I had no idea why I could see them.  Bobby hadn’t been able to do anything, not like me, but that didn’t mean Cecile couldn’t.  All these years, all those doctors, tests, medications, treatments and curious headshaking when it came to actual diagnoses.  All those years spent cooped up inside her home – the only truly safe place, the only place Cecile never had an “episode”, the only place there were no lingering spirits. 

Could it really be that simple?  Had I really just solved the mystery of Cecile’s ailment?  The momentary joy I felt spiraled down into a fit of useless malaise.  So what if it was?  What, if anything could be done about it?  It wasn’t like the town of Covetous was crawling with spirits that hadn’t moved on, but they were present.  From what I could tell, some of them stuck to physical structures or places in the landscape while some followed the living.  And the living were always on the move. 

Lying back down, I stared up at the ceiling, sleep even more elusive than before.  At least this way the nightmares would stay away.  I wasn’t sure, not yet anyways, but something in my gut told me I was right, that this was the answer.  But it was an answer that few, if any, would believe.  My credibility was zilch.  Half the town thought I’d had a hand in my parents’ murders.  All of Covetous knew my twin brother had fired the shots, at the very least leaving me a suicidal basket case.  And Cecile . . . Cecile was a known nutter, had been for years.  Neither one of us had a lot of credibility.  But to be fair, even if we’d been shiny examples of sanity, who would have believed between the two of us, we could see, hear, speak with and feel the lingering spirits of the dead? 

No win scenarios sucked, but one thing was for sure, I had to figure this out, had to prove I was right.  Maybe I couldn’t solve Cecile’s problem, but one thing I might be able to do was give her the piece of mind that so eluded me.  Learning she wasn’t as crazy as everyone thought had to help in some small way, even if it was only Cecile and me who knew the truth. 

Eyelids fluttering, the elusive sleep I’d sought began creeping in.  Looked like my nightmares wouldn’t be taking a night off after all. 

Again, you can reach out if needed. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline number is 1-800-273-8255. There is no shame or weakness in asking for help.

Thank you for reading. Hopefully more shorts will be coming soon . . . MJ May