Chapter 5
Chapter Five
I press my eyelids closed tightly in an attempt to avoid the light spilling through my bedroom window, my body begging for a few more minutes of sleep.
It’s no use though; the day is calling. I crawl out of bed and make my way to the kitchen to pour myself a bowl of cereal.
I’ve always loved breakfast—eggs, sausage, pancakes, the whole lot—but I’m not much of a cook.
Mom was, and she had promised to teach me one day.
Neither of us realized that we wouldn’t have the time.
Cancer took her from me in the first months of my senior year of high school.
I went to college in another state, as far away as I could get—from my father, from this town, from the awful memories it holds.
After graduation, when I came back, my father had already left with barely a word spoken.
I prefer it that way. I don’t know where he went and I don’t want to.
I’m not really sure why I came back here.
Maybe to reclaim my home, to face my demons.
So here I am, the embodiment of the story we all hear about—the girl who goes away to find herself and make her career, only to come back to her podunk hometown with nothing much to show for it other than a moderately-useful degree.
I’ve made it work, though. It took years and a lot of work, but at thirty-three, I can now say that I run my own small business.
I don’t make a lot, but it’s enough for me.
I bought this house from my father with the money Mom had left for me.
It’s not much, and it needs work, but it was hers and now it’s mine.
Despite the terrible memories it holds, I couldn’t let it go.
I couldn’t let her go. Breathing deeply, I push the thought of my mother out of my mind.
It’s been nearly sixteen years since she passed, but thinking about her still makes my heart ache.
“No, no, Ava, not today. You’ve got work to do,” I console myself, willing myself out of the funk my brain has dug me into. After a few more deep breaths and some fumbling around the kitchen, I head into my office with a heaping bowl of Lucky Charms and a full cup of coffee.
Sitting down at my desk, I glue my eyes to an author’s first draft manuscript. At the first word, I leave my world behind and fall into the world she’s created.
I yank my hood over my head, avoiding the heat of the sun that prickles my scalp.
Sand scrapes against my toes within the confines of my boots.
The scratchy rocks slide in from the holes worn in the soles.
Kicking my toes into the dirt, I watch as pieces of earth flake and crumble.
I wipe the sweat from my brow and scoff.
That’s why they call this place “the crust”.
Folks say it’s because the earth is so dry here that it flakes like the dough of a fancy pastry.
Not that any of us would know, since no one here can afford pastry.
My grandma used to say that travelers would speak of it when they passed through, but that was years ago.
Nowadays, the only people who come through the crust are the guards.
Once every five years, they come. When they do, it’s chaos.
Women hide their daughters away in any place they can—cupboards, closets, even burrows beneath the dirt beside their homes.
Not that it ever matters. One by one, girls of the right age are dragged from their homes.
Their wrists and ankles are locked in shackles, their emaciated bodies stuffed into great wheeled cages lead by black stallions.
I turned twenty-five last week, so the next time the guards come, they’ll take me.
I have no family to hide me, no loved ones to grieve for my loss.
I prefer it that way. There’s no point in opening my heart when I already know my fate.
Death awaits me at the other end of the Earth, and that’s exactly where they’ll take me.
The alarm on my phone howls next to me, signaling that it’s time to call it quits and get to yoga class. Brushing the tears from my eyes, I quickly draft my notes from the day. I breathe out a sigh before closing my laptop and making the short drive into the center of town.
There’s only one yoga studio in Greenwood, and frankly, I’m surprised that we have one at all. My town is small, the exact opposite of Charlton, the city where Emily lives. It has a local kind of charm where everyone knows your name.
Arriving a few minutes late lets me avoid mingling with the other locals—a lesson I learned after my entirely uninteresting date with one.
I sneak in just as the instructor calls for the first downward dog of the evening, the sea of asses in front of me making me chuckle as I plop my mat down at the back of the room.
By the time we reach shavasana, the stress of the day has melted away and fallen off of my skin in the droplets of sweat that land unceremoniously on my mat.
Having had my fill of reflection and quiet for the day, I flood my car with whatever the latest pop hit is on the local radio station and make my way home.
I put my car in park at the entrance to the driveway to check the mail.
The latch sticks and metal creeks as I pry open the small mailbox door.
I thumb through the pile of envelopes in my hand.
Junk, junk, bill, junk—and a small black card envelope.
There’s nothing written on the outside and no postage stamps adhered to it. It’s not even sealed.
Using the edge of my fingernail, I pull the flap open before removing its contents, a small piece of paper with ripped edges and handwritten, black lettering.
The words are legible, but written with a hardness that gives them an air of aggression.
The words are written so forcefully that they indent the paper beneath.
Do you know that your name means bird in Latin? I can’t wait to make you sing, little bird.
My head swivels left and right, searching for whoever is playing this weird joke on me, but I find myself alone, freezing in my sports bra and yoga pants.
It’s too cold to stand out here while I figure it out.
I drop the mail on my passenger seat and let my mind sift through the possibilities as I make my way down the driveway.
Emily wouldn’t have driven all this way just to prank me with a cryptic note and then leave.
If this was her, she’d have stuck around to laugh at my reaction.
Maybe I have a neighbor with a strange sense of humor.
It can’t be anything more than that, right?
Pausing on the porch, I search the edges of the property.
Scanning the tree line, I see nothing. The near-bare trees give way to more trees behind, their trunks buried in red and gold leaves.
The dusky light makes everything look calm.
My ears strain, listening for something, anything, but it’s quiet.
Even so, I’m relieved when I find my front door still locked up tight, just as I left it.
Once inside, I tuck the note between the pages of my most recent read, and leave it on the coffee table in the living room.
I should crumple it up and throw it in the garbage, but something in the back of my mind tells me to keep it.
Perhaps because it’s the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in months, or maybe I just want it to be more interesting than it is.
Dropping myself onto the couch, I chastise myself for thinking this could be anything more than a simple misunderstanding.