Something of a Kind - By Miranda Wheeler Page 0,24

demands of release.

Get out.

With fiery licks at her calves, she spun on her heels. Her mother ran from the room, disappearing into the shadows of the hall. Her emerald eyes a hazy gray, a sad smile luring her forward. Alyson ran after, her feet suddenly bare, touching the cold hardwood. A laugh pulled her back to the room, her mother dressed for a gallery, legs crossed, sitting politely in an oak chair.

This isn’t real.

“It’s alright, baby.” Vanessa lied, her lips never moving.

Wind shattered the window at her back, waves crashing through and sending her falling forward with a scream. Aly backed against the wall, shaking and untouched. As the waters pulled out, the glass reassembled. Her mother was pulled into her hospital bed, hooked into the wall like it had been there all night. Her heartbeat monitor thudded, her IV alarm screaming in offense against a bent cord.

“Momma?” Aly whispered, trembling, hesitantly stepping towards dark hair spread across the starched pillows. The force of the windows shattering again sent her flying backwards, a red-eyed beast crashing onto her bedroom floor.

Its legs twisted to gain footing, spinning to the side, running at Vanessa. It pitched itself over, pulling the tubes from her hands, the stickers from her chest, the mask from her post-chemo face, paperskin ridden with blue veins. The roar of a dozen coyotes rumbled from its chest as it clawed her, dragging her mother’s body, convulsing without oxygen, from the plastic mattress.

Aly dry-heaved, clutching her head, falling to the floor, curling into fetal position. She wanted to scream or grow breathless, to run or to run at it, assault or escape. She couldn’t move.

With one leg sending her mother out the window, into the murmurs in the shadows, it tackled Aly to the floor. The pressure of a building dropped onto her chest, sending the air rushing from her lungs.

She awoke on the floor, a sheet tangled around legs still clad in tight jeans. Sweat plastered hair across her forehead, holding damp clothes to the crevices of her back. She rested a hot cheek against the hardwood, smelling sweet and bitter from lemon-scented cleaners.

A sigh escaped from her lips as she pushed herself up. A forearm that had been tucked beneath her head was flushed and red, imprinted with the outline of her mother's necklace. A sensation of pins and needles shot through the limb when she balled a fist.

Aly hadn’t undressed but the lights were off. Her iPod buzzed on the bed, the earplugs thrown from her ears as she dozed off. The moon still hung high above the horizon, the bold sign of an ungodly hour. It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be sleeping for a while.

Tremors shook her frame. Adrenaline was easing from her bloodstream. In the blue shadows of nighttime, she made her way to the window. It hadn't cracked, totally unscathed. Summer heat had begun to set, sweating condensation clinging in patches rather than dusted across. Observing her reflection, her fingertips traced the shape of her flashing eyes. They were a cold blue, eerily magnified by old makeup staining black rims below her eyelids. Noticing a shift in the trees, she flicked the light on.

It was a long night.

Greg had filled the extra bedroom with paint cans, though most had been used and poorly mixed. Avoiding damp spots on the tarps with her bare toes, she managed to uncover clean whites and a modest heather gray. Unable to sleep, she piled her things in the center of the floor and began exterminating the sickly green from her walls.

While it dried, the pile of cardboard in the hallway grew as she filled the empty furnishings. Novels packed the bookshelf. Underthings and sketchbooks made their way to the dresser. Clothes slid over their hangers and relocated to the walk-in closet. Photographs, sketches, and non-canvas paintings were assigned to vintages frames, and nailed to the walls long before they dried. Thosethat didn’t fit were rotated in and out of a strip of gallery-style space until it felt exact, the final remainder an unsightly stack in the corner. She knew she was being loud.

Greg shouldn't have left the hammer in the hallway. She didn't care if he was disturbed.

~

Déjà vu from a midnight nightmare, Aly awoke on the ground at sunrise, hands caked with color and overwhelmed by the fumes of latex.

With a throw pillow tucked beneath her aching neck, she found herself in what she wore the night before– ripped jeans, easy-fit tank, cropped sweater– all splattered in