15HEAVEN BESIDE YOU
The tale of a girl searching for Heaven in Hell.
Chapter One:
Like the Coldest Winter Chill…
By the time I was twenty-three, my encounters with death had begun to pile up.
My parents died when I was eighteen. That singular event defined the rest of my life, but even before then, my life was flooded with the kind of grief that only follows the death of someone close. I was fourteen when my older sister, Tamara, lost her three year old baby boy and my sister overdosed on Valium a month later. The father, my sister's boyfriend, became an alcoholic and tried to rape me once, the night before Christmas. I nearly cut his balls off with a meat cleaver, but my integrity remained intact.
My last living relative died in a nursing home 200 miles away, when I was twenty. By that time, I had no more tears left in me. It was as if I let go of life before it could be taken from me. Death no longer fazed me. I believe that's what attracted him to me.
XxXxXxXxXxXxHeaven Beside YouXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX
I staggered into a satanic ritual unknowingly, one chilly autumn evening.
The people inside the classroom wore black cloaks, like every stereotype of a satanic ritual you've ever seen. They weren't sacrificing a human child or even an animal, but there was a chalk pentagram drawn on the floor and they crowded around it, in a semi-circle. The bones of a goat head were hung on the wall. Candles were lit all around the room.
Immediately, the blood in my veins froze as twelve sets of eyes turned onto me at once. I couldn't see their faces, because of the black hoods they wore, but I could feel their eyes on me, the intensity of their combined hatred.
"Eh-" I mumbled, staggering backward gracelessly. "Wrong room. Sorry."
My back hit the metal door behind me and it fell open. I toppled out into the hall and then righted myself, thinking about how comical it must have been to watch me flee the room like a frightened deer. The hallways of the university were dark, considering the late hour, and it took a longer than usual to find my way. I was pretty certain that the Satanist kooks weren't allowed to be in that classroom, summoning spirits of the darkness, but I wasn't going to tattle.
I really hated a squealer.
The art studio opened up before me at last. I had to input a code to gain access. 03523. Inside, the room was large and mostly white, like an unfinished garage. At the center of the room was a canvas, already outfitted with plain white paper. The paints were on a shelf on the wall, every color imaginable. There were brushes, stuffed into a drawer beneath the paints, but I brought my own. I extracted them from my black messenger bag and then dropped it to the cement floor.
Music was an integral part of the creative experience. I carried a simple, old-style Walkman with me everywhere I went. I couldn't afford anything fancier, but the Walkman held sentimental value. It was my sister's.
The CD in the Walkman on that particular night just happened to be an old Alice in Chains album that I nabbed from a record store when I was sixteen. Most of the CD skipped, because of the scratches on the back, except for one song. I slipped on my headphones and played the song on repeat. I'd like to fly… but my wings have been so denied. I hummed softly to myself as I selected my paints and followed the creative flow inside of me, that inexplicable urging that directed each stroke of my brush.
"You're talented," I heard, more inside my head than outside it. It startled me, and the brush in my hand jerked, sending an unsightly blue smear across the canvas. Beyond perturbed, I whirled around and removed the headphones.
Standing behind me, only a few feet away, was a man I didn't recognize. His hair was jet black and sloppily arranged around his face in jagged strands. His eyes were bright, set in his head like sky blue jewels. His skin was pale and flawless, and I found myself actively searching for some unevenness in the tone, some blemish, but there wasn't one.
For a long moment, I just stared at the stranger, the paintbrush gripped in my fist. I realized, with a flush, that black, red, and blue paint stained the ragged old shirt I was wearing, as well as my over-sized, hole-laden jeans.
"I have the studio until three AM," I explained with an unsure glance at the exit. Something about him severely creeped me out. His height added to that creepiness, seeing that he stood around 6'3".
"I'm Donovan," he announced, flat-out ignoring my cue for him to leave.
"Hello," I grumbled, really just wanting him to go. "I have the studio until three AM."
"Your painting is evocative." He stepped closer. Instinctively, I stepped back. "It reminds me of a grave battle, a very long time ago."
He tilted his head, considered the painting with an odd gleam in his pale blue eyes. I recalled the pepper spray I kept stowed away in my messenger bag and made slow steps toward it.
"How did you even get into this room? It requires a code." I knelt to scoop up my bag, fumbled with the clasp, and discovered that the pepper spray was absent. I never removed that pepper spray. It resided there every day, since the day Tamara's boyfriend attacked me.
"I am the new art instructor," he explained, sounding absolutely bored. "Professor Vladimir retired."
"But Vladimir was only in his thirties…"
"I came down to see the studio. I didn't know you would be here." He directed his gaze away from the painting and onto me. I felt chilled, just as I had when I accidently interrupted the Satanists.
"I think I'm going to leave early," I muttered, scooping up my brushes. "I don't feel well."
"I will see you in the morning, then?" Something in the way he looked at me – as if I were a meal he couldn't wait to devour – sent me running to the exit without responding. Outside the studio, the atmosphere around me returned to normal. I began to thing that I was only being paranoid, because of the late hour. I actually laughed, on the walk back to my apartment.
I lived a short distance from the university, in a rundown apartment occupied by 80% of the art students who attended my college. My apartment was on the first floor, the third door on the left. The only thing I liked about my bleak, undecorated home was the bathtub.
I filled the porcelain tub with water, like I always did, and peeled off my paint-stained clothes. Slowly, I sank into the scalding water and let it burn into me, washing away the paint and the grime from a long, monotonous day. The water crept up to my shoulders and I sighed. The light was switched off, so the only illumination came from the moon's soft silver glow, falling through the window and playing across the surface of the water.
The gentle trickle of the water sloshing against the sides of the tub lulled me into a peaceful state, emptying my mind and soul. I was startled, when Donovan's face flashed in the theater of my mind, and felt my heart pick up tempo. There was no denying just how handsome he was – otherworldly, most definitely, but he also seemed too young to be an art teacher. I placed him at a few years older than me, although his age could have been concealed by such flawless ivory skin.
Ruminating in the warm water, I summoned him to my mind again, recalling the way the skin of his neck stretched out against his throat, the way his Adam's apple bobbed. One eccentric thing about me was what triggered physical attraction. I wasn't drawn in by a man (or woman) because of their beautiful eyes, perfect physique, or star-quality facial features. Instead, I focused on the neck. In a man, a modestly long neck with a distinct Adam's apple was most attractive. In a woman, I liked to see the gentle curve where the neck blended with the shoulders.
Donovan's neck was the picture of perfection, and I thought about how I would go about sketching him. My fingers itched for a pencil by the time my hair was washed, and I crawled out of the tub with paint still clinging to my arms.
Naked and dripping onto the carpet, I went through the apartment searching for a towel. Once I found one, I wrapped it around me and sat at my writing desk. My sketch pad was tucked away in a locked drawer. I spun in the combination and flipped through the various sketches – most of which hosted trees as the subject – until I came upon a blank page. I scribbled the date in the top corner, in my smallest handwriting, and drew upon the memory of Donovan.
The details were slipping from my mind quickly, so I sketched as fast as I possibly could. I outlined his neck first, even though I usually started with the general shapes of the face. I didn't want to forget. Soon, he was spilling out of the pencil and onto the paper with more ease than I usually experienced. After an hour of perfecting the shading of his black hair, including the way the fluorescent studio lights reflected off it, Donovan was looking up at me.
It was the perfect representation of the dark stranger, complete with pale eyes, barely shaded, and a spectacular neck, the Adam's apple standing out slightly. I even recalled the clothes he wore – a black jacket and a gray vest beneath, layered with a white button-up. The likeness was alarming, and I had the sudden feeling that I wasn't alone in my dark apartment.
My face was hot, as I threw the sketchbook into its drawer and locked it. My next task was to get dressed. I threw the towel onto the floor and shuffled through my closet, eventually settling on a loose white t-shirt and black boy shorts. The clock read 12:45 when I pulled the blanket to my shoulders and closed my eyes.
Morning dragged me from sleep by blinding me. Sunlight streamed through my window and focused directly onto my eyes. I sat up with an annoyed huff, ready to close the curtains and crawl back into bed. I caught sight of the clock, though, and began my race to get to class on time. I barely noticed which clothes I threw on, just that they didn't match and one of my shoes was untied.
By the time I stood outside the classroom, I was ten minutes late and my hair was a mess. I didn't have time to fix it, though, and crept into the class with my short red hair sticking out at odd angles.
It was quiet, in the massive classroom, which immediately struck me as odd. There is no group louder than art students. Professor Vladimir often engaged in idle chatter before class, but when it came time to get down to business, he often threatened grade deductions to get the students to be quiet.
A wall of eyes took in my frazzled appearance in absolute silence.
"Ah, you've arrived. We were just taking role. Please, sit."
Donovan was sitting leisurely on the heft wooden desk, wearing a casual grin, a blue polo, a pair of jeans. I paced to the seat closest to the door and dropped my messenger bag to the ground.
"My name is Donovan Morris, but you should just call me Donovan." He flashed a dazzling, wicked grin at the class, lingering on my side of the room. "I'm not quite ready to be called Mr. Morris. Any questions?"
Gregg, an asshole who sat at the back and made fart noises, raised his hand. He belted out, "What the fuck happened to Vladimir?"
There was a soft chuckle that shuddered through the room. I watched Donovan for his reaction, simultaneously patting down my tousled hair.
"He had to retire, because of an issue with his family."
Gregg was quiet, then, and another hand shot up. It was a girl whose name I didn't know. She thrust out her chest and crossed her legs. "What kind of art do you specialize in?"
I thought I saw Donovan's eyes shoot to me, but it happened so quickly that I couldn't be certain. He cleared his throat, flexing that gorgeous throat of his, and folded his hands in his lap. "I am more of a musician. In my last job, I was the head of the music department."
A few people chattered behind me as Donovan shuffled some papers. He began reading off the names on the list, and one by one the students notified him that they were present.
"Cadence Griff?" His eyes scanned the room and landed on me. I raised my hand and he bared a wolfish grin. "So nice to see you again, Cadence."
By the time role was over with, my mind was clouded with questions. Vladimir's sudden retirement struck an odd chord within me. I knew something just wasn't right. While it could have been paranoia, the eerie glint in Donovan's eye turned my stomach.
"Today, we will be discussing Biblical art."
Donovan began a slideshow and I zoned out, the consistent drone of his voice taking a backseat to my paranoid thoughts. I felt his eyes on me, on more than one occasion.
Class ended and I shoved my notebook into my bag and prepared to dart out. Donovan was faster, though, and appeared in front of my desk before I could start for the door. He was an overwhelming presence who disrupted my ability to put coherent words together. I stared at the button of his shirt when he approached me.
"You seem distracted," he whispered, leaning close. "Are you feeling OK?"
"I'm fine," I slurred, not sounding fine. "Great lecture, by the way."
"Art history can be so dull, but we will use our hands on Wednesday. A model is coming." He grinned at me, pale blue eyes twinkling. "I look forward to seeing what you can do with a pencil and paper."
"Not much," I admitted, shrugging, inching my way to the door. "Goodbye, Professor Donovan."
"Please, just Donovan," he said as I fled the room.
I ditched the rest of my classes that afternoon and hid in the cool dark of my living room. Student loans helped with rent and buying food, but I also worked part-time at a bar. My shift on Mondays began at 4:00PM, and I lazed around until then.
Clearing off tables and serving beer and chicken wings didn't earn much per hour. Most of my income was derived from tips, and in order to get good tips, I couldn't look like a sleep-deprived hermit.
Before I left for work that night, I went to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. Through the grime on the surface of the glass, I saw that I looked like total shit. My hair was a crazy mess of choppy dyed-crimson chunks. I arranged it first, combing it into an edgy style so that it fell across my eye on one side and didn't on the other. I didn't own hairspray, so I just hoped it stayed that way for the rest of the night.
I had an eyebrow piercing, a nose piercing, and a tongue piercing, but I left them alone. Sometimes, I took them out, to appeal to more conservative patrons, but I didn't feel taking them out on that cold Monday night. There was a tattoo of a green luna moth on my neck, elegant enough not to be butch.
I dabbed makeup onto my face, to even out my ruddy complexion, and lined my eyes in black. I blackened my eyelashes, too, and dusted dark brown shadow on my eyelids, to compliment my brown eyes. My top lip was narrow, but my bottom was full. I smeared on gloss and pouted at my reflection. I looked presentable, maybe a little bit rough, but my cleavage would make up for it.
I pulled on a black tank top, simple and form-fitting. It showed enough cleavage to make them curious, but not enough to make me hate myself at the end of the night. I wore baggy sage green cargo pants, lined with several pockets. The pants hung low on my hips, showing a bit of abdomen. After tying my sneakers, I stepped back and examined my reflection. I was a little too thin, but not enough to look famished. Looking back at me was a more polished, socially acceptable image of me.
One thing I couldn't buff away or cover up was the dullness in my eyes.
It was a ten minute walk in the cold to get to the pub where I worked. Delaney, the manager, was there already. Peppy music pounded from the speakers and a TV, suspended over the bar, displayed a football game on mute. I shrugged out of my jacket, tossed it in the back room, and got to work.
Monday nights were slow, a nice change to the frenzy of the weekend, but I usually went home with empty pockets. The regular sleazebags on Monday nights never tipped, since they were spending their last dime on booze. I spent most of the evening leaning against the counter, waiting for Delaney to leave so I could turn off the God-forsaken music she blared.
"You've got a live one," she muttered, as she pulled on her violet-colored puffy jacket. "In the corner, the one with the suit."
He wasn't sitting at the bar, which was unusual for a Monday night. People rarely sat in the general seating on weeknights. Most of the men were slumped over at the bar. I grabbed a menu, which was limited to things I could heat up in ten minutes, and walked over to the table.
"Hello, there," I greeted with a sigh, placing the menu on the table in front of him. "Can I get you anything to drink?"
My eyes focused on the man. It took a moment for me to realize who it was.
"Ah, no thank you. I'm waiting for someone." Donovan turned to smile at me, in disinterest. I saw the light in his eyes once he recognized me. His smile turned genuine. "Cadence? You work here?"
"Um, yeah," I muttered, feeling suddenly clumsy and aware of every movement of my limbs. "It's a part-time job."
"I'm meeting a date here. She's running late, though." He cast a nervous glance at the door and laughed. "Hopefully she hasn't stood me up."
I shifted my feet in discomfort. "Would you like something while you wait?"
"Just a beer, if you don't mind. She should be here soon." He pulled up the sleeve of his gray suit and examined his watch. I turned and hurried to the bar, eager to hide behind it and collect my thoughts.
I couldn't quite explain why, but I didn't believe his story. He sounded honest, when he explained his purpose for showing up at my bar, but somehow it seemed as though something deeper was taking place. I felt it in my gut.
Behind the bar, I took my time filling a mug for him. With wary eyes, I watched him drum his fingers against the wooden tabletop to the beat of the song that poured out of the speakers. Reminded to turn that horse-shit off, I pushed in a mix CD of some of my favorite songs to cry to. It was intriguing for me to watch the drunks at the bar sink further into sadness, just because I changed the music they were listening to.
The musical genius of Staind flowed out and wrapped its bitter arms around me, serenading me with the single most brilliant lyric of all time. 'Cause inside you're ugly, ugly like me. I can see through you. See to the real you.
With the mug in hand, I approached his table. His sharp eyes zeroed in on me, robbing me of my confidence once more. Awkwardly, I set the mug in front of him. He smiled.
"Thanks, Cadence. Looks like she might not show up." He inspected me with sad eyes. "Would you like to sit with me, while I wait?"
Dumbstruck, I stuttered for a fat second before spitting out my response. "I have to tend to the other customers."
His dark brows came together in a quizzical frown. "What other customers?"
I turned around to face the rest of the bar, expecting to see Vick and the other Monday night regulars hovering over their alcohol at the bar. To my shock, I saw that Donovan was correct. The bar was completely empty of every living soul except me. And Donovan, of course.
"That's strange…" I muttered, blinking stupidly at the vacant bar.
"Come, now, sit." There was sternness in his tone, and anger flared in me. Still, I found myself sitting across from him, at the table just large enough for two. My knees bumped against his as I scooted my chair in. Appalled, I seriously questioned my sanity.
"I have gone through your portfolio. The work in it is very moving, Cadence, you should be proud. I couldn't help but notice, though, that your portfolio was very thin. Why is that?" His eyes gleamed in the dim yellow lamp light. It was unnerving, for his eyes to be set so solidly on me. I fidgeted in my seat.
"I have only been enrolled in classes for a year," I explained. "Anyway, my portfolio at home is better." I bit down on my tongue, wondering why the hell I became so loose-lipped.
"Really?" His brow quirked sharply, giving him a devilish, devastatingly handsome appearance. His darkness was alluring, for some fucked up reason. I hadn't been allured by anyone since eighth grade.
"Yes," I continued breathlessly, dreading the words even as they spilled from my lips. "I don't sensor myself, when I'm at home and I know no one else will ever see my personal sketch book."
He leaned forward, sending a play of shadows across his face. "Show me," he demanded, his voice low and inviting.
"OK." I rose from my seat and led him out of the bar.
What the hell am I doing?