Lost in Embers (Rising From Ash Saga #1)

Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

T here’s a constant ringing in my head that won’t go away. Pain radiates violently throughout my whole body, starting at my toes, and bleeds out of my ears. To say I am disheveled is a severe understatement. Just trying to stand up feels like my legs have never been used and were replaced with prosthetics. I look down, surprised they are still attached to my body with just a few open wounds that seem to be healing quickly. Nothing about what just happened is easy for my mind to grasp or believe to be obtainable. The first step is to figure out where I am and get my bearings back, then find my loved ones and make sure they are safe in this cataclysm.

A high-pitched sound takes control of all my senses, making it hard to focus. My body stands paralyzed no matter how hard I try to force myself to move. With every ounce of strength I have, I work against my body to lift my hands to my ears. I try to block the sound out, but instead I drop to my knees hard, pushing rock and glass into my legs. The sound takes control of me. I focus all my energy on my body, and with a simple shake of my head, my sight comes rushing back to me. Rubbing my eyes is absolutely pointless, as I cannot feel my hands touching my face and manage to cover my eyes in more blood. I want my sight to be taken away again.

Flames burst out of buildings and rub against my face, but I feel nothing. Many cars are not left salvageable as they spew oil, soon to be hit by more flames. People are either badly injured to the point they cannot move, or those who are able to run leave trails of blood and debris behind them. There is so much blood, or am I just seeing in red?

After what seems like an eternity of fighting with my body, my senses come back to me, and the ringing fades, giving me the strength to stand. The heat is insufferable, sadly not caused by the glorious sun. Ashes float around in the air, and yet I can see perfectly as fire burns from my eyes, creating a line of sight through the soot. The wind pushes against my back, caressing me, and flicks my long, blonde hair into my face, calming my gaze back to normal. I find myself walking on shattered glass in military-style black combat boots when it all hits me. My small town has fallen victim to an explosion.

Hard to believe such a thing could happen in a town that so few people know. I know I’m at fault for the havoc here, but I can’t say how. Why did we uproot ourselves and move here? This pain didn’t have to happen if I didn’t come here. Every instinct in my normal mind would tell me to run as everyone else does, but I am oddly calm. The ruin and soot do not touch my lungs as I focus on my breathing, and my body filters out the unwanted. The streets have become desolate, and a shadow running through the dust-riddled air pulls a smile from deep within me and touches my eyes .

“Laila!” My vocal cords feel like they haven’t been used in years as I scream at the top of my lungs with agony pulsating out of my mouth.

In hindsight, I should have named her Shadow, because she never leaves my side. My pooch runs toward me, and I let out a giggle in relief. She always has a way of finding me when the darkness begins to consume me. In this astonishing devastation, I can feel a ray of hope touch me just from knowing I am not alone. She jumps into my arms and we head home, hoping the eruption that hit the town has not impacted my house.

I run at the speed of light as I leave the mini city of Kennett behind me, not even breaking a sweat. Even with such incredible speed and tunnel vision set on my house, I am able to see all my surroundings clearly without taking my eyes off my home. One would think a tornado hit here, but I know even if it were a natural disaster, it would be my fault. The smaller flames still linger on the town’s covered bridge, which is now collapsed in pieces. Street signs are nowhere to be found, but large holes remain where they once stood. Not one inch of gravel is visible anymore since the dust has begun to settle to the ground. It is clear the blast radius was high and wide enough to hit my home.

My old Victorian house is barely visible, covered in filth, the bright blue shutters barely peeking through the grime. I look down at my legs and arms; I am covered in as much dirt as my house. I drop Laila to the ground when nausea overtakes my body at the thought of what may have happened to my mother. I bend over and place my hands on my knees as nothing comes out but dry heaves. The heat from the blast still lingers in the air. I look up from beneath my dirt filled lashes and see the trees abruptly stop swaying in the woods; they wilt and die right in front of me. They went through all of the seasons and death in a matter of seconds, fading from bright colors to fire and ashes, kind of how my gut feels. I need to get a grip.

For once in my life, I swear I will not be a klutz. “Tripping is not an option,” I keep repeating over and over as I run up the porch and use all my velocity to push into the front door. Shit. Double shit. The door is jammed shut. This door should have been fixed ages ago, and now it poses such a problem; it’s the only thing standing between me and making sure my mother is safe. Pushing my body weight against it doesn’t help, and I slam both my fists into the door while screaming. Panic quickly overcomes me, and I back away and try to kick the door in. Thinking the adrenaline will help is silly; I’m lucky I don’t break my leg in half.

I need to get in there. I can’t get exhausted from the constant pushing and screaming. As I walk along the porch, I lift my black sweater over my head and wrap it tightly around my hand. Even half naked I am still overheating. I take a deep breath and brace myself as I punch through the living room window and make sure to wipe all the shards of glass from the interior of the window so I can squeeze my body though without too much damage. Now is the time for me to be graceful so I don’t get stuck, maybe have some tact for once in my life. I place my hands on the windowsill, mad I clearly missed large chunks of glass that are impaling my skin, causing blood to run down the ledges. It should be painful, but nothing resonates with me.

Right as I am about to climb into the window, big, strong, callused hands grab the loops on the waist of my jeans mid-lunge. The shock jolts me backward into the rock-hard body. The hands move from the loops on my jeans and softly land on my hips. I know I have felt these hands before. I feel comfortable at the familiarity of the touch. I try to shake my head clear, all while turning on my heel in haste. Nothing can stop me from making sure my mother is all right. His eyes catch me off guard, like they have been reading into my soul for eons. His eyes begin to change from dark brown with gold flecks to the most captivating blue, and at once I feel at ease and safe.

Who is this man? Why am I standing here like a lump? My stomach is in a knot, and I am unable to compose myself and get back to the task at hand. I keep staring into his eyes, knowing there is a history here. I just don’t know how deep the rabbit hole goes yet. He lifts his black T-shirt over his head, not fazed by me shirtless, and places it over my head. I pull my arms through and take in the magnificent scent. His shoulders are broad, and his abs are toned and glistening from the heat. I don’t get a good chance to look at the rest of him before he turns and walks to the door, leaving me standing speechless and confused by the window.

His deep Irish voice makes me swoon on the inside as he speaks calmly. “I have to keep you safe. You don’t know if there is a bomb under that window or behind this door. I will go first and you will wait.”

Before I even have the chance to tell him something is blocking the door, he opens it and makes his way inside the house. I have never seen anyone move so swiftly and with such sheer strength. He didn’t even brace himself for the potential strain, and no muscles even flexed.

Concern utters through his voice. “Stay right where you are, Ava.” Laila, to my surprise, sits down on the porch, listening to his every word. She grabs my pant leg, trying to stop me when I walk closer to the front, but I shake her off with a stern face, and she sits back down.

His tone changes as if he knew I would not listen to him, a tone that tells me to brace myself for what I am going to see next. “I don’t know if you…” Before he can finish his sentence, I regrettably and cautiously enter my home. My eyes widen at the fright that is laid out on a platter before me, like everything has been strategically placed for my viewing. I know it was, and so does he, as he whispers, “They will pay for this.”

“Ava, wake up!” My bedroom door slams shut and there is an urgent shuffling onto my bed. My tears are being shaken out of my closed eyes and stream down my face. I can barely see my mum as her long, brown hair hits me in the face.

“Thank goodness you are awake. You just started screaming at the top of your lungs. Whenever you have those nightmares, it sounds like you are being murdered.” She keeps touching the side of my face to calm herself down, not realizing at this point I am so accustomed to these dreams and the tears they cause.

“Always the same,” I tell her before her brown eyes can pry more. I pull the covers to my face, my voice untouched by my grief. “You were just lying there, so cold and barely breathing. You were dying, and there was nothing I could do to help you. I felt so lost.” I was lost in the same dream. She dies almost every night. I am learning how to cope with it on the outside, but it always hurts. These dreams take it out of me. I am there, living it, night after night.

My voice is hoarse and shaky. I gather myself. “It always seems so real.” I can’t wrap my mind around it. My skin still burns like the fire started inside me and never left. I wake up feeling the pain and bleeding, but it all has healed as soon as I come to this different reality.

She’s sick and tired of hearing the same thing over and over again. She repeats herself, saying it is just a dream, but it doesn’t feel that way to me. Her face says it all. If only she could see how real it is and the intensity of the pain. If she only had that dream one time, experienced the horror; on the other hand, I would never wish something so awful upon someone I dislike, let alone on my saint of a mother.

In an attempt to lighten the mood, I say, “This time it wasn’t all that bad. There was a hot man with an Irish accent and Laila listened to him.”

I get the opposite reaction than expected, as her body tenses up, which is a shock considering she loves talking all things men. “It is just a silly dream. It doesn’t exist. Neither does that man. Honestly, Ava, when will you grow up?” She’s being a bit harsh and over-the-top.

I gape at her, and she quickly changes her reaction. “Here, drink this.” She hands me a cup of green tea, and I sip it down. Her tea is made so perfectly; it’s like a drug to my body, and I wish the cup would never go empty. I swear she always produces it out of nowhere.

Randomly, she begins to laugh hysterically while waving her perfectly manicured hand in the air as she leaves the room. “Hell will freeze over the day that dog listens to someone who isn’t you.” And with those final words she’s gone, and the door closes softly behind her. Talk about a delayed response. I am going to chalk her mood swing up to the fact that it is two o’clock in the morning. However, truer words have never been spoken.

Laila would never listen to anyone other than me. I love it, but it has been an issue for many people. She blatantly finds a way to tell people she does not have to listen to them. Here is a dog that doesn’t have to be leashed and is good as gold with me but hell on satanic wheels to anyone else. It feels like I have had Laila my whole life, but it has only been a few years since she unpredictably showed up as a gift from my father, who now my mother tells me has long been dead.

It is the only nice thing I can ever remember him doing for me. I try so hard not to harbor resentment or grudges against anyone, but sometimes it is difficult to let go of things, especially from those who are supposed to love you unconditionally. He didn’t even make an appearance when he handed this precious puppy off to me. No surprise there; God forbid he were to lay eyes on me. I came home one day and she was just sitting in the living room with a bright green bow wrapped around her. Then she looked at me with those sea-blue eyes as though she would be my protector from that moment on, and she has been. She is small in stature, but mighty in force.

I was shocked to find he even knew what my favorite color was and picked that bow. I always thought my mum added the bow and she was not delivered that way, but recently I have been giving him the benefit of the doubt. You could barely see her collar since her long, black hair covered it. Her legs still look the same as they did that day, like they have been dipped in snow.

No note was left with her. Nothing was given to me as an explanation for his actions. I don’t need a reason for my father to be kind, do I? My mother never seemed to question why Laila just showed up here. I think she knew I needed Laila as much as she needed me.

I have never seen eyes like hers on a dog before; perhaps he picked her to remind me of him, and they seemed to be the same color. I don’t remember much about my father, but his eyes are forever ingrained in my memory. Perhaps he and Victor had a relationship? I must remember to ask Victor next time we speak.

The thought of everything my father missed is what stays with me—no phone calls on my birthday or Christmas, no visits, nothing. Funny how the bad memories sometimes overshadow the good, even when I constantly fight to see the good memories with my father, but they are suppressed and I can’t remember them. I wrestle with my mind to go back and find some, but nothing comes.

My mum suggested we name her Star because of the white star that is above her nose. I quickly shot that idea down with laughter, telling her my dog is not an adult entertainer, so that name just wouldn’t fly. Erratically our house stereo came on, playing Derek and the Dominos’ “Layla.” With a change of one letter, I had her name, Laila. From that day forward, our house has been haunted.

I try to fall back asleep. I can’t help but question how night in and night out I have the same dreams. Consistently, every detail has been the same, except lately the picture has been expanding by a few seconds each time. I hope next time I can focus enough to get a good look at the man who captivates my nightmares.

You would think a twenty-four-year-old would have a more diverse dream range, but apparently not. This special one only has three dreams, and they are overly redundant. None of them involve wedding dresses, cupcakes, unicorns that hiccup butterflies, or shoes. My subconscious is filled with a series of terrifying events, either past or bomb-related. I’m tired of it. Sometimes I wish I could lucidly dream and take control of what happens to me, but these dreams are different; I don’t have that option. I get the feeling even if I could control them, the outcome would remain the same. I just want to find out more about those changing eyes since I can never seem to get them off my mind. Focusing on those eyes, I remember when they were dark brown; the closer I look, the more I can see the hint of green in the outer layer. Maybe if I close my eyes, I can see him again.