No matter where you are, you can hear them. A low sound that sounds like a bass in a twisted song that intensifies as they come closer, reaching its climax when they turn down your street. It intensifies as they pass, impossible to ignore. Only when they pass your driveway do you hear the different tones that blend into the tune that haunts the streets. The lower grumbles and the higher whines that blend so beautifully into something so haunting. When the song begins to fade, you are finally able to release the breath that you didnât realize you were holding, because they have passed you and you are relieved. They always pass, but the fear that the day has come that they decide not to sticks.
That fear has made a home inside my gut, twisting it into knots every time that bass begins.
The fear twists inside me, but every time I hear their disturbing orchestra my curiosity overcomes me. I emerge from my bed, pull up my blackout blinds, and let my face over inches away from the windowpane. Most nights, by the time that I make it to the window theyâre already gone, their song moving with them down the street, but tonight I catch them. The wolves bounding down the street, grumbling their twisted song as their fur glints in the moonlight and powerful legs moving them out of my sight. Following them are the deadbeats of the town, the drunks and the thugs, waving baseball bats in the air and shouting empty threats after the pack. They nod to each other in satisfaction as if they chased the beasts out of the neighbourhood. Idiots.
Only seconds later the night is filled yet again with another ugly noise. Sirens. the squad cars screech down the street and the gang scatters, only the over-confident ones standing their ground. The red and blue lights illuminate their bodies as they yell at the cops. Then the gunshots go off. I close my blinds.
Itâs after curfew in Pineview.
âGo back to sleep,â my mother says. Sheâs a silhouette in the yellow light of the hall, leaning against my doorframe. âYou need some rest before tomorrow.â
âThey were on our street tonight,â I tell her.
She walks into my room and sits on my bed, patting the spot beside her. I sit there dutifully and rest my head on her shoulder. Her shoulder and neck muscles are taut, have been ever since they came. Her breathing is uneven and her leg bounces without her noticing. I donât like this version of her, like sheâs ready to run at the slightest sound. I miss my happy mom, my laughing, carefree mom. My Johannah Deakin, version 1.0.
âHowâre you feeling?â she asks, avoiding my previous statement.
âMy head hurts,â I respond. I close my eyes.
Mom shakes her head and sighs. Since the day they came, Iâve had headaches on and off, but mostly on. I know that it bothers her, they make her feel helpless.
âStop thinking about tomorrow,â she says.
âHow can I?â I respond.
She doesnât respond, she doesnât know how. How can you tell someone how to stop thinking about something that you canât stop thinking about either? It isnât possible.
âIâll run you a bath,â she suggests instead.
âMom, itâs fine, Iâll beââ
Boom! My head feels like it exploded. I clench my eyes shut and hunch over my lap. My teeth grind together as my heads throbs. My whole body feels like itâs on fire, singeing my fingers and toes but scalding my temples. My nails dig into my palms as I will myself not to scream and disturb the peace that has finally encompassed the house.
âMom,â I whisper, reaching out and holding onto her knee for support: emotionally, mentally, and physically.
She manages to pull me onto her lap as if I am two years old again. âYouâre fine, Louis, youâre going to be okay.â
Boom! My nails dig even deeper into my skin until it breaks. My blood trickles along my palm in small drops. My mom holds me tighter and lays her head on top of mine, holding me through the pain until it recedes back into what it was before, just a headache.
She lays me down on my bed and lays beside me, running her hand along my back like she used to do when I was a child. We lay in silence, tears running down my face and soaking into my pillow.
âI miss the forest,â I say. behind my closed eyelids I picture the pine trees used to be my playground and the soil that would catch me when I fell. The scent of nature reaches my nose, strong pine mingled with rainwater, sap, and dirt. But it has faded over the years, now only a memory of the true aroma that I long to get lost in once again. But weâre not allowed to go to the forest anymore, not since they arrived.
âI miss it too,â Each word is interwoven with the same reminiscence as mine. The forest used to be her happy place too.
âWhereâs Dad?â I ask, hoping to change the subject and erase longing atmosphere I created.
She sits up, still rubbing my back. âHeâs at the station. His boss wants to go over the plans for tomorrow with all the cops one more time. Thereâs going to be so many people, so many moving parts with the FBI and all the soldiers there. Theyâre going to be ready, donât worry about him.â
âIâm not worried,â I lie.
âAfter tomorrow, things will get better,â Now sheâs lying.
I pull the covers up to my chin and bury my face into my damp pillow.