When the Walls Fall Down
See I had these walls
Built up so strong
Built when I was young
In wars I've won
But if I'm alone
Stone upon stone
So tall I could not see
Beyond my wall
But your walls fall down
And your walls fall down
1
Developmental analysts tend to agree that the average human child begins to form long-term, complex memory at the age of five or six. Anything prior to that is lost permanently, perhaps coming back in the form of strange dreams, or subconscious emotional responses to specific stimuli.
I spent a lot of free time researching stuff like that, during long summer hours when I confined myself to my room, and thought that I had nothing better to do. Yet, with each line that I poured over and committed to memory, it only continued to confirm a single fact that resonated in my mind, like the clanging of a bell.
I was not normal, and I never had been. I could remember nothing prior to my early adolescent years, and it wasn?t as if the memories faded as I struggled to think further and further back, they just stopped, as if I?d hit a mental block. I?d spent countless sleepless nights struggling to resurrect what I knew I should remember, but couldn?t, and all it ever brought me was a distinct feeling of anxiety and a splitting headache.
Over time, I reflected on this less and less, figuring that it was nothing I should waste my time worrying about, since there was obviously nothing I could do about it. Even Codger, my grandmother, had told me ?not to be stupid and quit worrying about the past?. The only reason why I?d even bothered mulling over it this morning as I woke up was because I?d woken from a rather violent dream.
While sleeping, the details had been so incredibly vivid that I was almost positive that it was real. I had seen the flames, heard the screaming of dozens of people, and felt the searing heat of it against my skin. The nauseating smell of burning flesh was so acrid that I was certain I smelled it even after I had woken up.
I wondered, but I wouldn?t ask questions. Codger had reassured me that everything would come to light in due time, and that she?d make sure I was ready for it. Whatever ?it? was, I still didn?t know, and I?d threatened the old woman with impalement and she still wouldn?t give an inch.
We have a curious relationship, Codger and I.
I stood in front of a full-length mirror that she had bought for me, critically eying myself in the reflection as I turned from one side to the other. Tall, nearly five-ten, and unnaturally skinny, I tended to stick out in a crowd like a sore thumb. Untamable, curly red hair and freckles did nothing to ease this fact.
Codger had reassured me that being ?different?, as she called it, was certainly not a bad thing. She considered it my saving grace. In hindsight, I don?t know that I cared about how I looked as much as I cared about what I couldn?t remember. With the dream still buzzing around in the back of my mind, I could feel the tension in my shoulders, a deep-seated ache beginning to roll down my spine.
?Jaz!? I heard her hollering from downstairs, and the smell of burning toast began to filter underneath my bedroom door. Shuffling to the stained, second-hand oak dresser that was the only piece of furniture in my room other than the mirror and the ancient four-poster I slept on, I pulled out a pair of well-worn jeans and a black tee-shirt before slipping them on.
I grabbed for my dark grey hooded sweatshirt, tugging it on over my head as I made my way to the door, stepping out into the dark hallway and meandering towards the stairs. Codger was not one who wasted time or money on decorations (or renovations, for that matter). The two-story home that she had owned probably since her own parents passed away smelled like mildew, had more than one broken window, and a few of the walls had cracks creeping up from the baseboards. There were leaks in the roof, the stairs were creaky, and I was almost certain that a raccoon had taken residence in the attic.
But, it was home nonetheless.
The stairs ended in the front foyer, a doorway off to the right opening into the living room, and then on into the kitchen. To the left, the dining room sat, a single table with a few mismatched chairs the only pieces of furniture occupying the small space. I turned to the right, stepping past the faded yellow couches that stunk of cigarette smoke, scooping my bag off of the old recliner chair, startling the cat that I always forgot we had, and sending it scurrying across the floor, hissing and spitting the whole time.
The kitchen was about as fifties hip as it could get, with outdated appliances and ages, peeling linoleum flooring. Codger had set out a plate of dangerously burnt toast, a melting slather of butter sinking into the crispy surface. I watched her as she shuffled around, her house-coat drifting around her feet. She often reminded me of a garden gnome, short and squat as she was, with glasses that made her grey eyes look about four times their normal size.
She scratched at a patch of balding scalp in between her hair curlers, glancing over her shoulder in my direction before slipping me a mischeivous, toothy smirk. Amused, I realized that she'd remembered to put her teeth in today.
"What're you smiling about?" I muttered, pretending to sound grumpy. It wasn't a difficult act to put on. Codger said that my attitude was worse than the cat's on better days.
"Nothing at all." the aged woman replied, reaching over and nudging the plate towards me with gnarled fingers. I sat down on the diner-style stool, picking up one piece of toast and narrowing my eyes at it before taking a bite.
It was a surprising relief to actually taste the bitterness of the carbon. It was a relief to taste anything at all, and it didn't take me long to realize that Codger had done it on purpose. "You figured it out then," I said, gratefully.
"Even if it tastes like shit, you'll eat cuz you can taste." Codger replied with a nod. "Bitter was the last thing I could try before forcing you to eat in spite of everything."
My appetite had been poor, lately, because for whatever reason my tastebuds were not cooperating. It was a good day if I could taste anything at all, or feel hunger, and Codger had been experimenting with various potent concoctions to try to kick everything back into gear. It was just another one of those paroxismal issues that I dealt with on a day-to-day basis, like my strange memory issues. It was just a part of life, and I'd learned to not question it. I just dealt with it. Happily, I took another bite, brushing the crumbly bits off my fingertips as I watched Codger shuffle around the kitchen.
"What had you in bed so early last night? You didn't practice." she asked me, moving to the stove and pulling off a rusty kettle that was beginning to whistle with steam.
I shrugged. "Wasn't feeling up to it. Classes were shitty and I had a bunch of homework to do."
Her eyes narrowed as she glanced sideways at me. Beneath her gaze, I felt myself wither slightly. "Did you finish it?" she retorted, her tone sharp.
Glancing sideways, I sheepishly shook my head. Codger gave nothing away, pouring the hot water into a chipped mug before going to the nearest cabinet and withdrawing a small, black vial. It reminded me of a vanilla extract container, but she and I both knew that the spice was not what the bottle held. She put a single drop, barely a mililiter of the dark fluid into the hot water, before grabbing a bland teabag and dunking it inside. This, she handed to me, her hand lingering on the handle even as I reached to take it from her.
Our eyes met.
"You can't afford to get lazy." she warned me before releasing the ceramic container to my grasp. I grit my teeth, nodding once before bringing the scalding liquid to my lips.
The practice she was referring to wasn't something generic, like piano or knitting. My eyes trailed from the mug as I swallowed mouthful after mouthful of boiling fluid, towards the wall over the stove, where Codger's shotgun sat mounted. It was, perhaps, the only thing in the entire house that she took care of. The gleaming double-barrel was her prize possession, and she wielded it like a gunslinger.
Mine was a nine millimeter pistol, a gun with an impressive kick and an even more impressive capacity to kill whatever it fired at. The large, tipped bullets I generally used in practice obliterated targets, and they were designed to create an exit wound easily three times larger than the entry wound, if I were to ever fire at a human being.
When Codger had first introduced me to weapons, I had been shy about using them. Yet, something felt comfortable and familiar about the handle as it settled into the palm of my hand. I had no difficulty taking aim and firing. I could handle the kick, and I hit the target every time.
Every. Time. The accuracy was disconcerting at first, but Codger had reassured me that those things came naturally to some people, and that it was a gift that should be nurtured, because you "...just didn't know anymore these days".
It was yet another one of those things on the lengthy list of 'questions I shouldn't ask'.
Downing the last of the fluid, I could feel the ache in my back dissipating to nothing, leaving behind a tingling, cold sensation that raised goosebumps up along my arms. Codger had moved on, dumping the hot liquid into the sink and setting the kettle back on the stove. When she reached for the mug, I handed it to her.
"You have class?" she asked me as I reached for my bag, slipping it up over my shoulders. I nodded, reaching and grabbing for a pair of keys that lay next to a pile of mail she was never going to read.
"Just be careful today." she warned me. Startled at her tone, I lifted my eyes to hers, finding them briefly filled with worry, before they clouded over with her usual grumpy scowl.
"You're going to be late." she muttered, waving me off. I sighed, turning away and disappearing towards the front door, never once glancing back as I stepped into the frigid air, and slammed the door behind me.
We lived on the fringe of the small town of Charlotte, Connecticut, where everyone knew everything about everyone else, and where gas prices tended to dip simply because people didn?t see a reason to buy any in the first place. You were as likely to see someone riding horseback as you were an axel vehicle, and the majority of the roads were unpaved, with potholes that could easily rip off your fender. Locals called them natural speed-bumps.
I had to travel through this town to get to school on the weekdays. So, after making my way down the long, gravel drive in Codger?s rarely-used Range Rover, I turned left onto Jackson Street, moving from gravel to a somewhat-paved road. Dawn was beginning to surface beyond the dusky hills that were still coated with morning mist, turning the sky a faint red-orange. I let my mind wander back to the images of fire that were locked in my mind?s eye, but they were less distinct now, fading like the mist in the presence of the sun.
As I hit the city limits, I slowed to just under thirty, rolling the windows down to let in the cool air. I passed by the grocers, the hardware store, the fabric shop, and one of the few restaurants in-town. Codger and I had never been, mostly because of its obscure title: ?Tony?s?.
A few people were already up, sweeping the sidewalk, and getting ready for another day. Some of them glanced my way, looking first to the vehicle before spying me, and lifting their hand in a wave. I smiled back before moving on.
There were no lights in town. The only light that existed cropped up at the on-ramp to Interstate 60, which I immediately took, progressively increasing speed until the Rover shuddered and groaned, warning me that it hadn?t had enough time to warm up just yet. The car was so like my grandmother that I nearly laughed out loud.
There was generally no traffic out here, especially this early in the morning, so it wasn?t too much of a surprise that I shared the road with only one other vehicle, a sturdy-looking Cadillac, polished black with tinted windows. With three other lanes to share, it rode up right behind me, and stayed there.
At first, it didn?t bother me, but when I changed lanes, intending to let the other pass, the car moved into place right behind me, staying just two feet off my rear bumper. I glanced into the rear-view mirror, brow furrowing as I narrowed my eyes. Must have been someone dicking around. I hadn?t been speeding, and certainly if this was an undercover cop they might have turned on their lights.
My exit was coming up. Tapping the breaks, I jerked the wheel to the right, swerving away from the other car at the last possible minute. There was a screech of tires, and I found myself, finally, driving on my own.
?That was so weird,? I muttered under my breath, unable to help glancing in the rear-view every five minutes for the rest of the ride. As the road stretched on ahead, I could see the signs leading on towards Jefferson University. It was a sprawling campus, set in the middle of a large forest, with buildings tucked into hillsides and nestled in the midst of copses of massive oak trees. Most of the buildings were old, but well-kept, structured from brick and mortar rather than wood and cement.
I pulled into the South lot, specifically reserved for the students attending the school, and found a spot close to the back and the nearest exit.
Several other students were filing in as well, in the typical morning rush. The lot tended to fill up quickly around this hour. Eager to avoid dodging cars in search of parking spaces, I grabbed my bag, jumped out of the car, and started to walk towards Memorial Hall.
A voice called to me from beneath the shadow of one of the many oaks that dotted campus.
?I?m waiting the day when that old clunker just collapses right onto its frame, Red.?
Part of me suggested I keep moving, to just ignore his voice and walk to class, but the other part of me, the stronger, angrier, and stubborn part froze my feet mid-stride as I whipped my head in the direction of the one who had shouted after me.
?Don?t hold your breath, Milo. No, wait, as a matter of fact, go ahead and hold it, and don?t let it go until I?m done with class.?
The biting sarcasm came so easily when this kid addressed me, it was almost like it was meant to be. He laughed, stepping out into the sunlight, his glasses sitting on the ridge of his nose as he fixed me with a pair of Summer-green eyes.
?And did I happen to mention that the scarf you?re wearing is uniquely hideous?? I added, for the hell of it. It truly was an ugly accessory, and I wasn?t much of a fashionista. It was a purple and yellow knitted thing. Unfortunately, the insult did nothing to phase him.
?You aren?t one to talk about what looks good and what doesn?t.? he said, giving me a pointed once-over. I shuffled my feet, fighting the urge to spring forward and deck him. It wouldn?t be the first time. Before I had a chance to respond, though, he lifted a hand to tussle his dirty-blonde hair, smiling at me easily, confidently.
I wanted so badly to hit him that it hurt.
?Speaking of classes, though, I happened to have a schedule change. And look who I get to share English Comp with??
My scowl deepened, and I abruptly turned, beginning to stalk away from him. He quickly caught up, messenger bag slapping against the back of his thigh as he loped at my side. Milo was tall, and sturdy. At least six-two, with broad, squared shoulders and a lean physique; it was very easy for him to look down at me as I marched at his side, dutifully ignoring his smirk as I gripped the straps of my bag with white-knuckled force.
?What?s got you in such a bad mood, Jaz?? his voice dripped sarcasm. Yet, even out of the corner of my eye, I could see that he was looking around, rather than at me. Scanning the area, but why?
I?d first met Milo on one of my errand trips into town a few months before school started. Codger had sent me to the department store to get a new hammer, and he had been doing summer staffing there, planning, I guess, to work through college to help cover expenses.
He?d come up behind me when I was browsing, and startled me so badly that I spun and dropped the hammer on his foot. He called me a ?clumsy git?, and I hollered that he shouldn?t have startled me in the first place, and stormed out of the store. I had completely forgotten about the hammer.
He?d never struck me as anything more than a care-free dumbass with nothing better to do than pick on another girl he just barely knew. Yet, today I could tell something was different. There was tension in his shoulders, and he seemed, well, jumpy.
?You look more jittery than a crack addict.? I noted snidely, only briefly glancing up at his face. I was surprised, even startled, to find that his eyes were laced with worry.
The instant he saw me looking, though, the expression cleared, and he was back to sneering at me.
?Takes one to know one, Red.?
My hand fell from its grip on the bag, falling close to his, and something like a strange, painful burst of static shock sparked between his fingers and mine. I jumped away from him, clutching my hand to my chest as he did something similar, staring at me with wide eyes.
?Jesus Christ,? he breathed, his expression souring. ?You didn?t have to fucking taze me. I was only kidding!?
I didn?t answer. Too surprised to speak, I simply turned and raced away, determined to skip class and hide out in the library until I was certain that I wouldn?t have to lay eyes on Milo Sturn for the rest of the day.
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