• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 357 0

from thrift stores, but the bulk of my collection came from my father, Haden, when he died. He had a fascination with the Rolling Stones that I’d never really understood, going so far as to have “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” played at his funeral. Every time I hear the song now, my eyes blur and I feel like I’m back in the cemetery, my little sister’s clammy hand in mine. I smell the wet earth, see the Astroturf flung over it, trying to hide the reality. I can even see the flowers in my mom’s hand, her white knuckles gripped around the stems, crushing them. And each time, the pain is fresh.

Careful of my back, I grabbed a shirt off my floor and swiped dust off the tops of my records. I couldn’t see any, but it didn’t hurt to be careful. Then I tossed the shirt onto my growing pile of dirty clothes.

I’d never looked forward to sleep so much in my life. I turned off my light and crawled under the blankets. Before I closed my eyes, I reached over and turned on the record player by my bed, a gift from my mom and sister. The last one had crapped out, so my sister, Haley, had found this fancy new one—it could handle records, CDs, you name it. Most people have moved on to digital. But I couldn’t afford it. Besides, there was something about the hiss and pop of old records. I took last night’s Paul Simon record off and replaced it with a Get Up Kids album. I didn’t like to stick to one thing too long. When it came to music, I was omnivorous.

Sleep didn’t come as instantaneously as I’d hoped. The evening kept playing out in my head. I kept hearing the man’s voice, his implied warnings and threats. They scared me a whole hell of a lot more than the guy who wiped the floor with me. Bullies are easy to understand and outthink. I’d dealt with bullies aplenty in school. But the other guy? He was full of unknowns.

I reached over and turned the bedside lamp on before sitting up and swinging my legs to the side. I swallowed a few Tylenol tablets. My mom may not have been a big fan of Western medicine, but I sure as hell was, especially when it came to things like painkillers.

I dug around in the pockets of the dirty jeans that I’d left on the floor. My fingers found worn leather, and I pulled my pouch out. I ran my thumb over the stitched silhouette of a crow, a single shiny black bead for his eye. My mom usually left her medicine bags plain unless she really thought someone needed a little something extra. I was used to seeing the crow. My mom had long ago decided it was my totem animal, whatever that meant.

I opened my nightstand drawer and dug around. There, under a gaming magazine and next to a slightly dusty pack of condoms, was a spare piece of cotton string. It would have to do until my mom could fix it. I tied the string to the broken bits of hemp cord, slipping it over my head when it was done. If I was ever going to sleep, it was time to bring out the big guns, and my protection bag was a big gun.

My mom had made it for me when I was really little and kept having nightmares. I had been convinced that there were spirits in the house. Instead of dismissing my ideas like most parents would have, she had gone into her workshop and come out with this small pouch. She’d tied it around my neck, telling me never to open it because that would let all the magic out.

“What’s it for?” I asked.

She smiled and smoothed my hair back. “For protection,” she said. “You leave that thing on, and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

“It’ll keep the bad dreams away?”

“Yes.” She hesitated, her brow knitting in thought. “It’s the herbs. Remember when I explained aromatherapy to you?”

I nodded.

“It’s like that, sweetheart. When you breathe, the fragrance of the herbs goes up into your sinuses and into the deep centers of the brain. Your brain responds by releasing chemicals, which correct the problem. Understand?” I didn’t, not really, but her word that it would work was enough for me.

She put me back into bed, tucking the blankets around me, her long strawberry blond braid slipping over her shoulder. I gave her braid a little tug,