Page 2 of When Night Falls

There’s also the self-doubt in nearly everything I do along with a heaping serving of utter emptiness that taunts me.

Oh, and I’m still dealing with the fact that I was made fun of for almost everything under the big, bright sun.

Wore braces in elementary school?Laugh out loud.

Has a scar on her face?Everyone point and laugh.

No mother?Let's laugh at her.

That’s the big one. . . my mom left me. She's potentially out there somewhere living her best life while the man she trusted to raise me used me as a literal punching bag when things got tough.

And now, here I am, trying to figure out how to answer an age-old question that turns out to be the bane of most people’s existence.

And then there's-

Click, click.

That fucking pen.

This. Isn’t. Working.

“Actually,” I finally respond as I stand from the sticky couch, my skin peeling away slowly. “Nothing is okay, Dr. Laramie. It’s quite disturbing to see that you find joy in creating this awful sucking sound with your teeth. No one wants to witness the sight or sound of your strange and gross quirk. And the pen. For fuck’s sake, the god damn pen! You’re not even writing anything of substance in that notepad of yours so put the fucking pen down! The entire time I’ve been here today, you’ve clicked that pen one hundred and twelve times. And since we’re sharing ourfeelings, I feel as though you suck at being a therapist because I know that some guy named Bob has called you at least seven times since I’ve walked in the door and you’ve looked down at your phone every single time in anticipation of getting out of this god forsaken meeting with me as quickly as possible so that you can most likely kick start your night of mediocre sex with Bob. Which proves to me that you care nothing about my problems norhow they make me feel. So why are we wasting each other’s time?” It’s a lot, it’s a mouthful. And I feel my fists start to tighten at my sides again, but I listen for theswooshof the voice that silently tells me tobreathe, and I do exactly as it says.

I relax my arms and lean back down to grab my bag from off the couch, tossing it over my shoulder, but I take a beat to waitfor anything that this lady might want to say to defend herself. I just tore her appearance and professional ability apart in a matter of fifty-six seconds because for a moment, it gave me relief. But in reality, it doesn’t make me feel any better. It makes me feel likethem.

Though, right now, I really don’t give a shit any more than my conscious tells me to in regard to how childish and rude my rant might have been, because the fucking audacity of this woman to open her mouth and say her next words really sends me over the ledge.

“And how does that make you feel, Lucynda?”Click.

“Goodbye,Doctor.” I tear through the doors of her office and swear to never see another fucking therapist ever again.

2

a mystery so dark & a town so quiet

Lucynda

October 9th

I feel it again. Someone is watching me.

I've had this eerie feeling invade my senses since the day I moved into my cute little apartment that sits right above the Blythewood Bookstore on Mainstreet of Shadow Creek, Maine. A town that I'm certain no one would know existed unless they drove through it themselves.

Population seven-hundred and twelve. Well, now, seven-hundred and thirteen.

It's full of wonder and vintage history, ghost stories and old buildings that look better with age. Most of the families wholive here were born here, but then you have people like me who move to a town so mysterious just to get away. And despite being surrounded by people who seem to hold more secrets than I do, it’s pretty quiet for the most part. But I can't seem to escape the feeling of eyes on me everywhere I go, even though I don't know a single person in this town. It’s a deep chill that creates this idea that I am being followed.

My hometown in Vermont is only about five hours away, and though I would have loved to move further in distance, something about this quaint and peculiar town drew me in.

My father left the family home in my name, to everyone’s surprise. I could have just stayed there, but I signed it over to my dead father’sperfectwife and her spoiled daughters because I would rather hurl myself off a bridge than remain rooted in a home that reminds me of nothing but cracked truths and broken lies, abuse, and abandonment.

When my father's lawyer presented his will, it wasn't believable to learn that everything was left to me. Bigger things including the house and a hefty savings account were put into my name. Some smaller things like jewelry and such were also left in my name and the only thing that he left to his wife was his wedding band which, unfortunately for her, was buried with him.

I’ll never understand why he did what he did. I honestly did not expect a single thing from him after what he did to me, nor did I want anything. Of course, my father’s wife was livid and held it over my head the entire time I was forced to live with her, or rather she was forced to live with me, but the funds weren't available to me until my eighteenth birthday. I was forced to spend two years of my life enduring any ounce of pain they tried to inflict because I knew my time would come. I knew karma would make them eat their own brains one day. Or so I'd hoped.

The day before my eighteenth birthday, there was an ad that popped up on my phone for an apartment for rent in the charming, small town of Shadow Creek. That day I signed a lease and then I signed the house over to my antagonist because I wanted out as quickly as humanly possible.

The ad didn’t lie, it really is charming here. What I love more is that every day seems to be a picture out of an autumn-obsessed magazine painted onto a postcard sent by Wednesday Addams herself. Beauty is laced on every corner and the sky is usually a mix of some shade of gray with tiny rays of sun attempting to peek through the ominous dark clouds.

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