Page 39 of Bear Strength

I step on the gas and drive away. It’s a cold night. It’s a fine contrast to the fire that burns inside of me.

CHAPTER 17

It’s a long and unpleasant night for me. I keep tossing and turning in bed, sweating with fear. Nightmares keep changing, never-ending, and even though the story is different, it always boils down to the same thing, to the same enemy. I’m running away, trying to escape, but I’m never fast enough. The faceless, nameless horror always catches up with me, and I know the punishment for what I’ve done will be swift.

I wake up drenched in sweat. I can feel my nightgown is all wet. My back is soaked with sweat, too. I rake my fingers through my messy, entangled hair. I really need to wash it today. I remember the times when I’d go visit my hairdresser on a regular basis. Now, I’m lucky if I do it once a year.

“Fuck!”

I jump out of bed when I see that it’s past 8 am. I’m still a little dizzy. The leftover sensations of fear take longer to disperse. But, the sunlight is a powerful enemy of night time terrors. A few moments later, once my heart has regained its normal beating rhythm, I run downstairs.

“Dom?” I shout his name, but only the empty house replies. “Dom, are you here?”

No reply. I glance over at the kitchen, and then I see a little message pinned to the fridge with one of our little fridge magnets.

Mom,

Adrian came and got me. I let you sleep in. Had breakfast, don’t worry.

Love,

D.

I sigh with relief. It’s good to know I’ve got a self-sufficient kid, if nothing else. I drag my feet across the wooden floor, over to the kitchen. Thin strips of sunlight are oozing through the window. My fears are completely gone, but not forgotten. They’re always with me, in the back of my head, ready to awaken at any given moment. I open the curtains, letting more sunlight inside.

There is an empty bowl on the table, with the spoon still inside.

“He actually made himself porridge for breakfast,” I smirk as I take the bowl and soak it in the sink. “Well, I’ll be.”

I turn around again, feeling a little peacocky-ish. Now, I don’t feel so bad for sleeping in. I could have done without those horrible nightmares, but OK. You win some, you lose some.

I head over to the coffee machine and start making some coffee, but the sound of the doorbell interrupts me. My hand hangs in the air, indecisive.

“Who could that be on a Sunday morning?” I ask myself, unable to offer a reply.

I walk over to the door, and for some reason, I hesitate for a moment. I smile to myself, assuring my brain that there’s nothing to be afraid of any longer. The nightmare is over. There’s no boogeyman under my bed or in my closet. I’ve checked there already. We’re safe. I’m being jumpy for no reason.

Following this logic, my hand extends to the doorknob and it twists it open. I see Gordon, the mail boy. He’s been over at our place a few times, as Dominick and he go to the same class.

“Good morning, Mrs. Brunswick,” he tells me, his unruly red hair spiking in all directions. I’ve seen that he inherited it from his mother, who’s got the same red curls and a kind looking face full of freckles.

“Good morning, Gordon,” I smile at him. He’s dressed in blue overalls and there’s a bucket and a fishing rod in his hands.He reminds me of Tom Sawyer. I see his bike is leaning against my fence. “Dom isn’t here,” I continue, thinking he must be here for Dominick.

“Oh, I’m not here for him,” he tells me, shaking his head from one side to the other so strongly that his red curls skipped on his head. “I’m here to drop this off.” He reaches into his back pocket and extracts a letter. “This is for you.” He offers it to me almost ceremoniously.

I look at the letter, and the typed out name and address that seem to belong to me. I don’t recognize the handwriting. Also, I’m not expecting any letters, apart from bills. And, I know what they’re supposed to look like.

“I didn’t know you delivered mail on Sunday,” I wonder, accepting the letter a little hesitantly.

“Oh, we don’t,” he shakes his head, and I realize only now that he’s got chewing gum in his mouth, which he is now trying to blow up into a balloon, but unsuccessfully. “But, Mr. Porter told me that someone paid to have this letter delivered on a Sunday morning. Said it couldn’t wait for Monday.”

“Oh, really?” I eye the letter in my hand suspiciously. Apart from the usual bills and occasional ad, I haven’t received a single letter yet. “Thank you, Gordon.”

“Have a nice day, Mrs. Brunswick. Say hi to Dom!”

“I will, thank you,” I reply, waving back, watching as he pushes his bicycle down the road, and jumps on it in motion, catching the downward wave. I look up at the sky. Looks like it’s going to be a nice, sunny day. Gordon will have a nice time fishing. I hope he’s put on sunscreen. The sun can be so treacherous these days.

I close the door, still clutching the letter. It’s probably nothing. Just a letter. My mind is trying to remain calm, but it’s hard. People get letters all the time.

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