Indigo: The Saving Bailey Trilogy #2

Chapter 1

Music pulsates and vibrates through me, luring me to get up and dance. I tap my nails to the beat of the music on the tiny tempered glass table, watching my glass of Coke sweat. I could dance, I could join Ella on that stage, maybe earn a few bucks… if Mom wasn’t Hawk-eyeing me.

Ella sets her feet shoulder-length apart. She whips her hair in a circle and slides down the pole, her spine and hands caressing it.

I could do that. It’s not much different to ballet.

She clomps off stage in velvet blue high-heels; bra and G-string stuffed with dollar bills. Lowering herself on the lap of a man with a beer belly and scruffy facial hair, she grinds her body into his pelvic bone like a pepper mill, her face frozen in a grimace.

I can guess at what she is thinking: Anything for money. Anything so she can afford her Gucci purse and cigarettes.

She lifts herself off the man’s crotch, and then holds her hand out for payment. He lounges back in his chair, a disgusting, satisfied grin on his face.

Where’s my dough? she asks, hands automatically flinging to her hips, eyes narrowing into two thin slits.

Your dough? the man says with an exaggerated chuckle. You’re a hoe; I save my money for important things, like beer and burgers. Now, why would I want to put my hard-earned money in your sweaty tits? He cocks his head at her, his eyebrows raised and his mouth pulled to one side in a half smirk.

Ella’s face crumbles. No, don’t cry.

In one cutting slap, she wipes the smirk right off his face. Do you think I wanted to put my sweaty tits in your face for a measly dollar? she says, her eyes burning with fury. "Keep your money."

Ella puts her back to him, as he lies there in endless contentment, helpless as a Raggedy Ann doll, arms hanging at his sides, legs wide open and jeans rumpled from her dance. She stabs the dance floor with her heels, coming toward me.

Bailey, is that you? Bailey Sykes? You were so little, the last time I saw you. She pulls up a chair.

You were too, I say.

"Wow, are you a looker or what? I always knew you were pretty but… Bailey, you’re gorgeous, really. You could get so many tips here… unlike me. She rolls her eyes, and flips her hair behind her shoulders. Did you see that?"

Yeah, I confess.

That guy comes here every Friday night, and every Friday night I give him a lap dance… he never pays.

Then why keep doing it?

I guess I’m holding out hope. I need all the cash I can get. I’m almost twenty years old, I can’t live off Mommy, like you do.

My mom can’t afford me either, I say, with a dismissive wave of my hand.

Why don’t you get a job?

Never put much thought into it… not a bad idea, though.

How old are you babe, eighteen?

Ella straddles her chair the same way she did the man. Her breasts sparkle under the misty neon lights, and I can’t stop staring at them. Sixteen, I say, breaking my stare.

A baby. She takes a sip of my Coke and sticks her tongue out. Soda. What, Mommy couldn’t get you a shot?

I’m not a baby, I say.

She tugs on my hair, twisting it around her fingers. "Are you a virgin?" she says in a megaphone voice. The whole club goes quiet to hear my answer.

I glare at Ella.

"Ah, the virgin stare."

Shut up, I say.

You have to be eighteen to work here. And just like that the music picks back up again, my proclamation lost in a throbbing, techno beat. Let me get you a shot.

My eyes follow the way she straightens her back, displaying her chest when she asks the bartender for a shot. He smiles and hands her two; she kisses him full-on, and then makes her way back to me.

I got just what you need, she says pouring the shots into my Coke.

I have to be eighteen to dance here?

She snickers. Your mom would never agree to it. Besides, you’re too young and innocent.

What does innocence have to do with it?

Anyway, I really don’t think I qualify as being innocent anymore, not after taking my mom’s Walther to school in a botched attempt to gun down my classmates.

I gotta get back on stage before the other girls start taking my men, Ella says. It was nice seeing you again.

I sniff my Coke, the pungent smell of liquor wafts from it. Taking a tiny sip, I jerk my head back from the biting, sour liquid and push the glass away from me.

Mom, balancing a tray of empty shot glasses on one hand, comes to stand beside my table. You didn’t drink your Coke. What’s wrong? she says. Do you want to go home?

I look out at the gyrating bodies bathed in a flashing, neon haze, and realize that this is the last place on Earth I want to be. Yeah, I’m out of here.

Mom reaches for my Coke, but I jump from my seat and remove it from the table before she can taste the liquor in it. Mine, I jest.

Pushing the straw aside, I chug it down. It comes up my nose, the liquor burning me inside out. I cough and sputter. Mom blinks at me in concern; she sets her tray down.

You’re going to choke, slow down. I could have gotten another if you didn’t want to share.

No, I’m good, I cough out. I’m gonna drive home now, okay? I’ll probably be asleep when you come home, so I’ll leave the door unlocked.

Okay, she says. Drive safe, there are a lot of drunks out there tonight. She picks up her tray and glances sideways at the empty shot glasses.

At least you’re not one of them. I grab my purse and raise my hand goodbye.

•••

I unlock my car, get in, and rest my head on the steering wheel. The horn goes off and I jump at the sudden noise.

I put the keys in the ignition and the car shudders to life, spitting out smoke. It rattles the whole way home, like a toddler’s push toy.

I pull into the driveway of our new apartment at Bay Breeze Villas. I turn off the engine and place the keys on the passenger seat. This is my nightly ritual after having come home from a drive to the nearest gas station for chips and a soda. Except tonight I come from Indigo. It was Mom’s way of getting me out of the apartment.

I bet you even know his name, Mom said.

His name? I think it’s Mason…Grey…but really, that’s just a guess.

To be honest, the cashier at Seven-Eleven and I are on a need-to-know basis, even though sometimes things I don’t really need to know slip out, like how he always chews five pieces of gum in his mouth at once, or how he hasn’t paid child support in over a year.

Mom took me to Indigo tonight, hoping that my strange affair with late night runs to the gas station- for everything but gas- would subside. However, after having my fill of spiked Coca-Cola, sweating bodies, and enough flashing lights to cause even a non-epileptic to seizure- I’m only left sitting here alone in my car with a late-night hankering for the salty, hydrogenated taste of powdered nacho cheese.

My stomach growling, I dig around in the backseat and fish out one of my precious orange lifesavers. I pop four little white pills into my mouth and wash them down with a swig of Sky Blue Vodka. I may hate the taste of vodka, but I certainly can’t deny how wonderful it makes me feel after it has won the fight against my gag reflex. Couple it with Vicodin and I’m in heaven, floating on clouds. And without it, I wouldn’t be here.

Without Clad I wouldn’t be here, I think, my mouth opening in a short gasp. Without Clad. The wind is knocked out of me—a punch to the gut each time Clad manages to needle his way into my thoughts. The guilt washes over me, drowning me, and suddenly I am in the retention pond again—dying.

The bottle rolls out of my hand and under the seat. The outside of my sneakers become wet as it pours out. I slip the empty pill bottle into my pocket with the intention of adding it to my collection later.

I pick my head off the steering wheel. Through the windshield masked by the splattered corpses of love bugs, the apartment complex juts out in harsh, jagged lines; its obnoxiously bright colors made tolerable by the black sky.

I step out and carefully shut the driver’s side door. Visions of my car falling apart from a single door slam enter my mind. I linger in front of it a moment longer, making sure it will stay intact, before taking the sidewalk up to the apartment.

I have traded my red door at Parkway Village for one the exact same pink as Pepto-Bismol—if only it could cure my nausea. I enter the space-ish apartment. There are two bedrooms; one for me and one for Mom. The couch Mom used to sleep on is rarely habited now. I stay in my room and she stays in hers. It’s easier, this way, to pretend things are normal and that I didn’t take her gun to school for a field trip.

My room is nearest the bathroom, like it was in our old apartment. The bathroom is where I spend most of my time, the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl against my sweaty palms, the hot drizzle of the shower scorching bad memories and hectic thoughts away.

A bedroom usually consists of a bed, a dresser, and various knickknacks that define who its occupant is. My room has no bed, has no dresser, only a closet full of unworn clothes and a pyramid of prescription bottles below my always-open window. I have built a sanctuary, a new domain where I can be at peace with myself.

I peel my sneakers off my blistered feet and wriggle out of my pants. I lie down on the floor, my ear and cheek pressed against the cool wood. The floor is solid; when I knock there is a repercussion, a reply that assures me of its solidity. Not like my pillow, which my head would sink into and become lost in.

Angel scampers into my room, a ratty dishtowel held in his tiny, sharp teeth. He covers himself with it and lies down on my spread-out hair; the smell of my shampoo is comforting to him. I know he wonders what happened to my bed—his bed—but he couldn’t possibly understand how the mattress and sheets felt like a swamp to me, sinking into warm mud bound by vines.

Through the window a cool breeze blows. The moon is a light orange color that it has borrowed from the sun. All is quiet, but not the tranquil quiet with chirping crickets in the background and croaking frogs. It is an eerie silence; I can make out Angel’s shallow breathing and that’s it. The silence puts me on edge because I know silence is the worst thing for me to hear. When the world has gone quiet it can only mean one thing- it is plotting a way to shake up my life and break me again.

The front door opens, and I hold my breath in waiting. Angel will bark if it is an intruder. His ears perk up; he opens one eye but holds back his bark. Mom puts her purse and keys on the kitchen table. Then she joins me on the floor. How’s my little floor dweller doing? she asks. Are you asleep yet?

She pulls my hair out from underneath Angel, triggering a growl.

Wide awake, I say.

Want me to lie with you? I could play with your hair until you fall asleep, or rub your arm.

No, you need your sleep… the baby needs his sleep.

Mom rests a hand on her round belly, a smile crossing her lips. What do you think, boy or girl?

Definitely a boy, I say.

Her eyes turn down to her stomach as if she could see through it and know the sex of the fetus. A girl…another beautiful baby girl.

I hope not. I scowl. I don’t need a little sister pestering me all the time. And what kind of role model would I be for her?

Oh, you could teach her so many things. You’ve been through it all and still you are here.

You didn’t think I would be?

I thought I lost you so many times… sometimes, I still feel that you’re gone. When you lie on your floor like this, or beg me to convince the doctor you need more Vicodin.

I’m here physically.

There are times I think you aren’t here physically, either. Like you’re invisible, just a ghost of who you used to be.

I lay my hand on top of her protruding stomach. Like the baby, you can’t see him but he’s there. You know because your stomach is growing and you feel him kick sometimes. I’m like that, you see me and feel me in only small amounts, but I still exist… only on a lower level, now.

You talk just like your father did. Always knowing the right things to say that will calm me.

There’s a thump against my hand and I recoil. Gas or baby?

Baby. Mom grins. She grabs my hand and places it over the spot where the baby is stirring.

Night owl, I think, we’ll get along just fine. I keep my hand pressed against her stomach as my eyes start to close. The thoughts cluttering my mind blend together like every color of the rainbow and melt into a puddle of indistinguishable brown.

Sleep well, Mom says quietly as I drift off to sleep.

•••

A baby boy enters my dreams, a boy with grubby hands and green snotty nose, dressed in a soiled onesie. The spitting image of his father, possessing just my mother’s eyes.

A wailing, ill-tempered infant that pulls on my hair when I hold him. I put him in his crib and sing him a lullaby, but his wailing persists and the more I sing, the louder it gets.

He cries all night, his tears somehow falling from his crib and wetting my own face.

I wake up with a throat sore from screaming and my cheeks damp with tears. The Vicodin and alcohol take the sharpness off my depression but can’t clear it away completely. Every time I close my eyes, it rears its ugly head again.

Spencer is the only medication that can truly suppress the grim feelings. Spencer with his diaphanous voice and arms that tower over me when I need to feel safe again.

Chapter 2

Miemah

I don’t enjoy making Bailey cry. After hurting her I am always left with a feeling like my insides have been replaced with dirt and earthworms. But it has to be this way. I don’t choose to be vicious or cruel, any more than one chooses what kind of family they are born into. My heartlessness is innate. I’m a monster, caged in a world full of humans. Loving, caring, feeling, despicable humans.

I need to be let free.

Free of my dad’s abuse, free of my conscience, which tells me I should kill Bailey, free of my hands that break through bone and hardened exteriors like hollow chocolate bunnies. Free, the word I wrote on my wall in blood the same day Clad and Bailey came to school with loaded guns. A bullet for me. A bullet for Bailey.

I saw her in the hall, the barrel of Clad’s gun pressed against her forehead. Hand buried in the front pocket of a black, over-sized hoodie, clutching what I believed to be a pistol. Hardly able to stand on her own, face drained of blood and eyes full of determination; she was on a mission — probably to kill me, probably to kill Trenton. Clad would have been a miniscule distraction if he hadn’t pressed his Beretta between her eyes. Here was the boy that had been in love with her since kindergarten, ready to blow her head to bits.

At the time, I speculated what would happen if Clad were to pull the trigger, releasing the bullet that would shatter Bailey’s skull and force her brain out her ears, like hamburger meat through a meat grinder.

I was ecstatic. Thrilled. For the moment, Bailey was alive. I had spent the previous night bawling in my bed, hyperventilating because I had killed her. Now, the breakdown was a far off memory as she stood before me. She looked at me for but a second; my eyes snapping a picture and inputting every detail of her. Sweatpants soaked through with blood, hand curled in an unusual fashion, knuckles purple and yellow. A beautiful wreck.

Her eyes were alight with a fire, ignited by me and so many others who had tortured her. How could people so cold spark such flames?

Kill me, I thought. Go ahead, put me out of my misery. Put you out of your misery.

She didn’t see the pathetic expression on my face, or the tears pooled in my eyes. She could not hear my internal plea, screaming at her to end me. Bailey’s fire-eyes were focused on Clad as if he were the only thing in this world she could see.

I balled my hand into a fist and bit my knuckles. I so desperately wanted to scream at Clad, "You love her, you fool! She’s your everything!"

His lips moved, mouthing something to her, the gun leaving her face. She stared at him, her eyes and mouth open wide in shock. Taking one quick glance at me, she pivoted, bolted to the door and then threw herself down the main staircase. I watched her flowing black hair chasing after her, a black cloud of doom as she scrambled out of the school building. It took the sound of Clad’s gun going off to wake me from my stupor.

Bang. I began to run full speed from its range. Fear seeped into me and ran cold through my body, screams of terror and the reverberation of gunshots pushing me, as well as everyone else, out of the school. I hit the back doors with my fists in panic before they opened up to the outside.

Spinning around, I tried to catch another glimpse of Bailey making off on her white horse of surrender, but we had exited the building opposite ways. My heart sank as it came to me that I would never see her again.

Choosing to also leave, I passed by the front of the school and witnessed a SWAT team burst through the front doors and swarm in like a militia of black sugar ants on a piece of unwrapped candy.

•••

When I got home, my heart fell at seeing Papa’s truck parked in the driveway.

Papa stood with his back against the front door. I immediately wished I could turn back and return to school, unseen.

"What are you doing home? You’re supposed to be at school." His hardened face brightened at the prospect of beating me for playing hooky.

I – we got let out early. There was a shooting.

He laughed at this, his stomach jiggling and his yellow, cracked teeth exposed as he threw back his head. Tears dotted the corners of his eyes, he laughed so hard. Tears dotted the corners of my eyes, too.

Every time you get more creative with your lies.

"I’m not lying! It’s true, turn on the news and you’ll see." I fought him.

Get inside, you little bitch! He proceeded to pull me through the door and into the kitchen by my ponytail. Then he tossed me to the floor.

I picked myself off the ground, bringing a hand to my lips, I wiped at what I thought was spit. I looked down at my shirt stained with drops of red. Blood dripped from my chin.

Papa’s strong hands gripped my shoulders, making me face him. "Go to your room," he said in a voice so cold that I shuddered as its iciness overcame me.

I stood my ground.

Now! He shoved me in the direction of my room. I picked up my feet and he followed.

With Papa only a step behind, I ran ahead and barricaded my bedroom door with spread-out arms. My gaze shifted to an empty pack of cigarettes that I had left laying on my vanity in plain view.

They weren’t mine, they weren’t mine! I screamed as Papa hoisted me up and removed me from the doorway. He picked up the empty cigarette box and chucked it across the room. Then he came back at me in a rage, shoving me backward into the vanity. My head broke the mirror.

Just like your mother, smoking and lying all the time, Papa said.

I shook my head. No, I’m not anything like Mom. Mom never put up with your bullshit, she had the balls enough to leave you.

You ever try to leave, he said, his cheesy breath curdling as it hit the air, and I will hunt you down!

I hate you! You fat, hideous jerk! I screamed after him as he slammed my bedroom door shut.

I collapsed on my bed, the broken mirror reflecting my pitiful face in every fragment of glass. Two dozen crying, bleeding Miemahs. I could never hate the look of my face more than I did in that moment. Trapped and grotesque.

I ran my fingertips over my swollen lips, coating them with blood. Rising from the bed, I pushed my vanity aside to clear a spot on the wall. With bloody fingertips I wrote something I knew I could never be: free.

I pushed the vanity back into place.

Chapter 3

Humans are not related to monkeys, we are related to flowers. Yes, flowers. Growing from a tiny, insignificant seed, and then spending the rest of our days struggling for nourishment from the soil and breath from the sun, pushing between sidewalk cracks, bricks and mortar, to be seen. We are all flowers, on the surface thin and frail, the petals and stem. But beneath the soil we have strong roots buried deep, mooring us down.

•••

I wanted to be dead; I lamented that I had not died when Trenton drowned me in the retention pond. I stumbled through the door a zombie, covered in blood, clothes falling off my body like rotting skin.

Mom was in my bedroom making the bed; I dropped her Walther to the ground and went down with it. Bullets clinked as they rolled out of Clad’s hoodie, stopping at her feet.

What have you done? Mom asked, quietly at first. What have you done? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? Her voice grew louder and louder, like the siren of an ambulance, urgent and demanding.

I lay on the ground, my breathing ragged, eyes trying hard to stay open. I had lost so much blood. The cut on my thigh could not clot because I had kept running.

She saw the blood on me and thought it belonged to someone else. Who did you kill? You’re not my daughter! I don’t even know who you are, anymore! Mom said, shaking me. She removed her trembling hands from my shoulders and covered her face.

It’s my blood, Mommy, I said in-between restricted breaths. Only my blood… I didn’t hurt anyone.

She flipped me over, saw the long gash on my thigh and dissolved to tears. Why didn’t you kill them? she demanded. "You should have killed them!"

I should have, but he stopped me. My mind slowed down and trickled out on the floor with my blood, leaving me breathless. Mom grew fuzzy and grey around the edges, and then everything went black like I had closed my eyes.

Mom would later tell me they were still open.

I was airlifted to Lee Memorial Hospital. I’ve never ridden in a helicopter before, I can recall Mom saying thoughtfully, as a paramedic pumped air into my body.

•••

As soon as I came to, I was bombarded with questions from men in black and women bleached white. My head spun, dizzy at all the questions. How was I to answer?

How could I tell the police about Miemah and Trenton without fear of revulsion from the Allie? Without fear of being arrested for assaulting Miemah with a broken golf club?

Sure, I could easily argue self-defense, but couldn’t Miemah argue the same? And what if she had seen me in the hallway at school with a gun in my hand…and then, there was Clad to worry about—he knew I had gone to school with a gun, even if Miemah didn’t.

I decided it would be so much easier to just tell them I had no clue what happened. That I barely knew my own name, let alone how I had ended up on a stretcher, tubes invading my every body cavity.

I faked amnesia, which wasn’t so hard because I really had blocked out most of the ordeal from memory. When their questions started to flood me, I made my eyes grow large and rested my head in my hands, pretending to know nothing of what they asked. I told them that I was Bailey Angel Sykes, and that I was in a lot of pain. Upon seeing my distress, the nurses would shoo the investigators away.

In the time I spent in the hospital recovering, my case seemed to drop away from everyone’s minds. I threatened Mom that I would let the officers in on her abuse if she pressed the case or gave any information other than that I had miraculously showed on our doorstep half-dead and bloodied.

If investigators did go to Surfside High, I’d bet money that none of the counselors, teachers or students admitted to knowing I had been viciously bullied before this most recent attack. That would make them liable for not believing me in the first place, all of them except one. The bird lady. I can’t remember her name now, but I could never forget her gentle touch, kind face, and sincere voice: I believe you.

But, did I believe myself? Did I really believe that I was pretending to not know of what happened for fear of revulsion? Not a snowballs chance in hell.

I couldn’t decipher the cause of my silent mouth. Maybe fear, but fear of what? If not of revulsion… then what? The more I thought about it, the more confused I became.

It was like Miemah’s attacks had been salt: you keep sprinkling it on your food not knowing you have until that first salty bite, and then you are forced to finish your meal one salty bite at time. The attacks kept coming and I tasted them, all right.

With my suffering came a sick sense of pride; I was an unbreakable superhuman, having survived not only Mom’s beatings, but Miemah’s too. I had become the strongest girl alive. No one was going to take that away from me, pinning me as a helpless, shattered victim. After all, Miemah had collected many victims. I wanted to be her first survivor.

•••

I remained in the hospital for a few weeks and had a lot of empty hours to ponder over the consequences of almost bringing my Bullet List to life. I had essentially rid myself of Miemah, Cecil, Nessa, Latcher, Stewart and Trenton. However, in the process of doing so, I had accidentally rid myself of Clad, too. I prayed to God to bring all my tormenters back, just so I would not have to be without Clad. The thing is, I didn’t realize how much I had been leaning on him until he was gone and I dropped to my knees without his support.

He shot at the ceiling for me, drywall falling into his hair, his face clear of all emotion. I ran like there was a derailed freight train headed for me. He had no intention of shooting me. Of course not; he was too smart for that. Clad, with his huge heart and Einstein brain, had figured out a middle ground.

No one has to die. It was a win-win situation. He tricked me into thinking I’d die if I went through with my Bullet List. I was a turkey with its head cut off, running circles at the sight of his gun.

It took me until I got home to see through the plan he had negotiated with himself: scare Bailey off, then fire the gun, the SWAT team will come running in and she won’t be able to come back into the school.

Clad saved me from killing myself—from killing so many others—because I don’t think I honestly would’ve stopped at my Bullet List. Either way, I was going to die; so what did it matter how many people I took down with me?

Clad went to prison for me. That’s where he is right now, as I lie comfortably on the floor in Goodwill, with my boyfriend to keep me company. When I go back home tonight I will be thinking of Clad and how he gave up part of his life to save me. I will scream out, a werewolf in the middle of the night, calling for him and he won’t come. No one will come. Mom has earplugs that block out all my midnight howls.

•••

I have to see him, I say to Spencer, closing the romance novel we have been reading together.

On slow days, which is just about every day at the thrift store, we spread out on our stomachs, prop ourselves up with our elbows, and read through novels yellowed and aged by the sun. The man on the front cover of the one we are reading now reminds me of Clad, his long brown, wavy hair flowing in an invisible gust of wind.

Do you think he even wants to see you?

He went to prison for me. I’m pretty sure he wants to see me.

"He went to prison because of you, Spencer corrects me. Why have you waited so long?"

I’m scared. Spence, what if he’s angry with me? I’ve just been putting it off because I’m terrified of what he might be thinking.

I bet he’s thinking, ‘Fuck, I shot the ceiling of our school for that girl and she hasn’t come ‘round once to visit! What a waste of good ammunition.’ He chuckles.

"I wish the situation was that light," I say.

Don’t worry; he could never stop loving you.

But I don’t love him the same way I love you, got it? He’s just a really good friend.

I got it, Spencer says.

I lift myself off the ground, my elbows raw from propping me up on the threadbare carpet. It’s getting close to our lunch break, and I’m just about to ask Spencer if we can go early, when a man with an infant girl cradled in one arm walks through the door. Spencer jumps up to greet him.

Hello, welcome to Goodwill. Is there anything I can assist you with, sir?

The man is short and compact. He is dressed in a faded blue Hanes T-shirt, carpenter Levis, a plaid button up shirt tied around his waist, and uniform black Reeboks on his feet. The baby is swaddled in a white, pink and blue striped hospital blanket. I take a step back from the smell that is coming off them.

I need a dress, the hobo grumbles, for the baby.

I recognize him as the homeless man who sits outside Circle K with a cardboard sign that reads, ‘Have baby need money for