2021 Settings Background Story

I felt the cold breeze flow over my bare chest, a brief respite from the pain the cuts and slashes were causing. Even in my less-than-full consciousness I could smell damp dirt and decay, whether it was a human or an animal was unknown. My empathic gift was useless: I was alone. The blindfold kept me from knowing whether it was day or night. My hands were bound with twine, that, I was sure. As I began to wiggle free, on the edges of my limits I could feel a tortured soul coming.

A woman. She was blaming herself for the death of her unborn fetus. She had no way of knowing that she was pregnant: she had sex for the first time a month earlier. But she still did, the three beers she was given at the party did the killing. She should have refused them, declined them. She wanted to fit in, be like the other freshman and be social with the upperclassmen.

A hand, my right, was free. I kept it behind me and stayed on the floor, acting like I was still out. Her footsteps were close; I could hear her crying. One more reach and I found the reason for her tears.

Geoffrey Younger. He was the reason. I sat up, scared her some, the little yelp confirmed it. She removed the blindfold and began to untie my feet.

“I know you’ve been inside my head, my emotions,” she began. I agreed, I just nodded. “We’ve been told that you can do that. Once we’re out of her, I’d love for you to do that, get in there and remove my pain.” I was free. I stood. She took my arm and led me back up from the basement and into the kitchen.

I knew this place and have been here before. I was younger, dad’s half-sisters, the non-Mohawk ones, Grandfather Francois’s first six daughters had me and others in this kitchen when I was six. My knees buckled when I remembered the reason, a trauma I pushed deep into my members like old Christmas presents and tried to forget about them. We moved past the old coal-fired stove and out the screen door. On the back porch, I heard a few boards creak and smelled the must and mold. The house, or at least this part, has been disregarded and years of rain and snow had caused the wood to rot.

“Where are we going?” I asked. She opened another screen door and pulled me out towards the overgrown tree line of pines.

“I have a car on the other side of the hill,” she answered. Our pace quickened. My gift screamed that someone was close, one with the anger of constant disappointment and jealousy. The man’s emotions were his own, not caused by someone else. Fortunately, my rescuer and I had crested the hill and were out of the trees. I suffered a few more scratches, pine sap filled them and my previous ones, the stinging brutal.

I saw her vehicle, a new Pontiac Grand Prix, one with all the buzzers and whistles. I arrived first and opened the passenger’s side door. She told me it was unlocked. I was inside when she opened the driver’s door. She quickly put in the key and the car started up, thankfully unlike those in movies.

It had been a long time since I had been in the Catskills. The once gravel road was replaced by a newly repaved two-lane road, with guardrails and the occasional culvert. We passed several newly constructed homes, all in the style of farmhouses. Once what was pasture had been replaced by manicured lawns. Where once were outbuildings and barns stood four-car garages and swing sets. I shook my head; things changed and not for the better.

She was an experienced driver, slowing into the turns and accelerating before the car had fully exited. She had the gas pedal fully floored on the long straight, removing her foot when a turn was not far in the distance. Twenty minutes I guessed, and we were in the Schenectady suburbs. She felt safe and decelerated. I felt her exhale, her emotions were calming down. More tears were close to falling.

She pulled into a supermarket parking lot, parked between two pickups, and turned off the engine. She handed me the keys and let herself go.

“Could you please, Sebastian, take away my pain?”