In The Eye Of The Storm

Fifteen. The turning point of my life. The day when I found out that I was not an Adams; I am Black.

My name is Carrisa Black, eighteen years old, haunted by a man in the shadows, running through the fog that blinds me from my path to a normal future and hoping to know who my real parents are. I am pushed into the eye of the storm.

9Likes
15Comments
1287Views
AA

2. Troubled

Tuesday, May 20, 2008, 12:46 am

There it was again. The disturbing, cold air drifted in the warm atmosphere of what was supposed to be home now-turned-into a haunted house with no ghosts. Shadows overwhelmed the small but spacious room with only the ghoulish moonlight from outside to cast them away and enlighten what there is to in the room. Sweat trickled down my damp face, my body shivered under the rather comfortable blanket in fear of the man who has been following me for weeks.

 

Why haven't I called the police yet? Because I didn't have evidence and I didn't want the police in on these things. Not when it stretches to having to watch over me 24/7. Anyway, I wanted to be able to find out for myself in my own way. Seems stupid right? Well, not for me at that time. It seemed cool, awesome, secretive in a spy way, though scary and frightening. I liked it that way. I still do. Even though it caused me lose some sleep.

 

The sky was dark and empty apart from the high moon and the trees were swaying with their delicate leaves rustling in the blowing wind, while the air inside was still, but dense as I breathe in and out staggered breaths and tried to get back to sleep. Not a sound came from beyond the wooden door of my room that lead to a dark corridor, all was quiet but the loud ticks of my watch. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Time was slow. Too slow. My body wanted to sleep, but my mind wouldn't let me. Always bothered about that man in the shadows. The faceless man who was there where ever I am. Who is he? Tall. Fit looking. Stealthy. Dark. Featureless. Silhouetted.

 

Who is he? There were more questions in my head than my hands could count, spiraling and flowing restlessly. But as they continued, it just seemed to serve as a lullaby to me and eventually, I was able to sleep.

 

 

Tuesday, May 20, 2008, 8:30 am

RING! RING! RING! RING! My phone rang and vibrated on the side table to my right. I rolled over, reached for my iPhone and checked what it was. A call. Who would call this early in the morning? Unknown. Huh, weird.

 

Without thinking, I swiped to answer, "hello?" Nothing. No answer. Wait, no. Soft, calm breaths were present on the other side. "Hello?" I repeated. Still nothing but the breaths. "Who is this?" Quiet. The person was gone; hang up on me. I disconnected the phone from my ear and stared at it. Who would be calling me at this hour?

 

Could it be? That man? Once again, the thoughts from dawn rushed back like a giant tidal wave hitting the morning shore. I stayed in bed, pondering deeply. My body didn't move but my mind was on a roller coaster of memoires and nightmares, going crazy and insane. The lack of sleep didn't help either.

 

Then there was a voice, muffled in the distance. It protruded my thought train, steering me back to reality. There it was again, "Carrisa!" My name. Who was calling me? There was more, "Carrisa, get down here! Breakfast's nearly ready!" Mum. Snap! Quickly, I checked my phone for the time. 8:38. Ok, not so snap. Mum had this rule that anyone who didn't wake up before 9 wouldn't get breakfast cooked for us, and I've been there. A lot. I got out of bed and headed down stairs; I never bothered to look great in the morning.

 

Everyone was already on the table, ready for the special meal of the day. There were cutlery, glasses and plates, but they were all bare at the moment. The sun shone on the table through the big, wide window, creating a blinding glint in the glasses that were threatening to kill my eye vision. I blocked them with my hand as I made my way to the group. 

 

Dad sat upright at the top end of the glass, rectangular table with an open newspaper in his hands and his eyes were skimming through the articles aided with a pair of glasses that were resting on the bridge of his nose. Today, he wore his usual black suit and blue tie with polished, leather shoes and knee-high socks. On the other side of the table was an empty chair that was meant for mum, who was still in the kitchen.

 

I sat down on a seat to the right of mum's chair. Beside me was brother Sam busy on his iPod, listening to music or playing games I never get to know. He's a guy who seems too protective of his things. But, like me, he doesn't bother how he looks in the morning because he was still wearing his pyjamas. Sam was younger than me by five years; I'm eighteen. You can do the math. 

 

In front of him was uncle Bernard, brother of dad, talking to cousin James to his right. They chatted non-stop everyday, and sometimes it would get annoying. For a father and son relationship, they talk A LOT to each other, unlike most of them. I take a quick glance at dad and Sam. Nope. They haven't even acknowledged my coming.

 

I smelt it before I saw it; freshly toasted bread with blueberry jam and butter along with fruit salad. Lovely. I wouldn't miss this for the world. Mum strolled in with the food and set them on the table with everybody suddenly immersed at the sight and aroma.

 

"Here you go, everyone," she said with a smile while the rest started to politely devour the meal. She went back to kitchen to bring back a mug of coffee in one hand and a jug of juice in the other, then sat down to take her place on the table and start eating. I looked at each of them on the table and wondered if they ever had a really bad number of months like what I had now. Then, I reminded myself that this wasn't my real family. Of course they wouldn't have problems this bad; they don't have my blood, I don't have theirs. They’re the Adams family. I am an orphan since birth.

 

"Carrisa, are you ok?" mum looked at me with concerned eyes and her hand rested on top of mine.

 

"Yeah. Fine," I looked back at her, forcing out a smile. I slipped my hand away and got the remaining food, placed it on my plate and started eating. While everybody talked, my mind wandered into the depths of my problems that poked me everyday and every night. Who was he? Why did he always hide every time I try to get to him, to follow him to the point of uncertainty and doubt? I was determined to find out. I needed to know. The Silhouetted Man; that's who he is to me.

 

As I kept thinking, the time flew by quickly and only when I reached the dead end of my thought track did I realise that everyone but mum had left the table to start the day. I blinked once, twice, taking in the reality into my troubled brain.

 

"Your gap year is nearly over. Have you decided what you want to do for university?" mum asked with a smile.

 

"Not yet," I said, looking down. I always had a dream of being able to act on stage, on camera, live, but there were other things too. I couldn't choose; it seemed to always be a challenge for me, choosing. Then there was the Silhouetted Man.

 

"Come on, Carrisa. You've got to think of something."

 

"I have! I've travelled to places. Did some work and earning."

 

"Yes, you've gone and explored places and experienced experiences, but you can't just stay here forever," mum exclaimed, smile fading away, "are you still willing to go to back and study?"

 

"Maybe," I murmured half-heartedly, glancing at mum.

 

"Maybe, huh? See what I mean? You need to do something before you lose interest and end up as a waitress!"

 

"I will do something, mum. Don't worry," and my eyes fell to look at my half eaten food.

 

She sensed my stress. "Did you have that dream again?" mum asked, her face had that serious look she always had which told me that I shouldn't be fooling her around.

 

"No. But I couldn't sleep," I answered. I didn't want her in my own personal concerns, nor did I want anyone else. This was my thing and mine only.

 

"Look. Carrisa, you should try letting it go." Letting it go? Was she crazy? "Forget about that man you saw. Or," she said, slowing down the pace," we could bring you to a psychiatrist to help y-"

 

"No. I don't need help; I'm fine," I protested firmly. I stood up and before leaving, I said, "don't help me, I don't want your help. I can do this on my own," and walked away.

 

"Carrisa..." she stared, but I had already blocked her off. I went into my room, shut my door and sat on my bed. My thoughts went to the letter I was typing out last week. Who would I send it to? Where would I send it to? I went to the computer and opened up the document. I skimmed through it and-

 

"What the..?" At the bottom, there was a message. I was sure I didn't type it yesterday; I was certain. 

 

Alley Way Park

1 pm today

Be there.

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...