"Rachel," he whispered. She hadn't heard him. "Rachel," he whispered again. This time she cocked her elegant head to the right, confused. She'd heard him, and the millions of times before that, but never before had the voice been so loud. Rachel had found she could almost tune out the echo, but now it was something more. Instead of the echo, it was the voice itself. And it was saying her name. The elevator doors had just closed and she was alone. Or almost. She could have been afraid of the voice; intimidated, but she wasn't. This was mainly because the voice was not entering her ears, but her body; her soul. It did not only whisper, it sung, shouted, exclaimed, loved and cried. The whisper was not something a human could make. The manners her mother had taught her had not yet all escaped, and she felt the need to respond to whatever was calling her name.
"What?" she almost mouthed, hoping there were no cameras in the elevator to catch her talking to what she was sure could only be her own insane mind. Had the drugs really messed her up that much? They couldn't make her insane could they? Besides, she wasn't high now.
"Don't do this," the voice said. Knowing the answer, she asked the question.
"Do what?" But the voice was gone, and with it, it's presence. She had felt it go, like a thickness in the air escaping through some giant unseen door. She then felt the elevator slow, pass its doorstop and come rushing back up a few inches. The door pinged open to reveal a few impatient faces and a crowded mall. Rachel found it impossible to move. It felt as though every ligament, bone and muscle had been super glued tightly together, and then her shoes to the floor. The blank face she'd perfected years ago was displayed to the impatience of a busy society. No one took the time to notice her stare was too blank. A person who can show no emotion-whether in their face or their action- is not someone to mess with. Several people got on and a tall man was accidentally shoved into her. At the jolt she suddenly had the impulse to run. She had to get out of there or she would suffocate, the air itself was refusing to enter her lungs, she was immediately claustrophobic.
When she was five, her apartment building had caught fire. Or rather, she had set the fire. Her parents were at a Christmas party, her babysitter asleep. The fireplace had crackled in rage and she was cold. She'd seen her parents stoke the fire many times. Tiptoeing past the snoring teenager, she'd reached her small bony hand out to open the grate. It squeaked a little and she'd paused, then continued as the snores loudly escaped an almost shut mouth. After the grate had been opened, it was easy. She'd almost skipped over to the large, looming bookshelf as she went about gathering the fuel for the heat she needed. She was sure the sleeping babysitter was cold too. Rachel grabbed a few small paperback novels and tossed them in the fire. It grew, but not enough. A few more books were hurled on, lighting slowly but burning quickly as the venomous flames eargerly lapped up the pages. Soon there were too many for the grate and they toppled out of their brick cage, igniting anything near them. The flames climbed up the wall, erupting passionate delight. In just five minutes she was almost surrounded, the fire alarm had gone off long ago and she could already hear the sirens of those who would save her. She heard the shouts of firemen looking for anyone still in the building. Her thoughts were clouding over as she stared in terror at the flames that engulfed the couch where her babysitter had been. Her ears longed to shut out the screams of pain, pain that had been her doing.
"I'm sorry," she'd managed to squeeze out of her tiny burning lungs as strong arms picked her up. The fire had completely annihilated four apartments and killed two people; one was her babysitter.
Rachel tore out of the elevator and instantly forgot why she'd been afraid. Cautiously she glanced back into the room she'd fled and saw the flustered faces looking back. Without a word of explanation, she turned and walked towards her tower of refuge. The clock in the middle of the mall overlooked almost all the stores, with the exception of two banks and a dollar store. Christmas shoppers were everywhere, haggling, shouting, grumbling and fighting. Rachel figured true Christmas spirit had never been in a mall, and never would. Half these people didn't even know what the holiday was, other than a lot of work. They have to shop, bake, clean and decorate for the one day in which they almost but don't tolerate their extended families and recieve gifts they loathe but outwardly smile over. The patterned blue bag her grandmother had given her in grade nine hung awkwardly over her shoulder, her palms were sweaty, her mind uneasy. The hard metal lump in her bag was disguised well, and as she felt it brush against her leg she wondered if the voice had been real. Was she not supposed to do this? They had told her she must, for her drugs, for her protection, but now she wasn't so sure. These people may not have experienced what she had, or felt the emotions and pain she had felt, but they had lives too. The unknowns walking briskly around her had hopes, dreams and experienced pain just like she did. To the world, her face remained vacant, her footsteps sure, her path marked. Dodging people and carts and loose chidren she strolled over to the tower. Sitting on a bench in front sat a haggard looking young lady. She seemed as if she'd been in a hurry, then got interrupted by a call that changed her entire week. In her hand she held a single rose that had not yet bloomed. Her face displayed uncertainty and her heeled foot hopped every now and then. Rachel was almost past her when the lady suddenly glanced in her direction and then vaulted off the bench with a smile that exclaimed relief.
"I thought I was too late!" she said excitedly as she reached Rachel's side. Rachel sized her up. If this woman thought she was going to stop her, she would quickly never be able to walk again. Suddenly Rachel's face exploded with surprise. The strange nameless woman had thrown her arms around Rachel's short, thin body. She was hugging her. Rachel's instincts told her to pull back, to fight, that this woman was dangerous. No one hugs a stranger with such confidence! But she didn't. She stood there allowing herself to be hugged, not thinking to hug back.
Two years ago she'd been sitting in a swing, silently moving back and forth. When she got sick of the continuous rythm, she changed to a pendulum movement, sliding from side to side. It was late and dark out, about the time no one but drug dealers and drunks were on a playground. She was neither on drugs nor drunk at that moment, rather, she was crying. The air was freezing and the tears that should have been warm felt more like ice cubes slipping over her bruised face. Soon she would hear the booming sound of her drunk boyfriend's screams.
"Where are you bitch?" he would yell as he drove around the block, honking his horn, squealing the tires. Early in the relationship he had been wonderful, with only a few minor faults. He'd want her to spend time with him instead of her girlfriends, because he missed her. He'd call her more than once a night with nothing really to say. Soon it got worse and Rachel began to regret saying yes to that first movie. He had many friends, but she wasn't to have any he didn't know. Soon his friends became her acquaintances and her friends became extinct. He would drag her everywhere with him and she had no choice in what they did. He even picked the movies they saw. After that they began to fight. Actually, he would pick fights, and he didn't pick any he knew he couldn't win. Things that went wrong were soon her fault and he'd verbally tear her down. He drank a lot more and one night he hit her. Rachel had been shocked, threatening to dump him. This hadn't gone over well; he threatened suicide and murder and she nursed a black eye for being so bold. Too drained to move anymore, she stobbed the swing. As she stared at the ground, two pairs of heels appeared. Both dirty with mismatched nailpolished toes sticking out. She strained to lift her head. The faces she saw were heavily makeupped but kind and she instantly felt a link between them and herself. They looked sadly on her beaten face and when they started moving she went with them. They half carried, half supported her to a car on the other side of the street. The man driving never turned to face her and she was glad he hadn't, or she would have turned and run. In exchange for protection from her boyfriend, she was to complete some projects for their gang. Really, she didn't have a choice. At first they were small and only slightly illegal but lately they'd been getting more and more dangerous. The driver had promised this task would be her last and then she would be free, but she knew it wasn't that easy. She knew why this was her last.
The anonymous lady let go of Rachel and handed her the rose.
"Here," she announced. "A beautiful rose for a beautiful girl." Rachel stifled a gasp that could have been a laugh.
"You've got the wrong girl," she stated matter-of-factly.
"No, you're her. God told me." With that she wished Rachel a treasured Christmas, offered a God Bless and disappeared into the crowd. Dumbfounded, Rachel was once again superglued to the mall floor, only this time her face was astonished instead of blank. Turning quickly to complete her task she found she couldn't. Watching the river of humanity glide through the mall halls she acknowledged that she couldn't take what didn't belong to her. No, she wouldn't. The church that had seemed to alienate her earlier now seemed to beckon like the only warm place on the North pole and with only a small amount of regret, she turned. The walk out of the mall went quickly and the demons that had assaulted her mind were losing their grip. The presence from the elevator was back and it engulfed her with an intimacy better than any she had ever or never felt. Her face was calm as she passed the unaware people. Once out of the mall she detoured a little from her path to the church to find a garbage bin. Rachel shuddered as she dropped her shoulder bag into the bin and the gun clanked as it hit the bottom. The task they'd asked her to do was going uncomplete and for once, she didn't care. The Christmas shoppers continued shopping, unaware that for many of them, that day would have been their last. Rachel turned once again towards the church and almost shouted as a feeling of freedom enveloped her. She bounded up the steps, ripped open the doors and marched into the pastor's office. The conversations that followed changed her life, and many others as she shared her story. She was Rachel, and she was free.
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