Authors: Chanda Stafford
First (28 page)
Rest Now
Socrates
“D
ad? Are you there?”
“Adam?”
“I’m here, Dad.” Warmth fills me.
“Adam! I can’t believe it.”
He chuckles, a familiar, aching rumble in the back of my head.
“I’m not going to leave you.”
“Thank you. I… I don’t want to be alone.”
“You’re not.”
He pauses. Did I lose him again? Panic sets in.
“Adam?”
“I’m still here, Dad.”
Relief. Thank you, God.
“Am I?”
“It’s time for you to rest, Dad. You’ve helped enough.”
“But I haven’t. I haven’t really done anything worthwhile.”
I feel a rush of warmth, like he’s hugging me. “
You had me, right?”
he says, impishly.
I can feel the humor in his voice.
“You’re right. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, but I was a terrible father.”
“No, you weren’t. You were the best Dad a kid could ever ask for.”
“I forgot who you were!”
“That was an awful picture. Don’t worry about it.”
“But I do. I worry about many things, actually.”
“Like Mira?”
Mentally, I nod.
“Will she be able to handle it?”
“She has to. It’ll be tough, but she’s the best one for the job.”
His voice sounds farther away.
“Adam?”
“I’m still here, Dad.”
“Don’t leave me.”
Even thinking the words is a struggle. My mind feels thicker. It’s getting harder for me to think, to reason.
“I won’t. Rest now, Dad. Everything will be all right.”
“I will. I love you, son.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
My Name
“S
ir, wake up. Can you
hear me?” A voice, fuzzy in my ears, slowly reaches through the haze like a hand grasping at fog. Why can’t they just let me sleep? “Can you hear me, sir?”
I wrench my eyes open, blink painfully against the bright light then scrunch them shut again.
“There you are, sir. Open your eyes again, please.” The voice sounds relieved. Must be that it’s happy I’m showing signs of life.
I blink again, and a round face smiles at me. “Sir, can you hear me?”
I make some sort of noise and try to move my head, but it’s stuck. There is something around my skull, holding me still. I try to scream with the pain, the agony of movement, but I can’t. I can’t do anything. Darkness swims in front of my vision, even with my eyes open. Then suddenly, it’s gone, and someone dabs at my face with a cool, wet cloth. I try to move my hands, but they’re stuck too, though they don’t hurt the way my head does. Vague shapes move across my vision, and whatever’s holding me down loosens.
“Sir? Is everything all right?”
Who is he calling sir? I nod anyway, and the young man smiles again. I struggle to sit up, my head swimming. A dark fog clouds my sight.
“Slowly, please, so you don’t black out.” The man wraps his arms around me and helps me to a sitting position. “Good.” He studies my face closely with bright green eyes, peering into mine, as if trying to see into my soul. “My name is Dr. James Scoffield. I’m here to help you
.” Scoffield. Scoffield. Why does that name sound familiar? Do I know this guy?
Something in the back of my mind bugs me, like I should recognize him, like it’s important, but I can’t shake the memory loose.
“Everything checks out, Dr. Scoffield,” says another doctor, standing in front of a machine in the middle of the room. I can’t read his nametag, but he looks familiar, too.
“Good,” Dr. Scoffield says. “Okay, sir, this is important. Do you remember what your name is?” He looks at me closely, as if this is some sort of test that I have to pass. Or fail.
Who cares what my name is?
My head’s killing me, I feel as if I’m going to throw up, or pass out, or both, and he’s asking me what my name is?
He asks me again, and I almost say the first name to come to my mind, but he shakes his head, so minutely I almost miss it.
Nope, guess that’s not it. But who am I?
Memories rush through me, a little dark-headed boy, a sister who… disappears? A young man with rugged good looks and a deadly bracelet wrapped around his wrist. I know him too, somehow. Then there is another young man who filled my heart with passion and a will to live. Something about butterflies, and bees without stingers. Little crosses getting trampled and kids disappearing. What was I supposed to remember? Dr. Scoffield asks me again.
Oh yeah, my name.
Dr. Scoffield takes my hands in his and squeezes them gently. His are warm and firm, comforting. I glance across the room and see someone dressed in green cover… an old man with a blanket. Who is…? Socrates? Is it… is he dead?
And I’m… not? How could this happen? Why? I’m not supposed to live.
Was this his plan all along? Is that why he told me what I needed to remember and what happened to those who failed? Did he want me to take his place?
I turn away from Dr. Scoffield and stare right at the curved glass wall
. Remember, Mira. There’s an audience, Will, watching my every move. I have to make this good, or I’ll never get away with it.
“My name is Socrates.”
Acknowledgments
I’ve heard it said that writing itself may be a solitary practice, but the actual process of publishing a book is anything but. I never realized how true that was until my first book was published.
First and foremost, I’d like to thank my wonderful husband, family, and friends. They’ve supported me through years of talking to myself and scribbling fragmented ideas down on napkins and receipts. Better yet, they’ve only called me crazy once or twice.
I’d also like to thank the wonderful people at Red Adept Publishing, especially Karen, Michelle, and Kris, who all helped mold this behemoth into a novel worth publishing and endured countless emails and conversations to accomplish that goal. I’d also like to thank Lynn for believing in me and my book and helping me grow through this process to become a much stronger writer.
About the Author
Chanda Stafford teaches middle and high school English. She loves traveling and currently lives in Michigan with her husband and a menagerie of rescued dogs and cats.
When she’s not reading or writing, Chanda enjoys old zombie movies, authentic Italian food, and comic books.
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