Where Bluebirds Fly

Chapter 5



7:45 a.m.



“This is ridiculous.” Truman yawned into the back of his hand, and gave the house, and his window one final, longing glance— thinking of his bed.

He turned into the rising sun, and stopped dead in the break in the corn, letting it warm his face.

Ram set aside the time for him…for his own personal therapy; it’d be wasteful to squander it. Which was hilarious as he’d refused counseling all of his life.

He shook his head and resumed walking. “What if I don’t like reflection? What if I prefer denial?”

Then you’ll be perpetually screwed up, the Ram-voice inside his head chastised.

He much preferred the chaos of the house, where there was no time to think.

His past hovered over his sanity like a stalking, mental, serial killer—just waiting for him to lower his defenses.

Like I’m supposed to do now.

He walked without direction, staring at the bright green and yellow-flecked stalks, noting the corn hadn’t ripened.

Mud squished under his trainers. The notebook in his hand felt leaden; it captured the ghosts of his past, housing them in a scribbled limbo.

He loved and loathed it simultaneously.

Its old, leather-bound contents began with the ramblings of his thirteen-year-old mind, right up to last week’s painful recollections.

He’d been journaling long before Ram prescribed he do it. But now, maybe because it was a ‘mandate’ to his therapy, it felt forced and uncomfortable. Like someone sewing a scratchy decal onto a well-worn, favorite shirt.

His foot struck wood, sending a pang through his toe.

I’m at the North Bridge.

Once his favorite spot, he’d been strategically avoiding it—since his longing-induced hallucination, had chosen it as her haunting place.

He sighed and walked up to the apex, plopping down.

He cracked the journal open, staring at the evolution of his handwriting. From boyish scrawl to…worse, really.

He ground his teeth together, and pressed the pen to the paper.

~ ~ ~

Am I happy? I’m not really sure what that is? I’ve found a place to be, where I’m needed, for the first time—so I guess that is progress.

~ ~ ~

A crackling sound cut through the early morning calm. The walkie-talkie on a nearby stalk buzzed to life.

“Truman? Can you hear me?”

He jogged down the planks to the stalk, depressing the button. “I’m here. What’s going on?”

“You have an add-on patient at eight a.m. You better get up here.”

“So do I get demerits for not journaling?”

“Shut it.” The crackling stopped as Ram flicked off the talkie.

He ran back toward the house, smiling in smug relief.

* * *

The stalks are dying. Soon they shall no longer hide me.

I glance back at the Putnam house, knowing I have only moments, the few stolen ones, alone. I crave quiet and solitude—impossible in a house full of children, masters and John.

I stare at the setting sun, thinking of Momma. The tears still come. Not because of the pain. It’s not sharp, but an old ache, accepted but constant, like an old one’s rheumatism.

When I’m alone—my circumstances overwhelm. Like a recurring nightmare. One that comes every night, that I must endure, step by excruciating step—till morning’s light comes to relieve it.

But for me, there shall never be a morning.

I hear the whisper of the hornets, and melancholy’s deep pressure settling against my chest.

I stop, sucking in a breath. The bridge?

It has returned. The night I saw him….it appeared then, beneath my feet without warning.

My eyes return to the household. I cannot see it, the corn is still high—so they cannot see me.

“Is this the work of the Man in Black?”

My heartbeat doubles in time with my breathing.

A book, face-open, lies at the top of the bridge.

I bite my lip. Is this the dark book everyone in Salem has been so afraid of? The one the Dark Man makes them sign, to pledge their allegiance with their souls?

“Be brave. If it is, you must turn it in. It is your responsibility.”

My courage seems to liquefy, pooling and weakening my knees. I step onto the bridge, balling my dress in my hands. I trip the last step, falling on all fours to stare into its open pages. What if the words bewitch me?

My eyes scan the page and I drop to a sit. I gently gather the book into my hands, gaze racing left to right, left to right as I digest the words.

~ ~ ~

I thought of ending it today. I am so alone. Alone with only my abnormalities for company. This is the fifth foster placement. I overheard them whispering about me tonight. About how I’m different—too different to stay with them. They already have 3 foster children—all average. 3 girls. I’m the first boy. I’ve tried not talking, to pretend to be normal. I fixed their computer. Instead of being grateful—they stared at me like the freak that I am. I watch her hold the little ones. I’ve never had a mother hold me. Never tell me everything will be alright—even if it’s a lie.

~ ~ ~

Tears cut through the grime on my face. “Never to know a mother’s love. That be dreadful.”

When the memory of that love is the only reason I rise in the morning. And I have John. Who’s difficult, a constant worry—but who’s my flesh and blood. Alone. I thought I was alone. But this writer—he is truly alone. My eyes dart back to the page.

~ ~ ~

If I can just survive two more years…I can become an emancipated minor. Get grants and go to college. And I’ll be alone, again. But free.

~ ~ ~

“Free.”

The word cuts. The impossibility of it. I will never be free.

My heart aches for this boy, man…what is he? Where is he? So many words I do not understand?

My heart’s been chopped into sections, reassembled, and sewn back together. But it’ll never beat properly; out of time and disorderly.

That is precisely what his words say to me.

Far off, a voice calls, “Verity? Where are you?”

Mistress Putnam.

Fear, and a longing I have no right to, fill me in equal measure.

I open my pack which contains John’s tutoring utensils.

I hastily pull out the ink and bite my lip and touch the quill to the parchment and cringe—praying the Dark Man does not appear.

* * *

6:30 p.m.



“I will be back,” Truman called over his shoulder, already two steps into the corn.

“Where are you going?” Ram’s clipped tone echoed behind him.

“What are you, my wife? I forgot to do something. I will be right back. Ten minutes, tops.”

Truman picked up his speed, angling in and out of the rows. He used to run track in high school. He didn’t have a choice. The coach saw him sprint once…and that was all it took. The man was relentless.

He was fast. Still was.

The bridge arrived in no time. He felt better when he ran. His mind cleared and uncluttered of all but his breathing.

He let his breath exhale in relief. The journal was still there—and it hadn’t rained. He looked up at the brooding sky.

Yet.

He sprinted to the top, swiping it up. Something caught his eye. A corner was turned down. He never did that—the book was so old it couldn’t take the abuse. It had survived a journey from Scotland to the States, and five foster homes.

He opened the page. His eyes widened and he cocked his head, disbelieving.

“What the…?”

He collapsed to the bridge, legs crossed.

He turned the pages, faster and faster, shaking his head.

His finger followed along the loopy handwriting, page after page of it. Someone else’s words…written in his journal. Someone had written in his journal.

~ ~ ~

It’s as if I’m living in a tale my dear mother told me as a child, before bed. Finding this book. Writing my fears into it—perhaps they will leave my head, now. Dear writer—I understand alone. My dear family…was murdered.

~ ~ ~

A tear must’ve streaked the ink, as the next few lines were blurry, unreadable. This made him anxious.

What did they bloody say? What is this?

He glanced up, half expecting to see one of the high school boys guffawing in the corn. But no-one. Dead calm.

He quickly flipped the page.

~ ~ ~

I have a brother with me still. I understand alone. The worst for me, is the time between awake and asleep. Where I have no control—and I don’t know what is real. I feel death looking for me, then. Trying to convince me to come along, after all, my parents await.

So, dear writer, I’m listening. I know these words to be bold, and unconventional—to speak so plainly to someone I know not.

But it’s as if I may confess my heart here—in the pages of your powerful book. And your words are powerful. Trust when I say, I am thinking of you, at this very moment, carrying your words and thoughts with me—like a talisman against the dark.

~ ~ ~

Truman blinked, felt the wetness. His mouth still hung open—he wasn’t sure if it was the shock of the wordy revelations, or that he was actually crying. He hadn’t cried since he was what…twelve?

He squinted. He couldn’t see the page anymore. It was too dark.

“Oh my gosh, it’s too dark. Ram is going to go ballistic.”

He tore off the bridge, heading through the rows.

He looked down at the journal.

He was torn. Ram was already going to be so ticked—he’d likely ignore him for days. He’d have carried out most of the nightly rituals without him.

“So dead.”

He reached the corn’s mouth, and stopped to stare at the orphanage’s wraparound porch, and back to the journal.

“He’s already furious. What’s five more minutes?”

He darted into the barn, and to the pile of junk stacked at the back beside the hay bales.

He rooted around, till he finally found it. “Yes.”

A dirty, plastic container, with a lid.

He grabbed a pen from the miscellaneous charity pile, and cracked open the journal. He hastily scribbled a message, and jammed the lid back on.

He darted to the barn-door, back out into the corn, toward the bridge.

This was one time his speed was actually coming in handy.

* * *