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Excerpt from Ryder on the Storm

Storm

When you first realize you are different it can come as a shock. It should come as a shock. For Storm Sullivan it had been different. She felt nothing, just took it in stride, staring blankly into the fireplace while her mother hyperventilated. Storm was seven at the time. Her first vision seemed as simple as a daydream. It hadn’t hurt back then. No headaches or blinding pain. The most uncomfortable part of the experience was the rough fabric of the 70s style sofa chafing her legs. Storm kept adjusting the blue gingham-checked romper while Aunt Trin stroked her auburn curls, from the nape of her neck to her waist and over again.

Her mother wept as she explained the family curse. Storm stared at her, stone-faced, replaying her vision and thinking about her mother’s fragility. Aunt Trin kept stroking her hair, the gentle rhythm a soothing gesture in the wake of her mother’s emotions. Storm felt annoyed. The vision had been a simple one, her friend Sami stealing a pack of gum from the corner store and receiving a stern talking to after being caught. It hadn’t even fazed her. But her mother, well, Sophie Sullivan’s hopes of the curse passing over her only child were dashed in an instant.

Storm looked at her mother, mascara dripping down her cheeks like a sad circus clown, wild desperation and sadness warring behind her eyes. Aunt Trin had spoken up at just the right moment, “Sophie, luv, it will be fine. You knew it was a better chance than not that our Storm would receive the Sight as well. She is taking it better than you. Why don’t you go put on some tea and I will figure out what she saw?”

Mother had nodded obligingly before disappearing into the kitchen. Aunt Trin had turned to her, those lovely emerald eyes flashing with excitement, “She did not take that well did she, luv?”

Storm suppressed an eye roll and forced herself to shake her head instead. As always with her aunt, the words flowed easily. Without emotion she relayed what had played out in the vision and Aunt Trin listened in earnest. She reclined back against the arm of the sofa and folded her hands together, the enormous jeweled rings clicking like castanets. Aunt Trin and her mother looked so much alike, from their creamy, clear complexions to their wide emerald eyes, but Storm marveled at how opposite their personalities ended up. Storm sighed as her mother sobbed loudly in the kitchen - very loudly since the dining room and a hallway stood between them.

Aunt Trin rolled her eyes, “I will take care of her. Don’t fret about your mother, luv. Tomorrow morning I will call Sami’s mother and give her a heads up. I believe you have done your friend a service. Why don’t you get ready for bed, huh?” She passed her mother on the way out of the parlor and heard Aunt Trin begin recanting the vision. Her mother cried harder. Storm knew that Aunt Trin would be holding her, stroking her hair in that same soothing way. She climbed the stairs to her room and readied for bed wondering what life had in store for her now that her mind had opened to the Sight.

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Storm sighed and brushed the memory away. Looking around, she realized everyone had left. Storm was the last one standing – in more ways than one. Aunt Trin was gone. Aunt Trin who taught Storm about the visions, how to track and interpret them, and most importantly how to recover from the pain of one. Aunt Trin who’d taught her the craft and raised Storm after her mother gave up on life. Aunt Trin who was being lowered into the ground, the grinding of gears echoing through the graveyard. The stargazer lilies on the top of her coffin were wilting in the heat. Sweat dripped off Storm’s brow. She wondered briefly if the sheen gave the appearance of tears. Trin would have liked that. The tears simply would not come, they never had. Most people thought her heartless. She didn’t understand it, couldn’t change it, wasn’t even sure if she wanted to. Aunt Trin had told her time and again that there was a reason for her emotional paralysis. Storm just wished she could summon a few tears for the only person she’d ever cared about.

Two caretakers emerged from a truck with shovels and began filling the grave; burly men with sweat stains under their arms that spread in all directions across the gray polyblend jumpsuits. The larger man even had sweat lines down his back. Storm refrained from sneering as she approached them, her heels sinking into the soft soil with each step.

“Could I have another moment, please?” She loosed the belt of her jacket revealing the navy sheath dress beneath. As expected the caretakers’ eyes bulged slightly at her defined curves and nodded in that stunned manner Storm had become accustomed to long ago. Once they were out of sight, she knelt beside the grave and took a handful of dirt from the pile. With the other hand Storm reached into the pocket of her jacket and withdrew a vial. She cast them both into the grave, stood up, brushed herself off, and nodded toward the caretakers to proceed. Storm felt their eyes on her as she walked away and pulled her jacket tightly around her, in spite of the sweltering heat.

In the driver’s seat of her VW Beetle, Storm exhaled. It was done. Everything she’d been asked to do. She was free. Sort of. The visions would still plague her. Unless she could break the curse. Storm started her car and flicked the radio on, this one’s for you Aunt Trin, as Jim Morrison blew through the speakers with her namesake song.