from the novel
AWAKENING
by Michel Sauret
Chapter 1
My eyes burst open like windows desperately trying to draw in fresh air. I wake up gasping, a sound resembling a choked off scream. My lungs heave, sucking thinly and wheezing. Suddenly, all at once, in a rush of a condensed breath, my chest expands to the farthest stretch of my skin. A moment ago I felt like I was suffocating, or worse yet drowning on internal liquids, my lungs filled to the brim in fluid. Now all I can manage is a ration of slow and deep breaths.
Long, dripping streams of sweat run from my face, reaching down the entire length of my body. My shaggy hair clings to my forehead like a wet mop. I wipe my face with my long sweatshirt sleeve, but even my clothes are drenched.
It takes me a moment to realize that I’m lying on a softly carpeted ground. I look around and notice that I’m occupying the center stage in front of the altar inside of St. Regis Church. What seem like hundreds of faces look back at me with curious expressions, tainted by shock. An old man with a cane is shaking terribly, his cane rattling a droned vibration on the floor. He swallows hard. A lady no younger than him presses her hand on his shoulder, and he manages to hold the cane still. The church falls to silence.
A swarming headache screams from within my skull. It drills inside of my head, filling my blurring vision with streaks of light. My vision stammers, and I’m about to collapse back down to the ground, when suddenly my whole body convulses in a twitch. The crowd of people jumps at the motion, startled by it. I blink once, then again, squeezing my face tightly each time. A second passes and a blur warps my vision for an instant, then it goes back to normal.
My heart pounds at my chest from within as if it were trying to get out. Terror strikes me, accompanied hand-in-hand by confusion.
How did I get up here?
I try to sit up a little, and for a second the headache takes a step up in its blurring effects like a carnival ride spinning faster and faster.
All the while my breaths become only heavier and deeper. With each breath, my chest expands and contracts in heavy pumps. I cough up a nasty burst of air, and swirls of saliva escape along with it.
The entire front row of people is still, and I assume the same follows with the rows behind. They all watch me intently with open eyes and dropped jaws. There isn’t a single stir of movement anywhere. Hundreds of eyes just stare at me as if they were watching some horrible disaster. A few people are holding one another, and small children embrace their mothers as tightly as they can. Their faces are mixed up. Some are blank, while others can’t seem to contain their terror.
A small child with short curly hair begins to cry, cutting away from the silence. His mother holds him tighter, trying to shush him. It’s a soothing hush that leaves her lips, powerful even within its own quivering fright.
Over my right shoulder is the priest, wearing a colorful tunic and clutching a heavy Bible to his chest. His expression is no different from the rest. As I turn to get a better look at him, he takes a frightened step backwards, almost tripping over the gown- or whatever- that drapes down to his feet. His round eyeglasses are poised on his nose at a crooked angle. His lips and jaw tremble. This makes his glasses twitch a little on his nose.
What just happened? Why am I the center of their complete, undivided attention?
Inside of my body, my stomach and intestines churn as if trying to disentangle themselves from one another. They’re twisted in a knot that even a boy-scout would have trouble meddling with.
Through all this, I haven’t moved much more than my waist. Here and now, all I want is to walk back to my seat (or better yet, run out), but I just can’t bring myself to stand to my feet.
Now think. Since you can’t move, at least try to think. Start with what you know.
Today is Sunday. I know that much just by looking around. Among the crowd, I spot out my Grandma who I came with today, just like all the past Sundays. She, like the rest, stares at me in a motionless gaze.
Think. Think!
What the hell’s going on?
Start with today. Start with this morning. And suddenly I remember- not everything- but enough. My grandma and I were walking to the entrance of this church from the parking lot. She wore her mimic fur coat, and fake leather gloves. Cruelty to animals is a cruelty to ourselves, she’s always said. Her heels-- one nearly falling apart-- clicked and clacked on the stern, cold ground. On her face she didn’t wear much make up. Just a little blush toned her pale white skin with a little color. Her narrow eyes were warm in themselves, seeming to hold smiles of their own. Her real name is Katherine Elisa Christ- by marriage- but I’ve always called her Gammy from ever since I was little.
We’re Catholic, if that makes any difference. Well, let’s be honest. She’s Catholic, but to say that the same was true for me would be a bit of a stretch. To me, religion makes no more sense than an old lady with a turban hat telling you who you will be just by looking at a handful of cards.
Every bitter Sunday, Gammy drags me to church. She knows I don’t share her same beliefs, and I know that no matter what I do or say, every Sunday I still end up here regardless. It’s a trade in a way. She takes care of me, and in return I accompany her here once a week.
As we walked with quick steps, our breaths condensed into warm clouds. Winter still lingers outside. It doesn’t care that we’re now in April, and that it should’ve been replaced by spring by now. Clumps of dirty snow still grip the ground outside here and there, mocking us with their ugly presence.
As always, this morning we were late. I held the door open for Gammy to get her inside quicker.
“Thank you, Jeremy. You’re such a gentleman,” she’d said as she gently plucked the gloves off her hands, finger by finger.
We walked inside the church, scrubbing our dirty feet on the mat, and shook off the last shreds of cold that clung to our clothes. Walking up the center isle in search of a seat for two, I could sense their eyes watching us. Faces and necks turned to follow our steps. I heard whispers, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on ends. I shot a gleaming stare over my shoulder, where suddenly a conversation stopped. The priest, who had already begun the service, offered a meek smile at us. He waited for us to find our seats, and then he went on. He and Gammy exchanged a glance; he nodded his head, and then began to chant a few words.
He spoke a few phrases, and the crowd responded.
The good thing about coming here late is the reward of a shorter mass.
Then the priest preached ‘the word of the Lord’ as he calls it, and I leaned back in my seat. I looked around, watching this lost audience speak in unison.
“The Gospel according to...”
-whoever. I didn’t care. Really I wasn’t even paying attention. Instead my mind began its wandering, searching for something better to entertain my thoughts.
In the next isle over to my left I saw a smoking-gorgeous brunette with her legs crossed. Her skin was somewhat pale, but the smooth surface of it allowed for streaks of light to be reflected off them. I followed the trace of light from her toes up to her thighs. Covering her thighs, she wore a tight miniskirt that was small enough to be stuffed in one’s mouth, which could be quite handy if you were in the process of role-playing. She had taken off her coat and set it down to her side, revealing a skimpy, white tank top that showed off a mouthful of cleavage and a pair of visible, piercing nipples.
How girls can pull off wearing so little clothes when it’s barely thirty degrees outside, I’ll never understand. But they seem to know exactly what they’re doing. Especially Catholic girls. They have a way of pulling just the right strings, and flicking on all the obvious switches.
She looked over at me and gave me a quick smile. Her bleach white teeth gleamed between her lips as if she knew what I was thinking. I winked at her, and she looked away with an even bigger smile. She pinched on the edges of her skirt and pulled it down a little.
Tease.
She reminded me of a girl I met Friday night at my house during a party I threw. Her name was Trisha, or Terry... I forget. Her name isn’t important. But I do remember every other detail of her naked body, grinding and pumping against my own.
Anyway, Trisha or Terry... No wait, Tara- that’s what it was. How could I forget? I must have screamed her name at least a dozen times when we were together. Funny thing is that she screamed her own name too.
She was a fun one.
So what if she was a little drunk and I took advantage of her? Everybody does it. And it’s not like she didn’t enjoy it. She moaned so loud that my friends could hear her over the music. Some could even hear us from outside. Good thing Gammy wasn’t home. After we were done she ran to the bathroom and threw up chunks of liquor mixed in with undigested foods. The color was peachy. The smell, on the other hand, was not. Once she was finished with her retching noises I went to the toilet and flushed the condom we had used. She was sprawled with her arms over the edge of the bathtub. She wasn’t wearing anything but her red panties. No thong unfortunately. Drops of water fell from the showerhead and plopped on the back of her head. I woke her up, nudging her shoulders, told her to brush her teeth, and had her go down on me for seconds.
It was a good night.
I think I still have her number somewhere, maybe in one of my drawers. Who knows- who cares. Not like I’m going to call her. She was a spur of the moment type of thing. There was no passion or ‘love’ in it. I just wanted to have fun, and she seemed more than willing to help out. Really, Tara was no more than a rebound girl.
Just two days earlier my ex, Megan Scott, had dumped me. “We should see other people,” or some other shit along that line, she had said. She was always looking for other people, even when we were together.
“So we’re through?” I had asked her, picking at something under my fingernails.
“You can still call me,” was her answer.
“Yeah, I probably won’t.”
Then Friday night, there she was at my house with all her friends, holding one of the many beers that she would down that night. I saw her looking at me, so I looked away. I looked for a good score, a pretty lady, and a little fun for the night. After all, it had been her idea to look elsewhere.
I knew how Megan would react if she saw me hitting on Tara. I knew exactly the face she would make. Pinched lips and slivered eyes. An obvious expression of jealousy. I didn’t even have to look back to see that I was right. I flirted with Tara, offered her a drink, and minutes later we were up in my room.
Between Megan and me, this was our fourth break up. Honestly, I don’t want to deal with her anymore. Hopefully by hearing me scream Tara’s name, she would get the message straight and clear. In the end, I knew I was doing nothing more than playing the game according to her rules.
Moments later, after my mind had finally finished with its wandering, the preacher spoke up. “Let us rise and join in hymn,” he said while raising his hands, calling us to stand. Quite oppositely I kicked back and relaxed. I made myself comfortable in my bench and put my elbows out to my sides. After all this is the “house of God” and I’m his invited guest. Gammy gave me a stern look, but I paid no attention to it. Slowly my neck started to tilt back, and without knowing it, I had fallen asleep.
And that’s all I can remember. Having thought back to all that hasn’t cleared anything up. I’m just as confused as before, and now angry because of it. My face flushes with heat. Again, I look at the crowd dumfounded, hoping to draw in any clue that they’re willing to give me.
None.
Everyone is still the same immobilized statue they were before.
Struggling, I stand up, and turn to the priest. He takes another frightened step backwards, and holds on to his huge Bible even tighter. I gulp a thick chug of saliva, which feels thick and curdy in my throat. The priest’s jaw stammers, emitting cut off sounds that aren’t even half words. Wearily, in a soft voice I ask, “What’s going on?” My voice sounds childish and slightly immature. It sounds so innocent and scared.
A silent moment passes and I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs. Finally, he works up the courage to speak and, in a soft enchanted voice, he whispers, “You...You flew.”
