Salamander

Chapter Ten: Unwelcome Guests

Chapter Ten

I was sleeping dreamlessly in a deep, black pit before I woke up in an unfamiliar bed. Sunlight slanted in through an open, arched window and the sound of seagulls calling out for food penetrated my eardrums. My muscles hurt, much more than I had ever experienced, even after one of my father’s beatings.

            The memories of the previous night came back in a rushing wave: The knife, the blood, my father’s glazed eyes, my mother’s body . . . .

            I sat up and began to gasp. The fast-approaching flashbacks were too overwhelming. An unbearable throbbing pounded throughout my brain, and I clutched my head as the black gauze began to overcome my vision. After a couple of seconds, the headache began to recede, and I was finally able to see clearly again.

            I pulled my shirt over my head, realizing that the pain in my torso had returned. Bale’s remedy had worn off, so I suspected it had been at least twelve hours since he had applied it just before the festival. I lifted the edge of my tightly-wrapped gauze and saw that the bruises on my chest had grown in size, dotting my skin like the spots on one of those rare breeds of birds our school textbooks liked to call: “Dalmabirds”.

            I glanced around the bright, wooden room and saw that the roof, painted a brilliant, light purple, slanted upwards until it met a point. The bed I was in was enormous; at least four times the size of my bed. My old bed, assuming that I would never return to my house ever again. Behind me was a painting of the gate that sat at the far end of town, made with grey stones and gold statues of birds overlooking the scene below them from the top. After assessing the area around me, I realized that I was in Mr. and Mrs. Falker’s room. Why had they put me in here and not in the couch in the living room? Weren’t they afraid of me? Weren’t they afraid of having a killer in their home?

            My stomach instantly began to hurt the moment the word “killer” passed through my head. That was what I was, wasn’t I? A killer – no longer Alan, the simple, hospitable boy who lived on the mountain. I was now Alan, the murderer.

            As if on cue, a familiar voice not too far to my right said softly, “Alan.”

            When I turned my head I saw Mrs. Falker standing in the doorway, giving me a worried smile.

            “Mrs. Falker,” I tried to say, but my voice was raspier than it was the night before. After all that moaning and screaming, it wasn’t a surprise that I had lost my voice. I coughed as if it would actually make a difference. “You let me stay in your home?” I wiggled my ankles below the covers to make sure that they hadn’t shackled them to the bed posts, but they were free of restrictions, other than the aching muscles in my legs. “Why would you do that . . . ?”

            She knelt down beside my bed and rested a hand against my own. “Because you’re family.”

            I shook my head. “No, I’m a killer.”

            She reared back a bit, but kept her eyes level with mine. Her voice was now fierce and dark. “Listen to me, Alan.” Her hold on my hand suddenly became firm and tight. “You are not a killer, you understand me?”

            “But I –”

            “I don’t care what the bloody hell happened last night.”

            My mouth dropped open, surprised and a bit taken aback. I had never heard Mrs. Falker curse before, so I knew that she was trying to emphasize her stance on the situation. However touching that was, I knew that it didn’t make a difference. I was still a killer, not matter what she said. “I took the knife and –”