Prologue

Chapter Description: Prologue of the entire novel, which is still being written. Involves a dream sequence from the point of view of the lead male character, Landon Matthews.

 

              It was just past dusk outside, and the city had never felt so alive. The carnival grounds were soft with spilled sodas and melted snow cones, but it didn’t seem to matter as the muddy water sloshed over the tops of his new pair of running shoes. In fact, he had been so excited to venture out of the house that he really hadn’t paid attention when he grabbed his shining white shoes, one of the few items he splurged on himself with, instead of his worn and old ones that were painted with stains and sculpted with dirt that wouldn’t, for some reason, come off. Her feet were dry, and he was well aware that such a fact was much more important than his shoes. She was on his shoulders, her tiny little palms pressed against the top of his head for all the support in the world. Even though the sun wasn’t out anymore, neither one of them needed a jacket because it was a comfortable July night, and so they did both sport jeans and tee-shirts. His was a plain grey one that he had found lying on his bed, left out graciously by his wife. He remembered stopping by his bed and seeing his grey shirt lay out on the sea of the blue quilt and smiling to himself, wondering what he would do without her. She always did these small little tasks – things most people took for granted – throughout his day. As he weaved around the carnival grounds, he made a mental note to buy her flowers tomorrow on the way back from the store.

He could feel the movement of the carnival rides vibrate through the ground and into the grass, send a hum of energy into him that was only conquered by the love he felt for his wife and daughter. He wished, desperately, that she could have come with them, but work demanded her attention tonight. Ergo, it was time for some father-daughter bonding. The lights were a myriad of colors, some colors that he had never seen before. They buzzed and sparkled in such a way that he suddenly understood how a moth might feel as it becomes disorientated by the bright shining beams. He felt transfixed in the crowd as his body felt lost but his mind felt so aware at the same time.

            “Daddy! There!” Even though her little hands were far above his eye-line, he knew exactly where she was pointing. His eyes followed past the swells of people and peered through the scattered crowd and at the Carousel. For some unknown reason, he had to fight some perverted wave of panic that rose in his chest at first glance, but he managed to conquer it quickly. His feet carried him, without permission, to the rotating horse race, and he reached up behind his neck. Something wasn’t right – in his hands she didn’t feel as warm as she should. Her body felt stiff…she felt cold.

            “Honey, are you feeling all right?” He placed her in front of him, and knelt down to talk to her as any good father would do.

            “Yes daddy. Can I go on the horsey? Can I? Please?” He reassured himself, more than her, with a smile and dismissed his feeling as parental paranoia. He ruffled her hair affectionately, and glanced up at the large contraption of spinning and bouncing painted equines and decided that this is what they were here for.

            “All right. Do you want me to ride too?” While he wanted the best for his daughter, including independence and a sense of self-determination, he also ached for her to say yes. Just one more time – let him still be her knight in shining armor.

            “Daddy, I will be okay. But help me pick out my horse.” He felt her ice-cold hand grab his, and a shiver resonated through his spine and into his gut. He made a promise to his parenting skills that he’d take her home after this last ride, take her temperature, and tuck her into bed. He didn’t want to see her ill, but she was acting fine and he figured she could survive one more ride. He watched as she dragged him along ninety degrees one way, then back-track back one hundred eighty degrees. Other children began piling on, grabbing the most decorated, beautiful horses that were tilted to show an elegant rearing posture fit for any little king or queen. He began to worry that the horses would all be gone, and they’d have to wait another couple of minutes before trying again. Then, like music to all parents’ ears, she chose.

            “This one!” He could feel her smiling face pointed towards the horse, then at him, than back at the horse. It was far from splendorous or beautiful, and his innards recoiled at the sight of it. The original color, he believed, was brown – although now it was this faded dull beige. It looked nothing like any of the other horses, as all three hooves were on the ground. One hoof was broken clear off, leaving an oddly shaped amputee stump that had been sanded down by some minimum-wage carnival worker. The steed’s mane was rough to the touch and white – not because it was painted, but because the paint had worn off. The tip of its tail had been snapped off as well, and hadn’t been sanded down nearly as well as the missing front right hoof. There was no soft leather reins like there were for the other horses, and instead of its head held high by a strong arrogant neck, it almost appeared as though the head was drooping more by each second. The eyes scared him the most. While other children had horses with smiling eyes, or even wild eyes, of blues, purples, greens, and melted chocolate browns, this horse’s eyes were black – absent of any emotion or life.

            “Honey, it’s broken. Let’s pick a different one – something prettier.” He turned, wanting to escape the nausea he felt just by looking at the thing, and for once felt his daughter’s hand refuse to follow him.

            “Even the broken ones need love.” The words stopped him, and before he could consciously act, he assisted her onto the rickety painted saddle that was peeling and stepped off the carousel, losing focus on what he was doing. He was suddenly back down with the crowds of parents – parents who were smiling and waving at their children, children who had picked horses they were proud of. No child appeared to have a bigger, beaming smile though than his – as she hugged the dingy neck of the malnourished ceramic horse like it was the only thing holding her to this earth.

            The ride started, and he found himself smiling as he watched her hold tight to the horse that she had chosen for herself. He watched her disappear around the edge of the circle, and moved his eyes to the other side, waiting for her to re-appear like some magic trick. The sea of stallions and mares returned, and he saw the children wave and laugh as they saw their parents again – playing a massive carnival-inspired game of peek-a-boo. Then the children disappeared, one by one, again. He realized he must have missed her, and moved towards the front of the crowd of parents so he can be a smiling, waving parent too. The kids re-appeared, and he trained his eyes on where that broken old horse had been. It had been sandwiched between a black rearing horse with a purple saddle and a golden prancing one adorned with a jade green blanket. He saw the black horse, an empty space, and then the gold horse.

            Something wasn’t right. Were their two black and gold horse combinations? Had the rusted bolts on that broken horse given away and was she underneath them, possibly injured or hurt? He didn’t realize he was yelling, but apparently he was. He was suddenly on the Carousel platform, and he became aware that it was slowing down and people began grabbing their children – afraid of the madman who jumped on the moving Carousel screaming for his daughter. He walked around in two brisk circles, searching frantically for her. There was no broken horse to be seen – no nut or bolt or square inch of rust to even suggest it had been there.

            “Sir? Sir? Can we help you with something?” He shook his head and kept searching, now scanning the crowds for a lost little girl. He only looked at the owner of the voice when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. “Sir?!”

            He turned and looked, surprised to see two uniformed cops standing on the Carousel beside him. It shouldn’t have surprised him – he had seen them at the entrance when he walked in. He even pointed them out to his daughter, telling her how she could always trust a police officer, but to make sure to look at their badges. And, that if they didn’t have a badge, to run screaming. The man who ran the ride stood off to the left, and some man in a suit, presumably the manager, stood slightly in front of him. He mumbled something and continued searching the crowds.

            “What was that Sir?”

            “My daughter! My daughter is missing! I put her on this ride, and now she’s gone!” He had no intention of screaming, but here he was, usually a man who prided himself on his calm and collectedness – no, it was his wife who was the passionate one. And here he was, screaming at New York’s finest.

            “All right, Sir, are you sure she didn’t just get off on her own? How old is she?” The cop took out a small notebook and a pencil that appeared out of nowhere from behind his ear. The cop licked the graphite tip, a bizarre move that he had never witnessed someone doing before, and poised himself to scribble down important facts. He opened his mouth to speak, but realized he wasn’t sure what to say. He was a good father; he should know how old his daughter was. They had just celebrated a birthday, hadn’t they? What did it say on the cake again? He tried to focus, but he heard the non-writing cop lean in and tell the other cop “I think the guy’s in shock.”

            “Sir? What about your daughter’s name? Can you give me her name?” He tried all his might to think, to conjure up a name that sounded right. How many times had he talked to her? Called her inside for dinner? Gave her a kiss goodnight? Something wasn’t right – the horse, the broken horse, was missing too.

            “The horse…it’s gone.” It’s all he could say, all he could do to explain. The cops looked at him puzzled, and the one with the pencil looked to the operator of the ride.

            “Did you notice if you’re missing any of the Carousel horses?” The operator furrowed his brow, and just stared at him. He pointed, to the exact spot where he had placed – no trusted – his daughter. It was all he could do to look at the cop, feeling the air leaking out of him and all sense of reality.

            “There...it was there.” He felt himself pointing to the spot, pointing like she had from his shoulders moments ago.

            “What was there?” The cop with the pencil took a step forward, clearly not understanding. These stupid, stupid people!

            “The broken horse. Her. My daughter.” He saw the cop put the pencil back, and it disappeared the same way it had appeared, and then the pad of paper was gone too. The cop walked up behind him.
            “Sir? I’m just going to check and see if you have I.D. on you, all right? See if we can get a name for your little girl, okay? I promise we’ll find her.” He felt the cop reach into his back pocket, pull out his wallet, read the name “Landon Matthews” to his partner, and then hand the license to his partner as well. The partner scurried off with it, probably to steal his identity. He knew he should have checked their badges.

            “Sir, I need you to focus. I need your daughter’s name, description, age…something. Can you tell me something about your daughter? What about her mother?” The cop kept talking, but at the mention of his wife, he felt himself drain into a puddle and disappear. He lost her, he lost their daughter. She was going to hate him, resent him, leave him, and he’d never find a grey shirt waiting on his bed for him again. He couldn’t imagine a world without grey shirts on blue quilts. He felt bile soar into his throat, and he vaguely could sense that the license-stealing cop had returned.

            “Hey, we have a problem…” He was half-aware that the cops were talking to each other, and didn’t intend for him to hear their conversation whatsoever.

            “What is it? Did someone see something?” He could sense the cop’s, the one who formerly had the pencil, discomfort. His promotion would be history if let a little girl get stolen.

            “No, that’s the problem. I checked out the information on this guy. There’s no record of him having a daughter. Actually, there’s no record of him having a kid at all for that matter.”

            “Ever?”

            “Ever.”

            “Are you sure it isn’t a computer glitch? Are you sure it is the right Landon Matthews?”

            “I double and then triple checked. No sign of a wife, either. What are we going to do?”

            “S**t. I didn’t want to deal with this s**t tonight. Call the closest shrink; see about getting an evaluation done at the nearest hospital.”

            This wasn’t right. None of it was. He had just been holding his little girl’s hand, and now she was gone. He couldn’t even remember her name…but that didn’t mean she didn’t exist. He knew she existed. His wife too. He could remember her, remember yelling at her and making love to her. He looked down at his clothes. If she didn’t exist how did he get this red shirt on?

            Wait, no, that isn’t right. Red shirt? It was grey. He looked at it closer. It was grey, but there was something on it, something making it the color red. He pulled it off, and stared at it, and saw little handprints smeared in the red damp intruder on his grey shirt. He heard the cops behind him, felt their eyes on his shirt.

            “Sir? Are you injured? Sir, where did you put her?”

            He had no idea what they were talking about, but just stared at the red little handprints. He looked at it until he felt like his brain would explode, and felt his stomach churn. He knew what this red stuff was, it had a name.

            “Sir? Landon Matthews!” His head snapped up at the officer, and he realized it was raining. Heavy rain, painful rain. He stared at the cop without really seeing him, and for the first time heard his words. “Landon Matthews, did you kill your daughter?”

            And then he looked down at the shirt, and realized what the name of that red stuff was that was making his grey shirt look so dirty. Blood.

Author's Note

what do you think of the scenery? what kind of sense do you have for the main character? I might set up a new prologue and this might become the first chapter.