"You haven't been yourself lately," my father observed, finally, from behind his Sunday newspaper. "You haven't seen Mace in almost a whole day."

I sighed a little too loud from below the kitchen counter. I nearly dropped the Colorado novelty coffee mug that my father always drank from in the mornings that was halfway full of cold coffee. I set it shakily down on the floor and stood up from my squat beside the dishwasher.

"Are you trying to ask me what's wrong?" I said, pouring the leftover coffee down the sink drain. "Did you not drink enough coffee to function this morning, or what?"

He set down the sports section in his lap. "You should do things to forget. Play with your friends, or something."

I laughed awkwardly. "First of all, if I have to remind you, I'm fourteen not four. I don't 'play', I hang."

"Well, then, 'hang' with some friends. You need some time off; I'm worried about you, honey." I knew we were about to get serious when he turned down the volume for the news at noon. "You surely have more friends than just Mace, right?"

I scrubbed the coffee mug with a cloth before setting it in the dishwasher with a clatter. "Not any ones I'm close to. Well, besides Heidi Caruthers, but let's all face it: she's a little… temperamental."

I would've sworn I saw my father shudder from behind the Funnies. "She's a nice girl when you don't push her buttons."

"Dad, if you touch her, actually anything related to her, that's basically pushing her buttons in her perspective. I'm not going in public with her," I said grimly, picking up a plate from last night's microwave dinner.

I saw him bite his lip when he set down the newspaper again. "Okay, hon. But, for my sake and yours both, just spend more time with Mace. I see your face when you're with him. You two used to be joined at the hip before you hit the double digit years. Your friendship is special, and you won't realize that until it's gone."

I made a face behind the cabinet door that I was opening to find more dish soap. "I know, Dad. I'm just having a hard time right now and a girl does enjoy alone time, especially an emotionally challenged one."

He turned up the volume again, and I guess that meant he surrendered.

I finished up a cereal bowl from maybe yesterday morning and turned on the dishwasher. Once it was churning and bubbling, I circled the counter and picked up the new art pad my father had bought me. The other one was ruined in the rain the day before. I gratefully wrapped my arm around it and perched the side of it against my hip.

"After you get done, sweetie, would you help me with get rid of all the weeds in the orchard? The plants are out of control," my father said without looking away from the TV screen.

"Fine," I said, almost a grumble. "Just maybe an hour to myself, okay?"

"Sure, just don't loose track of time. You have a habit of that."

I rolled my eyes, grabbed a pencil and ruler before heading before the door. I clattered down the back porch steps, shutting the door behind me.

The Sunday afternoon was a mockingly beautiful day, sun shining through scattered cumulus clouds and seeping through the trees of the orchard, creating tawny patches on the emerald green grass. Birds tweeted their regular songs and a gentle and warm wind rustled the leaves of the olive trees that sat in rows down the rolling hills. Sun was warm and comforting against my skin that was aglow in the light as I headed my way down to the same little bench swing.

The walk wore me out, so I plopped down on the rotted wooden bench with no trouble. It creaked and moaned as I settled myself into the rotting planks, adjusted my position a couple times before I found a comfortable one and set the art portfolio onto my lap. I made sure my pencil was perfectly sharpened to a pointed tip before I positioned it in my right hand.

I watched it shake, despite the perfect weather, in dismay as it hovered over the fresh art pad. I had never had artist's block before, I usually just drew what I felt. I guess that mostly summed up exactly what was keeping my artistic abilities on hold: my mind was far from drawing then.

What could I draw to keep my mind off of all of the stress? Probably not anything mom-related, such as cooking utensils or plants, or people for that matter, so barely any options remained. I guessed I would draw the scenery displayed in front of me: a beautiful daylit sky lined with clouds as puffy and full and white as freshly picked cotton that domed over a cheery atmosphere of fresh air filling the orchard with a homely appeal. It would be the easiest and most practical thing to sketch after all, so I tightened my grip on the number two pencil and slowly lowered it down onto the paper.

As soon as the lead hit the page, my wrist began moving. First, I would start to outline the horizon with the tops of the distant trees of the forest and leave the details for last. I drew the beginning of the forest, the trees and plants surrounding them. I sketched the hills and swiftly outlined the olive trees until they were out of sight. Soon, I had the rough base of an expected landscaping.

I looked up from the page at the horizon, looking for details to add into the trees, squinting against the sun that was now barely setting off to my left. I shaded my eyes with my fingers that fanned over my forehead, blocking the sun's rays from my sight. I couldn't see the distant details very clearly, so I just improvised. That's what my mother had taught me: when things aren't as clear as you need them to be, just make them clear. What she meant was to be imaginative, have common sense all at the same time. It was an important lesson, especially with my wandering mind.

There was that feeling again: something inside you fading, a piece somehow getting lost from your heart like when you hear something you don't want to hear. I felt my back slouch in unison to my heart dropping and the pencil roll halfway out of my hand.

When I looked up from my shoes, though, this time I wasn't aiming to focus on the distant horizon of foliage. It was because my eyes were fogging, the color fading from my sight, and a new image appearing. The sensation I always get before I receive a new sight.

I blinked, and I arrived in a completely new place. This place was more familiar than the rest, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It was a misty lake glistening and as still as a sheet of glass that was ringed with trees that were in full bloom, like it was summertime. The sky looked like it did that day, crystal clear but dotted with clouds.

At first, nothing was happening out of the ordinary. Nature was doing its thing, being nature. The wind was rustling the leaves on the trees, but of course, I didn't hear it. My dreams were still as though set on mute.

Something happened, and panic rose through me. In the distance, a white figure much too tall and bleary to be the girl. It was much blurrier when far away, and I had trouble deciphering exactly what or who this was. It looked like a pure white blob that seemed to float, like a phantom, a ghost. I could feel my heart pound in my chest as I tried my best to remind myself every second that whatever it was, it couldn't hurt me. I wasn't actually there, at least as I thought.

The burry phantom came into more of a view, it came closer. But that didn't help me configure what it actually was. It didn't exactly look frantic, though, either. It calmly shuffled by the lake and disappeared through the trees with one final glint of something that looked like came from the middle of its right side; like it had metal on it that was reflecting sunlight.

I jolted awake, shaking in fear. This was the creepiest daydream yet. What could this mean? Why wasn't it the same as the others? What was that creature? When will I come to my senses? Questions all flooded my head, which was cluttered and fogged with mystery as I gathered my things and headed back.

On the way, I took the portfolio and opened to the first page to my landscape. Something wasn't right, though. It was covered in smaller drawings, so many I couldn't count or make out a few. I squinted at a scribble of lines and came to the conclusion that I must have drawn them while I was dreaming. Mostly because I had drawn something I wouldn't have without the help of my visions- a falcon-like creature with stretching wings, its feathers coiled around something. I had to blink a few times to make sure I wasn't imagining what I saw. What the bird was gripping in its feathery wings was a key.

I caught my breath. What am I doing? I asked myself. It's just a key.

It was like an ominous omen, a fortune of terrible contents. I shut my eyes tightly before slamming the art book shut. Only then did I feel it safe to open my eyes again and shuffle to the storehouse where I would meet my father and hopefully forget, even though I knew I wouldn't.

* * *

After the weeds and stray plants were long gone, I was glad to head back into the house. Grabbing a cold bottle of water from the freezer and pressing it to my forehead, I made my way down the hall and turned a left corner. I shoved the bottle in my sweatshirt and climbed up the ladder that led to a small loft I spent most of my time in. It was originally supposed to be a study for my father, but he gave it to me for an art, and sometimes library, room.

I opened the hatch hesitantly. A burst of musty air escaped through the square shaped opening in the floor and I coughed the dust from my lungs. Once I got used to the air inside the tiny loft, I continued climbing to the top. I arose from the hatch, dropping the little door down and locked it behind me. I surveyed my old safe haven critically.

Grime on the window shaded most of the sunlight from entering the room, but the rays that did revealed dust particulates swimming about the air. I choked another cough before walking forward. The air in the loft was heavier, denser, probably due to the dirt that had built up from being untouched for almost two months. I had never felt compelled to come up there during the summer, the biggest reason being it was steaming hot in the tiny, boxlike room.

I searched the quiet room for a fan that I might've left up here much earlier. I spotted it just over the rim of a worn cardboard box. I crept over to it, pushing away used and empty canvases alike, open paint tubes that were most likely dried out and crusty. I scooted gingerly between a bucket of old, dirty water from water painting and the wall that was streaked with grime and spider webs.

I reached the box containing the large fan and gently bent down to lift it out. I was careful not to exactly wrap my arms around it so my shirt would stay clean of dust while I brought it over to the corner of the room. I plugged in the long white cord into the outlet in the side of the wall. I braced myself for a shower of grime as I turned the fan on low.

Particles flew and hovered in the air before falling to the floor, raining down until most of the mess on the fan was completely gone. I turned it finally on high and began to work on the clean up.

I paused to flip open my cell phone. Printed in white letters on the main screen were the numbers four, two, and one. I had maybe three hours before dinnertime to clean up the room and possibly paint a little, or read from a book I never finished and had forgotten about that lay in a beanbag chair in the near center of the loft.

I heaved a long, gusty sigh before snapping the phone shut and stuffing it back in my jean pocket. I rested my hands on my hips, staring with glazed over eyes at the mess which would soon be gone- if I only knew where to start in the first place.

I clapped my hands and stepped a measly foot forward. I rested my hand on the top of a canvas, and with the other hand I ripped the dusty page from it with a tear. My eyes seemed to cross and waver, a memories flashing across my mind like lightning. I saw the letter I wrote to my mother, my name torn off the corner.

I shook my head, blinking furiously. I swallowed and steadied myself before crumbling the piece of paper and tossing it into a half-full trashcan in the corner. Of course that was nothing. It was normal to be reminded of things you weren't proud of at the slightest similarity of something that was occurring in the present time. It really was likely I would be reminded of that anyways. Right?

I coughed again, into my sleeve, before brushing the gathered grime off of my palms and moving the canvas aside only to reveal another. At least this one wasn't as dirty, I thought, but it was used and teaming with colors that had been painted on months before. It was smeared a little in the bottom corner, like someone had touched it. I smiled, as I recalled Mace, you forgot the canvas was wet and brushed up against it with his side. He still had that green t-shirt with a rainbow of colors splashed across the side, and he never said he even thought about washing it off.

I brushed aside a layer of dust that had settled on the top sheet of the canvas. It fluttered to the floor and changed the color of the carpet from cream to light brown. I would most definitely run a vacuum through here, after I figured out how to get one up into the loft. I should ask dad, I thought, after I'm done with the rest of the clean up.

I had much more to do, and it was already four thirty.

I grabbed an old towel that was splattered with paint from under a canvas. I wiped it along the window until a fair amount of light poured through it like golden water, shining squares along the carpet. I ran the towel along every single surface that held any sign of being dirty. Soon, the room sparkled with dull light that could barely compare to the room before.

I leaped down from the hatch, ran into the kitchen and swiftly grabbed a broom. I rushed back to the loft, where I ran the bristles of the broom along the walls and all of the spider webs until they were all weaved in the broom and off the room. I threw it down the hatch where it clattered to the carpet.

I picked up the beanbag chair, shook the grime off of it and plopped it back down on the carpet, me with it, the book in my hands. I hugged the book in my arms and looked the room once again, impressed, before returning to my book. I gazed at the cover for a moment. It showed a meadow, covered with a variety of flowers in a rainbow of colors that sprung from the ground around a pathway that a small girl was running along. My eyes moved to the title that was displayed across the cover in elegant cursive font. The title read Realms of Wonder, a book that had caught my eye by its cover alone. Then, of course, the book itself was fantastic. It was the story of a small girl no older than eleven discovering an enchanted realm, consisting of mythological creatures- mostly faeries and elves and nymphs, creatures of nature.

I had left off, according to the bookmark shaped like a posing Persian cat, was chapter twelve, the chapter where she supposedly learns she is part faerie and her parents aren't her real parents at all. I was about to curl up and start to read the rest of the chapter when my name was yelled from downstairs.

"Opal!" My father yelled, his voice echoing throughout the house. "I have to go to the Shays', Paul isn't home and Terry needs help putting together Posy's new bedpost."

"I thought they got it fixed the night after…" I was saying before I realized he probably couldn't hear me. So I yelled, "Can I come?"

There was a moment of silence. "Mace isn't home, but you're welcome to come and keep the girls entertained. It'd be a big help."

I looked longingly at the book I'd never even opened. "That's still fine; I miss Emi and Posy anyways."

"I'll be leaving in a couple minutes, 'kay?" he yelled.

"Sure thing, Dad!"

I got up stiffly from the beanbag chair and threw the hardcover book underhandedly back onto the chair behind me, where it slapped the plastic and sunk into the fabric. I slipped on my shoes without bothering to put them on properly, the heels of the shoes folded down, and sat myself beside the hatch and plopped down onto the carpet below. My feet stung, but I walked it out as I headed my way down the halls and into the bright, luminescent kitchen with florescent lights flickering unsteadily.

I gazed at the lights for a minute before piping up, "We should change those bulbs, you know."

My father looked over his shoulder at me, surprised, and swung his light coat around his shoulder. He turned to me and walked forward. He gazed at me for a second, like I was a completely different person, and then raised his palm to stroke my cheek and tuck a stray curl behind my ear. I smiled sheepishly before waving him away awkwardly.

"We should get going before the girls break another bedpost," I said, reaching for the doorknob. "Break it by doing something much worse than playing circus trapeze on it, this time."

My words seemed to wake him from his trance. "Of course-we don't want that to happen, do we?"

I swung open the door and leaped out into the evening air, which was cold and crisp, completely the opposite of the loft. I jumped down the front porch stairs, landed on bent knees and spotted the car not far from the garage just beside the rocky driveway.

I headed to the car and entered to cabin of the small, bent up farm truck has been centuries old. Dark green and peeling crusty paint in all corners, the truck had some originality about it that I adored. So what it was the only indecent-ish car around a good stretch of city? Memories were packed inside, some I smiled at and some I'd rather not be reminded of.

The car revved to life once my father got inside and turned the key that eventually subsided to a mild purr. The little truck started down the driveway and turned left. Soon, I would be at Mace's house with his two little sisters and I would truly be able to forget every single thing on my mind. The visions, the mom ordeal, the stress of coping with insanity would all be gone once I arrived on his doorstep. Everything, all of it, would soon be fine in the second best place I could ever possibly think of. You know, second to inside my mother's arms. I supposed it was now the first, but, one can imagine. If anyone could, I could, after all.

But, obviously, my imagination was just a little too wild. I was no longer seeing just that stupid girl; I was seeing a ghost, phantom, banshee, all the same. It was all too much for me even then, like a glass overflowing with liquid. Not only that, but as a cup, it seemed like I was shrinking. The overload of water was just two great. Even more on top of that, it was like someone was screaming horribly high pitched, for a long time, and I was just about to shatter unless I already had. Then I could be able to hold nothing but air.

But what do all of these things mean? It wasn't like I was having these strange visions for no reason. It might be because of stress alone, but honestly, I wasn't as stressed as to me conjuring things with my own mind I didn't even understand. None of it made sense, and I was sick of all the confusion. Soon enough, though, I must find answers somehow. I can't just let my own mind devour my sense of direction, or my life for that matter.

Soon, though, I would be as Mace's house. I would be at Mace's house in seconds. It'd all be fine there. It would all be fine. I would forget everything like a past memory. Nothing can affect me, especially when I'm surrounded by my second family.

As if on cue, my father spoke in a cheerful voice, "We're here."

I blinked, craning my neck to make sure he was right. And, as expected, he was. My eyes lay upon Mace's house, which wasn't much more extravagant than mine, except for the fact he had two stories. He wouldn't be able to cope with one, with five people in the family. We slowly pulled into the driveway, and my feet tapped anxiously against the floor mats and my fingers danced across the dashboard. I had really begun to realize how much I longed to visit the two young girls who were almost like blood sisters to me, plus Mace's mom, Terry. Apparently Paul was on a business trip in Maine for a couple weeks, by Mace's words, and they needed help replacing Posy's headboard.

My head jerked backwards as the car parked beside the house. I opened the door and jumped out, to find Emi on the porch clutching her stuffed rabbit waving at me frantically, Terry holding her back. Posy wasn't far behind, scampering happily from the open door that shed light on the porch that was darkened with night.

"Op-Op!" Emi shrieked, and was let go by her mother when I reached the top of the porch steps. Under the circumstances that she wasn't six years old, I would've begged her not to call me Op-Op. She jumped over to me like she had to sue the bathroom and hooked her stubby arms around my calf. Posy, on the other hand, was peeking out from behind Terry's leg shyly. She had always been the touchy type, so I had to kneel down beside her, after releasing from Emi's vice grip, before she walked forward. I hugged her while she wrapped her less-stubby arms around me gingerly. She was just on the peak of turning nine, so she was maybe a foot taller than Emi, but half as social.

Terry waved me inside, Posy and Emi tagging behind. I heard my father and Terry talking about Paul's business trip, but I it wasn't audible as soon as I was tugged around the corner by Emi into the playroom. The playroom was scattered with various Fisher-Price toys and sip-y cups that were empty or half-full.

Posy rushed forward to her Barbie's and began dressing and re-dressing them, while, on the other hand, Emi played with her stuffed animals.

She tottered and teetered over to a container that held a massive amount of assorted stuffed animals: horses, cats, dogs, rabbits, bears, and even a deer or and a lamb or two. She opened the lid, stood on her tiptoes to peek inside. She ended up dumping the whole thing onto the floor.

"Ooooh!" even Posy cooed, tauntingly. "Mommy's gonna get mad."

Emi wasn't fazed, but instead simply picked out all of the horses and brought them over to me. They kept falling from her tiny arms, the five horses, so I helped her bring them over.

"Now this," she pointed to a white horse with brown speckles, "is Cinnamon. She is in love with this horse," she pointed to a black horse with a brown mane, "and his name is Blacky."

I picked up "Blacky" and stroked his soft fur. "Blacky is soft," I observed, setting his beside Cinnamon carefully.

"He's my favorite boy one," she stated, bending down to kiss Blacky's nose. I smiled at how a little girl would take so much time in caring and loving something without life, but make it have life on their own. "Cassidy is my favorite girl."

"And who is Cassidy?" I asked, eyeing the line of stuffed horses.

She began to point to a caramel colored horse, but then hesitated and pressed that unpointed finger to her lower lip in dismay.

"What's wrong?" I asked, fingering her soft brown curls.

"Cassidy isn't here," she said mournfully.

"Hm," I tried to look thoughtful. "Where did you last have her?"

"I don't know," she muttered, checking the row of horses again just to make sure.

Posy trotted over eagerly. "Today before lunch we played with Mace in the lake."

Emi perked up, but then her happiness faded. "But it's dark and scary outside and the lake is far, far away."

She looked at me expectantly, and I was about to make up some excuse why I would refuse when she gazed at me softly with those fudge-colored eyes that glistened with what might have been tears. I sighed, and smiled at her warmly.

"Don't worry, Em," I said, standing up from my spot in the carpet. "I'll rescue Cassidy from the scary night outside, okay? She'll be fine; I can go and get her."

Emi began cheering, her hands waving in the air. "Yay! Yay! Op-Op!"

I turned and walked down the hall to the girls' room. My father was working with the screws on a new white bedpost and Terry was talking to him hurriedly, like she had planned what to say for a long time.

I knocked on the door and Terry stopped abruptly.

"Is something wrong with the girls?" she asked nervously, getting ready to dash into the playroom.

"No, no," I said, waving my hands around. Terry settled back onto Emi's little twin sized bed mattress. "Emi just forgot her toy horse by the lake. I said I would go get it for her, so I won't be able to watch the girls while I go."

Terry shook her head and got up from her seat. "You don't have to do that, dear. It's far too dark and the lake is in the back of the property. Someone should go with you. Besides, it won't rain or anything tonight. We'll get it tomorrow."

I smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry. You know how little girls get- they need things, otherwise she won't get a wink of sleep tonight."

She looked down, defeated. "Alright. But hurry and carry a flashlight with you. The lake is a straight walk from the left side of the shed."

"Thanks," I said, and continued down the hall. I gave a thumb up to Emi, who smiled a big gape-toothed smile.

I entered the kitchen and grabbed a flashlight from the top of the refrigerator. I opened the door, turned on the light for the porch, followed by the flashlight. I hadn't realized it was this dark outside, but I couldn't back out now unless I could bear to here the desperate wails and cries of Emi, who would certainly have a tantrum and give me the cold shoulder for weeks. I pictured Emi, sobbing her heart out, and finally convinced myself to head out into the night.

As I closed the door, a soft silence and cold aura enveloped me tightly. I hugged myself, wrapping my arms around my torso. It was colder than I thought; otherwise I would've taken a jacket. The stars twinkled in between fluffy clouds, and I could see the moon clearly. It was tinged yellow that night, with dents and craters carved into the sides, naturally.

But right now, I wasn't really outside in the cold and dark night to admire the lunar lit surroundings. I wasn't here shivering in a spooky, empty property to gaze pointlessly at the stars, so I braced myself before stumbling stiffly down the steps and pointing the flashlight at the ground in front of me. I headed in the direction of the shed, or where it should be, and found it eventually. I traced to the left side and recalled Terry's words: The lake is a straight walk from the left side of the shed.

I began walking forward, and entered the woods. It was spooky, branches looming in the darkness, owls hooting and creatures scampering about the forest floor. I flinched every time I heard a noise as little as a squirrel scampering, or a branch quaking from under an owl's feet. It wasn't exactly the funnest place to go.

I reminded myself to walk in a straight line. Of course I sometimes forgot, veering away and hoping I was still going the right way. I kept my flashlight clutched in a trembling hand that pointed in front of me, helping me reveal anything I wouldn't want to come across.

I was getting restless, rushing through the forest almost aimlessly now. I frantically kept running forward, praying for the lake to come into view. I prayed with all my might, terror rising through my chest as cold wind as ice did the same. I was shivering and chattering against the evening breeze. Without the winds, it would be fine. But, of course nature gave me another obstacle to jump over.

To my surprise, I arrived at the lake. I immediately regretted with every fiber of my being that I hadn't prayed so sincerely. In fact, then I started to pray I was back at Mace's, where nothing could hurt me. Nothing could fear me at all.

What was lying in front of me would appear to any other person, any sane person, as a fairly normal lake. But to me, as I struggled to breathe steadily, staring at the scene with wide eyes, I saw nothing but my worst nightmare- literally.

The flashlight dropped out of my hands and rolled, bouncing against my shoe and flickering miserably. As I stared, bug eyed, at where my last vision took place, I could almost imagine the phantom-like creature slithering across the clearing and disappearing in the line of trees shading the lake from view. I had begun to shake from more than just cold. Terror rose through my veins, adrenalin kicked in and urged me to turn and run, but my body didn't respond. I was frozen to the spot, my feet glued to the earth, nailed by bolts. I desperately told my feet to move, but I wouldn't listen to myself.

Normal nightly sounds crept into my ears- crickets and frogs croaking, flapping wings, the lake lapping against its shore. The sounds echoed and rang in my ears, every sound piercing my ear drums with such force that I squinted my eyes and covered my ears with my fists, but I was still haunted by the noises. I gave up and came to my senses. I needed to move, and fast. I needed to get out of here, something ominous was stirring.

I bent for the flashlight, but it wad gone. I groped for it urgently on the forest floor, but never came to it. I was surrounded with swimming darkness that seemed to thicken with every breath.

Footsteps were audible, coming from behind me. They began closer and closer and louder and louder until it was just behind me. Terror and complete fear exploded inside me at no amount I had ever experienced. Something grabbed my shoulders and wrapped its arms around me. I let out a blood curdling scream that sent shivers down even my own spine.

"Opal," a voice whispered beside my ear, warm breath breezing past my ear lobe. "It's me, Mace. It's okay."

A wave of relief washed over me, my worries dropped like rain and disappeared, I was comforted, warmed, and relieved by the touch of Mace's arms that were stretched tightly across my shoulders. I let him lead my back inside by the light of another flashlight, and forgot all about Cassidy, Emi's favorite girl horse. Some more things were on my mind that I couldn't help but dwell on even when I was inside Mace's house.