Page 13 of Jacob Michaels is Not Here

The ground connected with my chin and my head snapped back roughly right before my sternum slammed into the dirt. An “oof” sound escaped my throat as I crumpled to the ground, dust and dirt floating upward in a cloud around me. My nose and mouth received a fair share of the cloud, and I sputtered for a moment as my eyes opened and adjusted to the darkness around me. Without the green light, the only illumination in the cellar was the little bit of moonlight that managed to peek through the awning windows high up on the walls.

At first, I just wanted to lay there and pity myself over the stinging sensation in my chin. The memories now in my head—they weren’t slowly flowing back into my consciousness; they were just there—made my skull ache right behind my eyes. Immediately, I knew that I should be going mad, writhing around, cackling like a loon, but I wasn’t compelled to do it. If the phrase “it is what it is” had a perfect situation to be used, that would have been it. I had gotten my memories back. What did that mean?

What now?

“You happy with yourself?” Oma sighed.

I looked up from my spot on the cellar floor to see her still standing where she had been before I had jumped into the well. Of course, and I was pretty sure this was true, the time that had lapsed between me falling into the well and then hitting the floor had been less than a second. At least for Oma. It had been longer for me.

I pushed off of the ground with my hands with a wince and a groan, rising to my knees to stare up at her. She laced her arms over her chest and stared down at me in what looked like anger in the dark, but I could feel the fear emanating off of her.

“Are you?” I returned.

She just stood there in the dark, staring down at me. Blue moonlight was slashed along one side of her face.

“I’ve never been less happy, Robbie.”

“Rob.”

Oma continued to stare.

“At least now you won’t have to pretend to be mad at me for…running away,” I stated blandly.

My grandmother deflated only marginally.

“He’s coming,” I said, simply.

“Well, no shit, Sherlock.”

“When?”

“How the fuck should I know?” She snapped. “But it’ll be sooner rather than later if you don’t keep your mouth shut about it. Don’t you dare tell no one.”

“Who the hell am I going to tell?” I snarled up at her.

“You know who the hell you would tell.” She jabbed a finger at me.

“He needs to know.” I found myself pleading. “He deserves to have his memories back, too, Oma.”

“He deserves to stay alive, ya’ fuckin’ idiot,” Oma replied, though her words held no malice. “You want to endanger yourself, me, Ernst and the others, well…well, it’s too late to fix that now, isn’t it? But don’t be a complete idiot and start building a bigger target, Robbie. You’re smarter than that. There’s more than one danger to Lucas, Robbie.”

“I want him to remember, Oma.”

“Of course, you do.” She sighed. “You promised. Didn’t you?”

The last four words came with a sneer.

“I told him I’d come back.”

“You came back, Robbie.” She sighed, her arms falling to her sides again. “That’s all you promised.”

Oma walked past me, her hip brushing against my shoulder though she easily could have rounded me in the large cellar without bringing herself so close. I rolled my eyes as her hip nudged against me. I started to rise to my feet with a groan as Oma headed towards the steps that led up to the kitchen. When I was finally on my feet, I turned to find Oma standing on the third step, staring over at me.

“What?”

“You never listen to me.” She shook her head, her eyes gently closing, as though she were in pain. “Listen this one goddamn time. Keep your damn mouth shut.”

I just looked at her.