Dawn's Tale Read online

  DAWN’S

  TALE

  The Nightshade Series, Book 1

  NICHOLAS KNIGHT

  Dawn’s Tale

  By Nicholas Knight

  Burning Bulb Publishing

  P.O. Box 4721

  Bridgeport, WV 26330-4721

  United States of America

  www.BurningBulbPublishing.com

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Burning Bulb Publishing.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover designed by Gary Lee Vincent with the following licensed elements:

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  Kindle Edition.

  Paperback Edition ISBN: 978-0692546604

  DEDICATIONS

  For my beloved daughter, Harley Linnette Delorie: You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me; my pride and joy, and my only reason for living and not giving up. You forever hold my heart, with no conditions or limits. I love you, and am so sorry that I couldn't be better for you. I wish I could give you reason to be half as proud of me, as I am to be your father. You are the daughter I have always wanted, and my best friend.

  For Andrea: I’m sorry I failed at making you love me back. I wish I had what it took to make you want me. We have such a beautiful daughter between us, who deserves so much better than what she got. I know I made some mistakes with you, and I deeply regret them. I also know that I never would have stood a chance at holding on to you, even if I hadn't made those mistakes. Your tastes are too rich for me to satisfy, you’re too smart and attractive for me, and pretty much out of my league. I know you never give me a second thought, but I will always love you, even though my feelings will never be returned or reciprocated. I wish I could have been good enough for you, and wish that the three of us could have been a family that wasn't so broken. God bless you.

  For my lost but never forgotten soulmate, Erica Linnette Heath: The only one I’ve ever made love to who honestly loved me back; the only one I’ve ever been in love with who saw me as worth loving. I’m sorry for giving up on us and for not being there when you needed me the most. I hope you can forgive me for having been such a fool and for losing sight of what truly mattered. I pray that God finds it in His will to give me a second chance with you in Heaven, and that you remember me as I was before I ruined everything. I love you, Erica. I miss you like crazy, and wish you could have known my daughter. (February 22, 1980 - December 27, 2002)

  For “Tiger”: My orange tabby cat who has never been a pet, but a companion.

  For Russell Clayton Harris, Sr. & Russell Clayton Harris, Jr. (my late maternal grandfather and Uncle): Though we were regretfully never close, I feel more connected to you both as I get older, relating more each day to the pain you both suffered in this life. We definitely share a great deal in common, and in many ways are kindred spirits.

  For my parents: Thank you for always being there and for never quit caring, in spite of me being a burden and disappointment. I love you both. Thank you for your love and support.

  For David & Carolyn: For raising my daughter and for all your kind effort in ensuring that myself and my family can continue to be a part of her life. Thank you both. You mean a lot to me, and I am grateful that Harley has you in her life.

  For Jen Bartlebaugh: Thank you for always being such a true friend, even though the cards are stacked against us. You mean so much to me. Thank you for your friendship and for always believing in me. I love you. I look forward to having you as a co-author.

  For Chiara Hubner Travezan: For being the primary individual who actually took the time to give me detailed feedback on this story. You’re lengthy email did wonders, and helped me improve this novel immensely. Thank you for your time and your notes.

  For Gary Lee Vincent: For being so cool and gracious. Thank you for giving me opportunities and chances, which I never would have gotten elsewhere or otherwise. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for believing in my novel and me. I owe you, my friend.

  October 7, 1972

  The Simon & Garfunkel song Bridge Over Troubled Water overlapped the otherwise dead silence, as the instant classic served as homage to the female super fan laying in the casket at the altar of the local Church of the Nazarene. The funeral mourners paid their respects in their own way, as their thoughts drifted off into personalized reminiscence, even if their cherished memories had suddenly taken artistic license. It was painfully clear that most of the people in attendance were more acquaintances than they had been friends, showing up more for appearance than empathy. There were many males present, who had known the sultry 30-year-old in the Biblical sense, as she hadn’t lived in the most honorable way. The tree hugger’s promiscuous reputation had earned her several male admirers in Maryland, and her good-looking corpse now laid to rest from her drawn-out and inevitably terminal battle with Lupus.

  Though the widower was a beloved evangelical minister, he had the mortician officiate the grim proceedings. He had loved his dead wife, but didn’t have words to say about her that would leave her in a good light, and he wanted to be respectful for the sake of those who showed up and his young daughter in particular. Reverend Mingan Moon, however, still got glares of disturbing discontent, as a few people happened to observe and notice him flipping through a comic book that he had discreetly pulled out from underneath his overcoat. Marvel had just released a new title called Werewolf By Night, and the unhappily married bachelor now held the anticipated first issue in his hands, which were now slightly trembling. His excitement grew even stronger when he stumbled across an ad in the back of the comic, for a life-size inflatable doll. These scowls of disapproval and disgust were a bit hypocritical, as these very same people who were arrogantly judging Reverend Moon, were snacking on 20-cent candy, like Cherry flavored Cosmic Candy or Orange flavored Space Dust.

  There were several varied types of hairstyles accounted for. The younger women had long, straight, and center-parted hair. Others had shorter pageboy, shag and wedge styles. Then some had shoulder-length feather cut hair with flicked out wings around the ears. Somewhat surprisingly, the men wore their hair very similar, if not exactly like the women. These same individuals who would normally be seen decked out in gypsy attire had at least dressed in all-black formal wear to be polite and show courtesy for the deceased.

  A 13-year-old olive-skinned girl walked up to the open casket, with salty tears filling her beautiful yet battered, crystal-blue eyes. Dawn’s semi Native American complexion was overshadowed by a personalized black cloud, which she would all too soon become very familiar with, as it would hover over her for the rest of her days…which were destined to be filled with turmoil, torment, loss and disappointment. The seventh-grader had arrived in the most formal attire she had at her disposal, which included a pair of khaki corduroy bell-bottoms that had a tribal arrow design stitched and detailed on the back pockets. She also wore a red boiled wool vest with black velvet detail around the fold over collar and armholes with beautiful geometric velvet designs.

  Dawn played with the mood ring on her finger, as she reminisced back to the day when her mother pulled over alongside the road, just to snag a lost Gayla baby bat keel-guided plastic kite from off a fence post. She then recalled how her Daddy would push little Dawn on the swing at the park, or carry her in his arms while walking through the Zoo or theme park, even when Dawn cou
ld tell that it was straining her father’s lower back problems. Dawn, unfortunately, also remembered those nights when her mother would bring home various, multiple, strange men, whom she would lead into her marital bed, while Dawn’s father was out of the house, often leading a ministry event or counseling one or more of the congregation members or couples. So, as much as Dawn already missed her late but selfish mother, it broke her young heart to remember what a callous whore she was and how she unappreciated and mistreated her father, whom she admired and respected. As Dawn approached the open casket to say her final goodbyes, she reached out and touched her loose mother on the cheek, which she instantly regretted, not expecting or anticipating her skin to be so damn petrified. Though she felt she owed it to her mother to bid a proper farewell, and loved her in spite of the internal damage she had done to her father, it was disheartening for her to see her now be just as cold on the outside.

  When Dawn got back to her home in Silver Spring, she went straight to her room, to bury her wet, young face in her fluffy pillow, which had the artistic image of a wolf on the case. As she attempted to cry herself to sleep in the middle of the afternoon, while a mixture of relatives and parishioners were out in the kitchen and living room area, stuffing their faces and chatting about memories past…her Cherokee father came through her door, quietly shut and locked it behind him, and sat down beside her on the bed. A Creedence Clearwater Revival LP was playing the song Bad Moon Rising, and though her bedroom door was closed, the music and lyrics seeped and vibrated through the somewhat thin walls. The little girl’s bedroom was dark, and was divided between Indian artifacts and wall art, and hippy decorations from her deceased flower-child mother. There was a homemade mobile hanging above her bed, which had wolves running in a circle. Her bed sheets were also equally wolf-themed. As Dawn gazed aimlessly at the silver-based, faded lava lamp, which sat on the nightstand beside her, the 45-year-old man who had helped given her life, took what he felt was owed him.

  “You’re the apple of my eye, baby,” he said to her in a threatening whisper, just loud enough for her ears to hear and her heart to fear. “We’re all we have now,” he added, as she could hear his breath get faster and heavier, as the hand that once cradled her, slid its clammy palm up the length of the backside of her leg. His breath reeked of a toxic combination of cheap liquor and tobacco. “We need to be there for each other, now that we’ve lost your mother.”

  Meanwhile, out in the rest of the house, the unsupervised guests quickly became footloose and fancy-free, as they jived to the record player, and danced together on the shag carpet. Some even made out on the white leather couch in the living room. The guests had gotten over Linda’s premature passing fairly early, as their grieving had obviously been short-lived. The house had suddenly evolved into one big party, with Shasta Cola cans and Chiclet gum boxes thrown and tossed on the floor. The Zenith picture-tube color television (that was turned on, but wasn’t being watched) played the Woodsy Owl commercial, which nobody paid any attention to, which gave the slogan Give a hoot, don’t pollute. As the huge speakers blared the rock music, two of the women were busy in the kitchen, preparing some liver and onions for the guests, and while they were letting it cook in the stove, they heated up themselves by getting frisky with each other. The guests, who were still clothed, had changed out of their formal wear and were now sporting long sleeved baseball shirts with iron-on designs of pop-culture, jean vests and short denim skirts, and long knee socks with two horizontal stripes at the top. One of the male guests, who couldn’t seem to get laid, took it upon himself to serve as the DJ, switching out the records to give a little more variety to the morbid celebration.

  The classic Jim Morrison Open Arms poster hung on her wall, which had been a gift from her dead mother. Jim’s paper eyes looked down at the tragedy that was occurring before him, as the Cherokee reverend committed the ultimate sin and defiled his own child. Leaning over, he bit her on the butt, before slowly sliding her Days-of-the-Week panties down and off her underage legs. The frightened Dawn just lay there frozen, like a piece of petrified wood, sensing that this wasn’t right. She gently shut her tear-filled eyes and imagined that she was running in a strawberry field with her late bohemian mother, laughing and dancing together in their colorful gypsy attire. Her father’s sweat smelled like burning incense, as it merely took minutes for him to rob his sweet daughter of her youth and innocence. It even further aroused the perverted pastor, that his impressionable and trusting daughter had unusual and abnormal hair growth surrounding what was naturally designed to be her private areas.

  Her father had bitten her ass cheek hard enough to leave a bruise, but not so hard as to pierce the flesh to draw blood. This bite would become the first of many wounds she would endure, that would leave psychological scars that would fail to fade with time.

  “It’s time I start making more of an effort in the child rearing department,” he told her as he climbed on top of her, and forced himself inside of her from behind, while Dawn could do nothing but silently weep, close her eyes, and bite her pillow. The same hand, which once swore to always protect her, was now pulling her hair, as he deflowered his own daughter, thereby becoming so much worse than his dead, cheating flower-child wife.

  When he could begin to feel his climax coming to the head, he hurried to pull out, and came all over her bare backside, careful not to let it land anywhere in or near her degraded vagina. His nubile daughter wept hysterically but silently, as the preacher rose up from the soiled bed and holstered his hairy legs back in his trousers. As he began walking towards her door, to return to the party he was now hosting, he tripped.

  “Fuck me!” her incestuous father yelled out, as he just barely stopped himself from falling on his face. “Fuck, Dawn, can’t you clean up your room? Have some respect,” he said, as the remorseless pedophile kicked her metal Family Affair lunchbox across the bedroom. This time, Reverend Moon slammed the door behind him, which nobody even heard, because of the music being so obnoxiously loud.

  As Reverend Moon left her alone to sulk in private, Dawn could hear the Bee Gees song Night Fever play out in the hallway, while her door was momentarily open. Little Dawn bled over her wolf-decorated sheets that day, while the funeral reception carried on out in the rest of the dysfunctional house. This would be the first of many milestones, or rites of passages, that would warp her into becoming the troubled, disturbed young woman she would grow into. There was a full moon the night that Dawn was robbed of her childhood and innocence. Dawn was broken from harboring the detrimental bitterness and resentment, which developed more over time from the adversity and affliction that had hardened, not humbled, her. Her inability and unwillingness to forgive and forget would inevitably and eventually turn lethal, as her incestuous father and her harlot mother would both determine and define who she would grow to become. As miserable and tormenting as her pain was, at least it never abandoned or betrayed her.

  October 27, 1977

  The cluster of mental misfits gathered together in their usual cliques, as they chose where to sit in the mess area. Nurse Carl walked in and tapped Dawn on the shoulder. Dawn knew what to expect, and though not thrilled about it, had grown numb to her lot in life.

  “Hey, Dawn,” he said. “I need some help with something. You think you could do me a solid?” Nurse Carl asked, with an evil smirk. She showed hesitance in her pretty face, even though it never seemed to help her stand her ground. “Come with,” Nurse Carl said again. “I promise, it’ll be a gas.” As Dawn reluctantly, but obediently, got out of her chair, she followed him out of the dining area.

  William, who wasn’t sitting with Dawn, but noticed her all the same, watched her hesitate to leave with Nurse Carl, with worry in his heart and bad thoughts in his head. He perceived that something was amiss, and that Nurse Carl was abusing his authority. He just couldn’t prove it. He worried about Dawn.

  “Did you guys hear about the new guy?” Chad asked, as he persisted in looking over his shoulder, a
s if watching someone who wasn’t actually there. There wasn’t even a window for him to be looking through, but apparently, just an imaginary friend.

  “The one that just got admitted earlier tonight?” Kenneth inquired, while he was working on a Mad Lib, putting only inappropriate and indecent answers in the blanks, being as crude as possible.

  “Yeah,” Chad replied. “Did one of you just call me a psycho?” he asked his disturbed, intimate group of peers.

  “What?” Kenneth asked. “Nobody called you that, you bozo. What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “Isn’t this new guy supposed to be a Nazi or something?” Thomas asked.

  Meanwhile, Nurse Carl had led Dawn to the utilities closet.

  “Go in,” Nurse Carl said, as he opened the door for her, not to be a gentleman, but to make sure she listened and followed orders.

  Dawn was irresolute, each time she was asked to do this, but she was trained to respect the Man, whether it be her fundamentalist minister father, or another esteemed figure of authority. Nurse Carl had mentioned to her several times of his service as a Marine. This was something he bragged about often and profusely, as if to put himself on a pedestal. Though she didn’t want to enter the dark closet, she did as she was told. Nurse Carl walked in after her, and shut the door behind him.

  “This time,” he said, as he began to undo his pants. “I want you to lick my ass clean, before giving me my regular request,” he said, as he dropped his pants, and turned his back to Dawn.

  “I’m not comfortable with this,” she said, in a whimper kind of voice. “And it’s not exactly a request, when I don’t have a choice.”

  “Hey,” Nurse Carl said back. “Do what you’re told, bitch. Besides,” he said, “Don’t knock it. You just might like it.”