The Darkest Hour: A San Diegan Novel Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Publisher’s Note:

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the work of the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is coincidental.

  Solstice Publishing - www.solsticepublishing.com

  Copyright 2017 – S.M. Soto

  The Darkest Hour

  By

  S.M. Soto

  Dedication

  For my son. I love you so much, Bear.

  Chapter One

  The metallic tang of blood hangs heavy in the air. My teeth chatter violently as I stare down at my trembling hands that are covered in blood.

  Dark red smears. Blood. Pain.

  Loss.

  I jolt awake, flying upright in bed with a heaving chest and pounding heart. My eyes frantically dart around in confusion, and I breathe a sigh of relief as my vision adjusts to my room. Dragging the back of my hand across my forehead, I wipe off the cold sweat from my nightmare.

  Propping myself against the headboard of my bed, I stare blankly at the ceiling. The early morning sun’s rays change colors. From dawn’s pale hues, to bright orange, the prospect of a new day seeps in through my closed blinds. Dust motes hover in the still air, refracting the light. I watch them spin, and then shift my gaze, counting the cracks in my ceiling over and over until they fuse together. The alarm on my nightstand blares, informing me it’s time to get ready for work. Without much effort, I slowly reach toward the alarm and switch it off, silencing the incessant beeping.

  After my nightmare last night, I didn’t bother going back to sleep. I couldn’t. Instead, I’d passed the long hours by listening to the hushed noises of my quiet street, and cataloging the map of cracks on my ceiling. The images from the nightmare are still fresh in my mind even though it’s been over four hours. Taking a deep breath, I force my eyelids closed. Horrific images flash behind them—shattered glass, a wrecked car, and blood. So much blood. It’s a stark reminder that I can’t escape the haunting memories of my past. These nightmares plague me every night.

  As I open my eyes, they’re drawn to my window where the sunbeams shining through my blinds continue to cast a soft glow throughout my room. It’s pretty and whimsical. Everything I’m not. My eyes drift back to my favorite spot on the ceiling.

  “Push through, Aliza,” I rasp aloud.

  It’s the same thing I say to myself every morning. I dread waking up every day. In all honesty, some nights, before climbing into bed, I hope that I won’t wake up the next morning–that this night will be it for me.

  I just don’t care. I feel nothing about tomorrow. I feel nothing when it comes to my future.

  Not. A. Damn. Thing.

  And that’s the problem.

  There’s no fight left in me, to better myself, or the circumstances that have ruined my life. There’s this hollow pit in my stomach, I just feel so…empty. I’ve felt nothing for the last three years.

  I’m lying to myself again—like I always do. I have felt things.

  Pain. Grief. Sorrow. Misery.

  With a loud groan, I haphazardly toss my lavender comforter off my legs. My bare feet slap against the oak floors of my room and my body drags as I pad to my bathroom for a quick shower before work.

  Work.

  Such a simple word, yet it’s probably one of the most dreaded words used in our vocabulary.

  I work at a small clothing department store in the Oak Valley “mall” here in the small town where I live—the place where no secrets are kept, and everyone knows everyone. I say “mall” because it’s not even really considered a mall. I mean seriously, there’s only five stores total. Who the hell gets shopping done with five stores? No one – that’s who, so it doesn’t count. This job is just a means to an end—or in my case, a worthless distraction.

  After the accident that destroyed my life and took my family, I gained my inheritance, consisting of a ridiculous amount of money. My job at the department store wasn’t because I needed the money—No, it was because I needed a distraction.

  The drive to work is quick and I find a parking space easily. Cutting the engine, I can feel something scratching my cornea, but my knuckle fails to force whatever it is out of my eye. I flip down my visor and peer at my eye closely using the small mirror, but after a few minutes of frantic blinking and pulling up my eyelid, I can’t find the source of the pain so I give up.

  I lean away and just as I’m about to flip up the visor, I freeze when I get a glimpse of my reflection. My still damp, scraggly blonde hair goes past my shoulders and looks—dull. At one point, I had what my mother would call “Rapunzel hair”, and now…not so much.

  It’s devoid of life – sort of like me.

  My skin is pale from lack of sun, and the bags under my eyes are a clear indication that I never sleep well. My blue eyes, one now bloodshot from excessive rubbing, look as hollow and lifeless as I feel most days. My naturally high cheekbones only serve to add to my sickly-looking features. I’ve always been skinny, or at least, skinnier than most other people. I’m talking about the gangly, awkward skinny, with the knobby knees, and protruding collar bones. Not a good look.

  My reflection brings back memories of the girl I used to be. The happier version of the frail girl I am now. Some people might still think I’m pretty, or even beautiful, but anyone that truly knows me now; knows the beautiful side of Aliza died three years ago, and there’s no sign she’s ever coming back.

  ***

  I rush out of my car into work a few minutes late. I guess staring at myself in the visor mirror contemplating every aspect of my life wasn’t the smartest thing to do.

  I hurriedly clock in and head over to the staff room, avoiding any interactions with my coworkers. Just because I hate my job doesn’t mean I like being late, and I can’t stand the disapproving stares I get from the other employee’s. It reminds me a lot of high school. You know, when you’d walk into class late and the eyes of every person in the room would follow you to your seat. Yeah, I hated it then, and I still hate it now.

&nbs
p; After clocking in and checking my schedule for the week, I stashed my purse while practicing my best fake smile. Considering I’m not a morning person it’s impossibly hard to plaster on the fake smiles everyone else here has perfected to a T. Truthfully, I’ve never been a morning person. The last thing I want to do is pretend to be chipper when I’m anything but.

  Before I’m even able to round the corner one of my coworkers, Ashley, calls my name, and beeline’s straight toward me. When she stops, she’s sporting an irritating smile and her short, bobbed blonde hair sways in a frustratingly graceful movement. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate the poor girl, she just gets on my damn nerves. No one should ever be that good looking and happy. It’s just unfair. I scowl at her, wishing she’d get out of my face.

  Ashley worries her lip between her teeth before speaking up.

  “Morning, Aliza.” Rocking back and forth on her heels she says, “So, George wants to see you in his office.”

  Her hands are fidgeting and she has a hard time making eye contact with me now that she’s standing so close, putting me on edge.

  Right now, she’s kind of acting like a strung-out crack head and it’s making me uneasy. She’s that one coworker who’s always too chipper and annoyingly happy.

  “Alright.” My voice is cautious with a raised brow. “Right now?”

  I indicate to the back rooms near George’s office. She gives me a fake smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes and nods before spinning off to get to work.

  Alrighty then.

  I pivot and head toward George’s office, reassessing my appearance in front of the closed office door before knocking. Maybe taking more time to get ready this morning wouldn’t have been such a bad idea after all, I say to myself disapprovingly. My knuckles timidly rap on the office door, and my nerves are starting to bubble over the surface.

  “Come on in,” George rumbles from the other side of the door.

  I take a deep calming breath before cautiously walking inside. George’s office is pretty small for a man his size. He only has a desk with his computer, a cabinet and a small table. I’m briefly distracted by the weird little knick-knacks.

  Wait–are those cats he has displayed on the shelf behind him?

  I shake my head before looking at George who is focused on everything else but me. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jean clad thighs, and ignore the pounding of my pulse in my ears.

  “Good morning. You wanted to see me?” I force the sentence to come out casually but I’m sure it sounds anything but. George is sitting behind his desk shuffling papers like he actually has real paperwork to do. Yeah, right.

  Without looking up at me he clicks on his computer as he answers.

  “Yes, I did Ms. Anderson. Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the chair sitting across from his desk.

  Licking my dry lips, I slowly lower myself in the chair and swallow multiple times trying to keep me nerves at bay.

  What the hell is going on?

  I scramble my brain for any reason he would call me in here—and me alone. Why isn’t anyone else here?

  Did I forget to do something?

  Was there a complaint?

  George folds his hands on his desk and looks at me seriously.

  “Ms. Anderson I’m very sorry to do this, but we’re letting you go.”

  My breath catches, getting lodged in my throat, and my eyes widen like saucers. My pulse sky rockets and I can feel the vibration of it in my throat. George runs his chubby hand over his bald head the way he always does when he’s uncomfortable. The room is so silent you can hear a pin drop. I huff out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and physically deflate in my chair—utterly speechless.

  Fuck.

  “I don’t understand.” My brows pull together in genuine confusion. “Look, I know I was late today, but I promise I won’t let it happen again. I can make up the time lost-” As I try to reason with him I’m cut off with a halt of his chubby hand.

  “Look, it’s not about you being late this morning Aliza. Heck, it’s not even about you being late yesterday or the day before that.”

  I flinch at his accusatory tone.

  Damn, have I been late that often?

  “Look,” George sighs, “I’ve had multiple complaints about you while you work the register or are on the floor helping customers. You’re always so irritable, and what’s the word I’m looking for...” He pauses. “Very…melancholy,” he says when he’s finally found the right word. “We need an employee that is going to make our customers feel comfortable, and welcome. You’re unapproachable. And, Aliza, what does that say about our department? I can’t have that in my work environment,” he says seriously.

  I sit back in the chair flabbergasted.

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  He continues, solidifying the blow. “You’ve been an employee here for over a year and I haven’t seen a change in your mood or attitude toward your colleagues, and our customers. This was my only option.”

  He sighs then leans forward as the chair squeaks in agony under his weight. “Look, Aliza, I understand you went through a terrible loss at a young age. I feel for you in that sense. Your parents were very good friends of mine, it’s truly tragic what happened. I can’t even imagine what it must be like for you, but that doesn’t excuse the way you make others feel. From the day you started working here, I’ve ignored your bad attitude for the sake of your parents, but enough is enough. You’re twenty-two years old; you still have your whole life ahead of you. At some point, you must put your past behind you and move on. We all lose people we love. It’s the way of life, Aliza, but don’t let it define who you are. I know this is coming as a total shock to you, but it’s not like you need the money—”

  I feel like someone has stabbed me straight in the heart. The blade is twisting viciously back and forth, and I’m no longer able to sit back quietly. I release the only emotion I’m capable of. Anger.

  I fume in my seat, wringing my hands together in my lap trying to calm myself. Despite my effort, my blood boils turning into molten lava. Something inside me just snaps—like a rubber band stretching beyond its capacity. I let all the pain I’ve been harboring, out on George, and cut him off before he finishes his last thought. I scoot forward in the chair, the loud screech of the movement forcing him to flinch. Staring at him incredulously I grit the words out, “Move on?”

  I laugh humorlessly. “You know, I wouldn’t be half as mad if you would have maybe said something like ‘move forward’ but moving on?”

  I practically screech from my place across from him. He has the decency to look mildly apologetic.

  “George, you know absolutely nothing about what it’s like to lose anything you love. I’ve lost everything in the time span of a year. A fucking year! So, don’t you dare feed me this line about everyone losing someone and it’s the way of life because that’s a load of crap, George-” I sneer his name in disgust. “I can’t move on.” I emphasize, my chest heaving.

  He sits back in his seat looking shocked at my outburst, but I can see the pity in his eyes clear as day which only fuels my anger to new heights.

  “I’m sorry my ‘melancholy mood’,” I air quote aggressively raising my voice an octave higher, “doesn’t suit your image for your customers and employees,” I spit, spewing venom from my eyes. “I’m also sorry that I can’t wake up every day and forget everything I’ve ever loved has been ripped away from me!”

  My voice cracks and my eyes burn with unshed tears.

  “Aliza, I know you don’t want to hear this, especially coming from me, but you need to get help. You can’t keep living like this.” The softening of his tone irks me. I rip off my name tag, slam it on his desk and lean forward to be at eye level with him.

  “Fuck you, George.”

  I push the chair back and walk out the door making sure I slam it on my way out. It’s childish, I’m sure, but I don’t care anymore.

  A few employees and cust
omers are standing around the store with shocked expressions as I gather all my belongings—no doubt because I was loud enough to be heard outside of his office. But I really couldn’t care less at this point. Without sparing anyone a second glance, I hurry out of there toward my car in the parking lot. My heart pounds against my chest and I’m still fuming from the outburst. I’ve never been so angry.

  How dare he think he can fire me, and then offer advice? I don’t need any one’s pity. I have enough pity to last a lifetime.

  I spot my car in the lot and pick up my speed. My chest heaves rapidly with the anger coursing through me. I war with myself as I try to keep my emotions in check. It’s no use. I fumble with my car key trying to unlock the door once I’m close enough. My lips tremble uncontrollably and my vision starts to blur with a wave of tears. They fall freely from my eyes without permission. A familiar gnawing pain starts throbbing in my gut, and I let my body sink to the hard pavement not caring if anyone see’s. A helpless sob tears through my chest and I let the floodgates free. My chest heaves trying to accommodate my sobs, and I squeeze my eyes shut against the onslaught of tears—leaning my head back against my car door. My heart aches. Will this excruciating pain ever go away?

  On the rough cement of the mall parking lot, I cry until I run out of tears. It’s amazing that after three years I can still cry just as hard as I first did—the day everything good in my life was blanketed in darkness. After wiping my runny nose on the sleeve of my shirt, I swipe under my eyes, to rid myself of the tear tracks. I inhale a shaky breath and blow it out slowly, silently counting to ten before I pull myself up and clamber into my car. I place my hand over my chest trying to massage the dull ache of my heart.

  The heart. Such a complex organ. It beats, constantly pumping blood throughout our bodies keeping us alive. It’s a mystery to me how my heart still beats when I already feel dead inside.

  Chapter Two

  The drive home from the mall was quick. The numbness started to creep in as I pulled into my driveway—I welcomed the all too familiar sensation.