Blank, p.1
Blank, page 1
part #1 of Lincoln Delabar Series
Contents
Title Page
Blurb
Copyright Page
Contact Page
Dedication
Bonus Books
Episode 1
Chapter 1 Blank
Chapter 2 Joey
Chapter 3 Tucker
Chapter 4 Sadie
Chapter 5 Molly
Chapter 6 Fred
Episode 2
Chapter 1 Regret
Chapter 2 School
Chapter 3 School
Chapter 4 Andy, Rodney, Paul, and Avril. Trouble.
Chapter 5 Where Did Everybody Go?
Chapter 6 Hello World
Chapter 7 The Mask
Chapter 8 Avril
Chapter 9 Birthday Party
Episode 3
Chapter 1 Violence
Chapter 2 Susan Opens Up
Chapter 3 Maria
Chapter 4 Give Me Liberty
Chapter 5 George Comes Home
Chapter 6 Bret
Chapter 7 Anne
Episode 4
Chapter 1 Reunion
Chapter 2 Big Day
Chapter 3 Coleen
Chapter 4 Football And The Halls of Higher Learning
Chapter 5 Coleen, Melody and Roses
Chapter 6 It’s a Party
Episode 5
Chapter 1 Surprise
Chapter 2 You're in and Sydney
Chapter 3 Coming Home
Chapter 4 Here To Stay
Chapter 5 Homecoming
Episode 6
Chapter 1 Senior Year - 2 Years Later
Chapter 2 Reunion
Chapter 3 Joey’s Fractured Past
Chapter 4 Alexia
Chapter 5 Addiction
Chapter 6 Reunion 2
Chapter 7 The Beginning of The End
Chapter 8 Nightmare From Which I Cannot Wake
Bonus Books copy
Preview BLANK: THREADS-Chapter 1 Lincoln - 8 Years Later
Preview BLANK: THREADS-Chapter 1 Lincoln - 8 Years Later
Preview BLANK: THREADS-Chapter 2 The Day Job
Acknowledgements
About The Author
BLANK
By
Richard C Hale
There’s a violence in me.
My name is Lincoln Delabar. I was born without a face. Yes, you heard that right. Smooth, clear skin from my forehead to my chin.
I see the world differently, yet it is still a place that holds wonder. At least most of the time.
With my uniqueness comes a burden. My mind is powerful. Very powerful. And I have an obligation, a purpose, to see things in my own special way. Some of the things I see are frightening.
The evil in this world is beyond anyone’s control. Or so you might think.
There is a violence in me. I’m not afraid. I can control it.
But should I?
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. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 Richard C Hale. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of the text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted material.
Cover Designed by: SelfPubBookCovers.com/Shardel
Copyright ©Richard C. Hale 2014
Blank: Threads Preview Copyright 2014 Richard C Hale
Please Visit the Author’s Website at:
http://www.richardchaleauthor.com
Or join Richard’s email list The Heard
Richard always answers e-mails. Drop by the website and say ‘Hello!’
His email address is Richard@richardchaleauthor.com
For Amanda
Sign up for the Author’s new releases mailing list and receive a free copy of Cache 72, a Jaxon Jennings’ Thriller, plus two more novels and two bonus short stories.
Click here to get started: www.richardchaleauthor.com
Episode 1
Chapter 1
Blank
My mother screamed.
A horrible noise for any child to hear, but especially scary as the first sound to ever vibrate my eardrums.
As I was expelled into this world, brilliant fluorescent lights that I could feel but not see, shining their harsh brightness down on my bare skin, the first thing my newborn eardrums heard was the brittle screeching of my mother as she saw the hideousness of my reflection in the mirror between her legs.
A mouthful of words, I know, and as a reader you will probably re-read it to make sure you missed nothing. No need to go back over it, just know that my birth was not the wondrous event my mother had expected.
I can forgive her, and for the most part, don’t blame her reaction. If I bore something that had been inside me, a part of me, an expectation of wondrous beauty and warmth, a symbiotic growth of shared blood and organs, only to witness the abomination that was me, I would probably have reacted in the same manner.
Still, it’s hard to forget. Sometimes I wake from my dreams with her screams fading into the darkness.
She, on the other hand, never forgave herself and carries that burden even now as old age creeps up on her once-young life and the alcohol steals the rest. I love her though she rarely acknowledges it.
My name is Lincoln Delabar. Linc for short. And though I’m older now and have a better understanding of this world, there are some things I don’t comprehend. There’s a reason for my lack of insight and I know you’ll see it for what it is.
I have no face.
At least not what most people would call a face. I do not have eyes, or a mouth. I breathe through two slits that dwell near the spot where my nose should be. They open and close as the air moves in and out of my lungs. Most people think reptilian, but I like to envision dolphin. It just fits me better.
I have ears. Perfectly formed and functional, and hair that covers where it’s supposed to cover. The worst thing for most people, though, is my mouth. Or lack of it. It doesn’t exist. Not even a ghost of a pair of lips or hint that there should be. When my nostrils are closed, it appears as if the skin on my face stretches from my scalp to my chin. Smooth, clear epidermis. A blank landscape that many feel God forgot to paint. Thus, my more accurate nickname.
Blank.
Who came up with it? My father. He never meant it as anything cruel, it was just his way to make light of the situation. I like Linc better, but I will answer to either one. Okay, I won’t really answer, but it will get my attention.
How do I communicate, you wonder?
For the benefit of most of the humans on this planet, I carry a device with a small screen which I can type into. Whether it’s my iPad, cell phone, or pocket computer, anyone can read what I have to say as long as they have the patience to wait for my response. Science has yet to progress far enough for the machines to read my mind. But I predict it will happen very soon. In the meantime, I type and people read, and if you’re very special to me you just might get to see a side most don’t know about.
By now you’re probably feeling a little sorry for me, and I can understand that, but there’s really no need for pity. I don’t miss most of the things you might call normal. You see, my body has compensated for many of the things it lacks. Missing a mouth to speak with really isn’t that much of a bother and I believe it saves me from a lot of unnecessary conversations about the weather, sports, Aunt Bessie, politics, the latest episode of Honey Boo Boo, and girls. Especially girls.
I like them, don’t get me wrong, but they have a tendency to flee when they see me. Running and screaming sometimes too. In a way, I’m used to it. Still, it’s pretty upsetting.
My mother bought me a mask once. Yep. Pretty pathetic. And if it hadn’t been my mother, I probably wouldn’t have worn it, but she insisted and I gave in. It was special and from what people told me it looked pretty real.
It was made of a latex material, and though somewhat expensive, it felt like crap. At least to me. My mother claimed this was her gift to me; her sacrifice so that I could belong in this world. I tried to tell her that the people I really cared about would accept me no matter what and I wanted nothing to do with the ones who wouldn’t. She didn’t listen. I even told her that the mask was really for her, but she only grew angry and poured herself another drink. I guess a little discomfort was the least I could do to make her happy. Or at least happier.
As an infant, I was left to my own devices a lot of the time.
I mean, think about it; if I couldn’t speak, or cry, or smile, or laugh, or frown, or many of the other things babies do, how would my parents know when I was upset, or happy, or mad, or even hungry? Facial expressions carry lots of meaning and display many of our feelings where words fall short. So not only can I not communicate with any real emotion by speaking, I lack the face to generate expressions and nuances to match those words. Or so you might think.
My mother learned of some of my special talents first. She’s the mother, and she wo uld naturally be the closest to me. At least at first. Now, this part of my life might be a little difficult to comprehend, but I’ll try to explain it as best I can or maybe as I best understood it.
As an infant, I was acutely aware of my surroundings and aware means a lot more to me than most babies. I remember everything, even the time in the womb. Though, as an infant, I lacked the language needed to describe what I experienced, I had other senses to give my existence a vision.
I know, vision is a word that someone with no eyes would not use, but it is accurate. My level of communication and learning was mostly visual during infancy. Language did not exist for me, so I saw things and attached those visuals to what I was experiencing.
How did I see? With electrical vibrations.
There is something in my brain that allows me to see pulsations and vibrations with a complexity that nearly mimics normal sight but just in shades of gray.
Kind of like thermal imaging.
The only things I see in color are the auras that surround living creatures and humans. They have a complexity of colors that give each animal or human their own identity. Pretty cool, huh? More on this later.
As I came into this world, I began to rapidly associate what I saw with my own form of learning. The people or things that I interacted with daily were easy to recognize and even though my family’s colors would change with their mood or activities, the core of their aura never changed and thus I learned who my mother, father, sister, and others were quite quickly.
My mother’s mood would darken on a dime back then, and to this day, it still borders on the manic. She can move in and out of being happy and sad in a blink of an eye. I became aware of these moods early on and since I could associate the colors with how she interacted with me, I learned what was good and bad pretty fast.
What I didn’t know at the time was how powerful my mind really was. I understand it now, but as a baby, it was beyond my comprehension. My mother became aware of it on the day she dropped me.
I was angry. Or as angry as an infant can be at that young age and now that I really think about it, maybe frustrated would be a better word. I had a messy diaper and I didn’t like sitting in crap. My squirminess was not getting her attention.
She would at times caress my hair or stroke my arm as her way of showing affection, but she had yet to touch the skin of my missing face. For some reason, she chose to do so at that moment. She put her palm to the smooth, blank skin, smiling at first from the softness, and then she gasped, flinched, and dropped me on the floor. Apparently, what I was thinking startled her.
To me, it was like a blockage in my head had been opened. A floodgate released and a torrent of visions and impressions poured into my mind.
Some would call it telepathy, but to me it’s oh so much more. You see, I can’t just telepath with anyone. I can’t read your mind right now even if I tried my hardest. A physical action has to take place along with the opening of my mind and then we will forever share a connection.
People I share with describe it as uniquely intimate.
Not only do they see and hear what I have to say, they feel it too. You see, I don’t really need a face to display my emotions or convey a feeling. The special people in my life get so much more. They know me. To the core. They know everything a person could know about me and I see them fully, just as they are. Once the link is established, it’s always there. Usually only severed by death. And even then, it lingers a little after.
When my mother dropped me, she jumped up and stood over me, her hand to her mouth. My father ran over and scooped me up.
“What the hell, Mary?” he said.
She shook her head slowly, tears starting to form at the corners of her eyes. She looked at my father with wonder.
“He yelled at me,” she said.
My dad was busy checking me over for injuries and really hadn’t paid attention to what she said. He looked up at her.
“Are you having a break down or something?” he asked.
She reached her arms out to me, shaking her head. “He has a dirty diaper and he doesn’t like it,” she said.
My dad bent his head lower and sniffed. “Oh yeah. I wouldn’t like it either. He seems okay, though.”
“No,” she said. “He told me he doesn’t like it. He showed me.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Mary?”
“I don’t know. I touched his face and this image blasted into my head. It was like he was shouting at me.”
She took me from my father’s arms and carried me to my room. My father followed.
“An image blasted into your mind? Come on Mary. What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s just what happened.”
My father grew quiet and watched her change my diaper. I could tell he wanted to touch my face, but was scared. His color had gone a little green.
“Give him to me,” he said when my mother was finished.
She stared at him for a minute.
“Maybe I should hold him if you’re going to do what I think you’re going to do.”
“Does it hurt?” my father asked.
She shook her head.
He reached out and put his fingers to the skin on my face. It was like before, a torrent of visions and sounds and feelings and emotions poured from him into me and me into him. He gasped, but did not move his hand. Some of the things I saw in his mind I did not understand at that age, but the feel of the things in his life I understood. I could see his face change, the colors lightening to a pale blue.
Then he wept. My mother nodded to him, her eyes growing wet as her free hand rose to cover her mouth while she cried. She actually giggled a little.
“He loves us,” my father said. “He loves us and I can see it.”
My mother put her hand in my father’s free hand and squeezed.
“I know,” she said.
She grew sad then. I, at that young age, only understood that her mood had changed, but I did not know why. Now, looking back, I can see what she was feeling. She was amazed at the connection we had, but was afraid for me. Afraid for what the world held in store. Afraid that it would swallow me whole and spit me out in little pieces. Afraid that she would have to watch me shrivel into nothingness and die.
She started to drink that night.
From that day on, whenever I needed attention, was hungry, had a dirty diaper, or whatever else an infant needed, it would blast into my mother’s and father’s heads louder and quicker than if I had a voice.
My mother would jump sometimes. She’d be doing dishes at the sink and my mind would reach out to her, blasting the thought into her head. She broke many glasses that first few months.
“Damn Linc. You have got to learn not to shout.”
And she was right. I couldn’t control the power or strength of what I thought. It was just what I needed. Eventually, I became better at regulating the intensity, but living in a household where there were no secrets posed an interesting problem in its own right. Whatever all of us thought, the others knew too. And that is why my father left.
* * *
When I was two, I knew everything. Or at least I thought I did.
Having the minds of two adults and one sister aged five open to me was very educational to say the least. I grew up very fast. I also drove a wedge between my parents.
What I didn’t realize in those first days was if I opened myself up to someone, they, in turn, could become open to the others in my small circle. I was like a conduit, conducting the energy among all who were connected.
Although most people in this world consider themselves honest, truthful beings, in reality, everyone lies. Routinely. Sometimes hourly. Sometimes by the second.
Think about it.
You’re walking down the street and taking in the scenery; the trees, animals, shops, buildings, houses, whatever. But you’re also seeing the people. Your mind wanders as you walk and you really don’t think about what you’re thinking.
