Chapter Ten
The bony white hand traces the lovely lines of a young blond woman’s hair, and a long, yellowing index fingernail scrapes languidly across her pink laughing lips. The sparsely furnished room brutally echoes with the harsh, raspy sound of a voice that has screamed and raged for years on end. "Laura," the voice says in anger and confusion. "Laura?" The decades old photo is carefully tucked back into its secret hiding place. The tall, thin man drags his heavy chains to the far wall with the tiny window. The octagon shaped window is too small to reveal its viewer, but large enough for him to survey the vast grounds of Wyndemere.
Today, something is different. Two large men are carrying a large, black bag with some difficulty from the thick woods that edge the west side of the house. As the sun begins to set and the tall trees loom and cast dancing shadows that play across the expansive lawn, the two men quickly head toward the ivy covered service door on the side of the house and slam the door behind them.
Stavros Cassadine paces and yanks fiercely on his heavy iron chains manacled tightly onto his wrists. He madly howls and cries with his head stiffly bowed and his long black and gray hair obscuring his still-handsome face.
~*~*~*~
"Hold still!" Blair commands as she tries to stop Todd from twisting and turning. "I’m trying to fix your hair, don’t you want to look normal?" she insists.
Todd’s hands fly to his scalp and frantically protect it from Blair’s advancing comb. "I’m only thirty," he protests. "I’m too young for a comb-over. What? People will think I’m this balding nerdy guy."
Blair pulls out some hairspray from her QVC snakeskin purse and waves it jauntily it in front of Todd’s worried face. "You need my help, buster. That’s quite a bald spot you’ve got going there. Let me fix it, come on!"
"Blaiiir," whines Todd as he looks closely in the mirror at a twelve inch piece of hair that drifts over from the left side of his head, caresses the shaved top crown and descends to the right, dangling at ear level. "I’m gonna have to change my name to Bob or Hugh or something. This is a disaster."
Blair stands frowning with her hands on her lean hips. "Your only other alternative is that special paint that you spray onto your head. Do you want me to find a Wal-Mart and pick some up for you in a dark blonde/light brown shade?" she questions sarcastically with a raised eyebrow.
"I look like Donald Trump," complains Todd as he pouts and flops back onto his pillows. "I need a wig!"
Blair’s expression softens as she touches the bandaged, right side of Todd’s face. "Did the doctors explain to you what they did with the plastic surgery?"
Todd frowns. "They took away my scar! They said that Greek goon broke my skin open when he kicked me in the face, and they did surgery to remove the scar and repair the wound at the same time. Did they ask me first? NO! Now how am I going to be evil or sinister? I’m ‘Bob the nice guy with the comb-over’. What’s next? Are they going to ask me to be a Boy Scout leader? I can’t take this!" Todd grimaces as he folds his arms crossly. He glances at his ex-wife out of the corner of his eye. "I have a reputation to protect, you know."
Blair sighs. "Yeah, Todd, I know. Here’s that laptop that you asked for. What crimes are you committing now?" she asks.
"No crime," sniffs Todd. "I’m the new owner of the Port Charles Herald. I got tired of waiting around, trying to get back the Sun, so this is my new baby." Todd’s face brightens as he opens the laptop and begins rapidly typing. "My first headline," he says proudly while laughing harshly with a wide, self-satisfied grin.
Puzzled PCPD Pursues Garroting Greek Goon
Blair rolls her eyes. "Some things never change," she says with a toss of her head.
~*~*~*~
Two large men drop the long, black plastic bag into the hidden service elevator with a large crash. One man irritably kicks it out of his way and to the side of the car. They are panting and sweating with the exertion of carrying all that dead weight for what seemed to be a mile from the woods to the side entrance to Wyndemere. One man rubs his tattooed forearm tiredly and flexes his weary hand while his thick thumb presses the square fifth floor button. "He weighs a ton," he complains with a frown as he roughly kicks the plastic bag once more. "I don’t know why I accepted this job," he continues. "These Cassadines give me the creeps," he intones, looking around the elevator and shivering with dread.
"Shut up," the other goon snaps. "The pay is better. That’s why you’re here. Quit complaining," he orders with a nasty glance at his companion and a shake of his head. The elevator stops with a shaking jolt, and the doors shudder open to reveal the shadowy fifth floor of Wyndemere’s reclusive west wing.
The two goons drag the black bag into the hall, and the elevator doors close with a loud whooshing sound that makes them jump in surprise. They grab one end of the bag in their strong hands and drag it toward the end of the hallway. They look cautiously around them as they walk on the creaky, oak planked floors. Every few yards an electrified candelabra hangs on a wall and casts a weak, sickly glow that barely lights their way. They squint in the dim light, taking in the heavily paneled half-wooden walls, and the endless crystal knobbed doors. A massive cobweb drags its feathery stickiness over one goon’s mouth, and he cries out a curse as he frantically pulls it from his face with a shaking hand.
"Did you ever watch that Dark Shadows television show?" he asks the other guy tensely through his bared, clenched teeth. "They always hid these vampires and crazy people in a turret in the west wing of the mansion. And I don’t even want to talk about the Old House. Wonder what they have hidden up here? Besides him," he says, glancing down at the heavy black bag.
"Shut up and keep walking," the other goon sighs. "All I want is to finish this job, go to a bar, find me one fine, fat mama and have me an all-night party," he grits through his teeth. "Hurry up and let’s get this over with."
His feelings hurt, the complaining goon remains silent and shrugs his shoulders, his mouth downturned and sad. He stops suddenly and drops his hold on the bag when he hears a suspicious creaking sound nearby. "What was that?" his voice wavers with fright. "I’m afraid I’m going to run into that bloodsucking Barnabas Collins," he continues, rubbing his hands together repetitively. "I just…" His words dry up and disappear from his mouth as an elegant, pale man boldly cuts across his path with an arrogant stance and a arm that swings behind his back, sweeping a black garment with a royal red lining in an angry, silken swirl of fabric.
"Gentlemen, you are one hour late," the patrician voice richly intones. The frightened goon stands with a gaping mouth at the sight of Stefan Mikhailovich Cassadine, regal and imposing in his evening smoking jacket with contrasting ivory silk shirt, glittering medallion, smart goatee and piercing green eyes.
The other goon speaks up, "Our apologies, Mr. Cassadine."
Stefan nods militarily with a concerned and angry face. "The room that you seek is two doors down," he directs with an elegant, extended hand reminiscent of a Michelango painting of man reaching a finger towards his creator.
The two goons painstakingly and respectfully pick up the black bag and proceed to the correct door. Once inside, they lower it carefully onto the prepared bed.
Stefan walks over to the bad, grasps the metal zipper tag with thumb and index finger, and swiftly pulls the zipper down with a sharp zing. He gasps and recoils at the sight of Nikolas’ face, which has an unhealthy pale grayish white pallor with a mass of dark bruises on the right cheekbone complete with a red, swollen eye. His lips are slightly parted, and a very white canine tooth jags into his lower lip and leaves a thin trail of blood dripping from his mouth, over his lips and tumbling over his chin.
"What have you DONE to my nephew?" Stefan asks in a threatening tone, his piercing green eyes flashing murder and torture at the two goons. Stefan advances toward the frightened goon, and the terrified man screams as he views Nikolas’ undead appearance and sees Stefan murderously approaching him. "We didn’t do anything. It must have been the ride in the van. It got rough," he squeals.
"If my nephew is permanently harmed in any way, so shall your fate be the same," Stefan orders imperiously with a haughty, pointing index finger. He reaches into his inside jacket pocket and removes two plain, white envelopes. "Take these payments and never return to Port Charles again," he states firmly with angry eyes.
The two goons take their white envelopes and nearly run out the door and down the hall toward the elevator. Once inside the elevator, one man glances at the other and says, "Not worth the money." The other goon shakes his head and replies tensely, "Hell, no."
~*~*~*~
As Stefan stands in the doorway with his back to the bed, he watches the hired goons board the elevator. Nikolas’ body remains still, firmly encased in the black, plastic bag. Suddenly, his eyes open widely, their dark brown shade a startling, staring contrast to his tense, pallid face
~*~*~*~
Doctors Ian Thornhart and Tony Jones emerge from Lucky’s hospital room with serious faces. Luke and Laura rush over to the doctors, eager for news about their son.
Tony motions over to the nearby chairs. "Let’s sit down so I can explain some things to you," he suggests.
Luke’s face falls at Tony’s tone of voice, and he wraps his arm protectively around Laura’s waist, as if to shield her from the coming news.
"As you know, Lucky suffered from a subdural hematoma when he was attacked yesterday," Tony reminds Lucky’s parents. "The operation was successful in removing the pressure from his brain. However…" Tony hesitates and clears his throat nervously as he crosses his leg and looks down at his hands briefly. "Sometimes trauma to the brain can result in some changes."
"What kind of changes, Tony?" Luke demands. "What are we talking about?’ Luke starts fidgeting in his chair, alarmed at the direction the conversation is heading.
"With head trauma, sometimes changes occur in the patient’s personality," Tony states. "The changes can be temporary or permanent. This may account in part for your son’s off reactions to you," he explains.
Luke pales as he recalls Jason’s accident and the permanent, lasting changes that his life endured. Laura takes in a deep breath and ran her hands over her eyes in an attempt to calm herself.
"Physically, Lucky may have sustained trauma to his brain that affects some of his sensory perceptions," Ian interjects. "He seems to be experiencing loss of hearing. We are sending up an audiologist for more detailed hearing tests, but I think that is what we are dealing with."
"What?" asks Luke in disbelief. "How can this happen? What can we do about it?"
"Time is an important factor," explains Tony. "This may clear up over a matter of days or weeks. It is too soon to tell. But, for now, we should assume that he has injuries that may affect his life adversely. There are therapies available if he is hearing impaired, and drug treatments that may help with any negative personality changes."
"Um, this is a whole lot to take in all at once," Luke says, running a nervous hand through his hair. Laura says nothing, but tries to hold back her tears as she wraps her arms around her middle. "What can we do to make him more comfortable?" Luke questions.
Tony adds, "Just treat him like you always have. He needs to know that you still regard him as your son or the Lucky that he will continue to be. Don’t let him push you away."
Suddenly, Luke rears up from his chair and punches the wall beside him ferociously. "DAMMIT," he yells and grimaces, half because of the pain in his bruised knuckles, and half at the helplessness and worry he feels. "I’m going to catch Andreas and burn him alive if it’s the last thing I do."
~*~*~*~
Lucky tosses and turns in his bed. The skin on his leg itches madly, but his cast prevents him from scratching. What bothers him the most is the constant pain in his head and the high pitched roaring that invades his ears, blocking out any incoming sound. His mind is subdued in a thick, confusing fog, and he can’t seem to reason out his discomfort or fix it.
He keeps catching movement from his peripheral vision, and the lack of sound startles him repeatedly. Lucky feels thrown in a thousand different directions at once with no compass or map to guide him out of the darkness he feels smothering him. Intrusive thoughts and flashes of memory keep worming their way into his consciousness, but with his recent injuries, he lacks the logical reasoning to put them in the proper timeframe and perspective.
Especially frightening is the memory of the choking, smothering sensation of a closed coffin that keeps bearing down and threatening to engulf him in blinding panic. He keeps feeling the smooth satin surfaces of the coffin lining covering his face and shredding in his frantic hands. He can’t catch his breath. He pants and moans as he repeatedly fills his lungs to capacity, gulping and pulling for more and more air. He can’t seem to get enough.
When he feels the confines of a hard, unforgiving box enveloping his body in a silent prison, he tries to escape the memory by violently throwing off his blankets and leaping from his bed to the cold, linoleum floor. His feet slip on the smooth surface, and he goes down on his hands and knees. The feel of the solid surface seems to calm him, and he rises on his shaky legs. But, he remembers Helena’s hand stroking his forehead, and her falsely cheery voice saying, "Goodbye, Lucky," as the coffin lid closes over his screaming face and blocks out all outside sound.
Lucky’s eyes widen in his state of panic. His hands grasp his face, and he begins screaming in a loud, high pitch that he can only feel as his vocal cords relentlessly and furiously vibrate on and on and on…
Wicked satin memories
Stavros goes home
A day in the life of a Cassadine