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Faye tidies up a bit more (what can I say, she’s an incredible friend, with a nurturing side to her that I’m grateful for) and after she shares a chicken salad sandwich from Lit & Latte’s with me, she gives me a tight squeeze and leaves before the storm gets any worse.
When she’s gone, I walk to the liquor bottles lined up on the counter, grab the tequila, and pour some into a cup. I take a big chug, then drag myself through the living room, shut off all the lights, finish my drink, and flop on the bed to bury my face into my pillow and scream.
After my breakdown, the storm strengthens. Lightning strikes and thunder causes the thin walls of my apartment to rattle. I pop an antidepressant into my mouth, chug it down with water instead of tequila this time, and then shuffle through my nightstand until I find my joint papers and a little baggy of green.
I pause when I notice the polaroid picture of me and Warren. I pull it out slowly, staring at it. It’s us, the year before he went missing. We were at a New Year’s Eve party and I can’t remember who took the picture, but they captured Warren with his arm draped around my shoulder and a “yeah, right,” look on his face. I’m looking up at him, pointing and laughing. I was most likely teasing him about something, like I often did.
I stare at the picture so long my vision blurs and I bite into my bottom lip, not wanting the tears to fall. I breathe in, exhale, and then grab my weed before shoving the image back into the drawer and slamming it closed.
I roll a joint, spark it, take a deep pull, and then lie flat on my bed, peering up at the ceiling fan. It’s not spinning tonight, but the more I smoke and the higher I become, the more it seems the fan is spinning, or perhaps it’s the lightning outside. The blades start slowly, then begin to spin faster.
I huff a laugh, realizing I’m probably hallucinating again, but that’s okay. At least I’m home. At least I’m safe.
Safe?I hear a deep voice ask. It’s that same voice—the one I thought I heard in my apartment. The same one from my nightmares that calls out to me.No one is ever really safe, are they?
I roll my eyes. “Nice try. You can’t scare me tonight. I’m too stoned.”
Stoned? What a strange word choice.
Okay. This is humorous, albeit freaky. I can hear this voice intwining with my thoughts. The voice isn’t scary. If anything,it seems the voice is familiar with me, yet I have no clue who it belongs to. “Who the hell are you?” I ask. “Seriously—why can I hear you but notseeyou? Wait, are you my conscience?”
It’s quiet for a long time, so long I think maybe Iammaking this voice all up in my head.
I’ve wondered the same thing. Who the hell are you? And why the hell has your voice been tormenting me?
“Holy shit,” I breathe.No. Not real. Not real.
Trust me, this is very real,the voice says.
“What the hell?” I sit up to put out my joint. That’s clearly enough of that. I go to my drawer, taking out pink pajama pants and an oversized Clemson T-shirt and changing. Then I lie back down and watch the ceiling fan, allowing it to distract my thoughts. But then it stops spinning, replaced by an oblong purple circle.
It’s that purple light again. It shakes and moves, wiggles like neon purple waves. I blink slowly and, unlike last time, I don’t get up to check if it’s coming from outside. Truthfully, I don’t care what this light is or where it’s coming from, but I’m intrigued by it, and it’s better than thinking I’m crazy by talking to some random voice in my head.
The light spreads across the ceiling and moves closer to me, and I raise a hand, reaching for it. I’m surprised when I touch some of it and the purple waves spill like liquid onto my fingers, slowly running down the inside of my arm and dribbling onto my cheek. I use my other hand to wipe my cheek while studying the purple glowing liquid on my fingers, then look back up—the light has spread more. It’s rippling faster.
My body becomes weightless, and before the realization hits me, I’m floating toward the light. It ripples faster, faster, and I’m getting closer. I draw in a deep breath as if I’m about to go under water, and I think to myself that this is all comical. I’mso high that I’m imagining myself swimming in this purple pool of water, dancing in it. I feel the water on my flesh, illuminating my brown skin. My body floats higher, higher, and then I’m in the purple vortex pool, floating effortlessly. I turn over and look down, right at my bed. I can see my whole apartment from here, a bird’s eye view.
And that’s when I panic. I shouldn’t be floating. I shouldn’t be in the vortex.How fucking higham I?
I try to swim back toward my room, force my body down, but it’s useless. This vortex is strong, and it sucks me in further and further. I kick my legs, spread my arms, and even try clawing onto something, but there’s nothing to hold on to.
I continue floating, my room appearing smaller and smaller the more I’m sucked in. Eventually, my room is gone, and I’m swallowed whole. The purple light fades to a blinding black, and for the second time tonight, I belt out a helpless scream.
Blackwater
Ten
WILLOW
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
I repeat the words internally and finally open my eyes. To my surprise, the blackness has faded, but the entire front side of my body throbs in pain.
Groaning, I push up on my battered hands, then gasp when I realize I’m on top of damp dirt. I scramble upward, hands shaking as I stare down at the clumps of soil on them, then look up. I can’t believe it. I’mhereagain—in the forest from my nightmares.
