Out of the Shadows (32 page)

“What are you talking…? This is not fine!” He approached her quickly now, growing light-headed and nauseous. “Give me your hand!”

A silver sedan sped past, swerving, brakes squealing through the night, and it crashed forcefully into the railing just past Lisa and Trevor, sending reverberations through the groaning steel of the bridge.

Quite near hysterics now, Trevor backed up with wide eyes.

As the driver’s door of the car fell open with a resounding creak, an old woman with puffy white hair stumbled out, a severe wound on her forehead.

“Ma’am!” Trevor hollered to her from the other side of the car. “You all right?”

The old woman ignored his concern and limped toward the railing of the bridge. Her feeble, wrinkled hands grasped the cold metal, and she struggled to pull herself over.

“Ma’am!” Trevor called out, running around the smoking car to reach her. He was only a few feet away now, hearing nothing but the pounding of his heart echoing through his ears. He reached out to grab her, and the fabric of her cotton shirt slipped through his fingers as she jumped, falling to the black waters below.

Standing at the railing now, Trevor stared down into the abyss, frozen in place. His brain could no longer process the events of the evening, and he could feel himself slowly shutting down from the mental exertions. His hand fumbled within his pocket as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

He waited for someone to answer, his breathing ragged and uneven. “Yeah, I… I don’t know what’s… There’re people… in the water… They just jumped… and I can’t…” Trevor lowered the phone from his ear and doubled over, his breathing too erratic, his mind dizzy from hyperventilation.

“See what I mean?” Lisa asked serenely, forcing his attention to return to her.

Her wispy hair flowed, undulating with the breeze, making her appear angelic.

She continued, “It’s all going to be fine.”

She leaned forward, letting go of the railing, falling through the air, and colliding with the water below.

His body could take no more trauma, and he collapsed to the sidewalk, gasping for air.

As his apartment door slammed behind him, Trevor trembled and stumbled quickly over the creaky hardwood floor of his dark flat. He hadn’t thought he would make it up the three flights of steps to his door. He panted, nearly hyperventilating, desperately trying to fill his lungs with oxygen and calm himself.

His keys slipped from his quavering fingers, and he dashed into the small bathroom, flipping on the harsh fluorescent light and turning the cool silver knob to release water from the faucet. He cupped his hands, filling them with cold, clear water, and he dropped his clammy face into them. He felt his skin sting in protest from the frigid moisture, but he needed to clear his head of the day. He wished so fiercely that he could simply rewind his life to before dinner, when he had decided to leap from the Golden Gate Bridge.

He turned off the tap and stared at his worn visage in the medicine cabinet mirror above the sink, water droplets rolling down his nose and cheeks. He felt that his eyes were grayer than they had been a few hours before. The light in the room made him appear sickly, dark bags sagging under his eyelids. He glanced down at his watch and was shocked to find that the sun would soon be rising over the bay, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep now. The images of a bleeding old woman and a man with a moustache throwing themselves without hesitation over the railing of the bridge haunted his waking minutes.

And Lisa, with her long flowing hair, so angelic in the breeze.

Once he was certain that his legs held the strength to carry him into the living room, he crossed the threshold into the quaint space, slices of eerie moonlight slashing through the blinds and across his few pieces of furniture. His one-bedroom apartment was minimalistic, and he preferred it that way. There was plenty of clutter occupying his brain; he didn’t need it in his home as well.

He passed his small russet couch and found himself at his mail table by the front door, staring down at the folded piece of paper, propped against the wall, containing his written goodbyes. It was quite short, as there weren’t many people left to whom he cared to say anything. He took the note in his hand, wondering whether he wanted to reread his pathetic babbling, but before his mind could decide, his hands were crumbling the paper and tossing it into his small trashcan in the kitchen.

In the morning, he would hand-deliver his rent check to Mr. Miyoto, his landlord, and he would go visit his boss, Patti, in an attempt to explain his irrational voicemail that likely had made little sense to her.

As he leaned against the small bit of countertop that protruded from the wall in his tiny kitchen, his eyes wandered around the room, coming to rest on the back corner, where a stack of cotton duck canvases lay, untouched. He stared at their blankness, a clean slate with infinite potential, and suddenly his mind swam with images begging for release from their mental prison.

Trevor strode over to his painting corner, turning on the hanging lamp above, bathing the room in a warm glow. After placing a canvas on his easel, he swept his overused oval palette from off the floor, retrieved his painting knives, and began diligently mixing splotches of color with which to paint, paying no attention to the spills and messes making their way onto the cloth tarp that lay underneath him.

He stood at the easel, brush in hand, dabbing it in the colors of his mind, swirling black, streaking red, dabbing yellow, smearing blue, image after image flowing from his subconscious. Everything around him faded from reality. He and the acrylics were all that existed, telling untold stories on the stretched fabric. He worked furiously and passionately, filling one canvas, and then another. And then another. Tears trickled down his face as his hands continued to release his explosive emotion, immortalizing his mangled soul for the world to see.

When his mind could take no more, he found himself lying on his couch, staring at the blank ceiling. His body grew weary, his eyes became heavy, and he fell asleep.

*     *     *

He stands with his father, motionless. The sun warms his face while the light breeze cools his skin. His father’s soft features wrinkle slightly when he offers the precious gift of a smile that only a proud father would give to a son. The wet sand envelops their toes as the cool water rinses over the tops of their feet, sending all of their worries away with the current.

There is no one and nothing else; there is only the sand, the sun, the water, and the two men. Everything is perfect.

Trevor feels the water rise to his calf, forcing him to laugh as the chill sends a shiver down his spine. His father laughs too, a warm sound that reverberates in Trevor’s chest. The water continues to rise and splashes against his knees. His father’s smile begins to fade, but he does not stop looking at his son. Trevor grows concerned as the water rises to his waist. Painful and freezing.

His father’s soft features grow stoic, as if he knows what’s to come. The water splashes against the small of his back as Trevor tries to call out to his father. He cannot move from where he stands. He reaches his hands out, wanting to clutch him, wanting to keep him from going away.

The water rises, higher and higher. Trevor begins to shiver, his teeth chattering with nerves. He tries to yell, but he has no voice. His father’s brow furrows, and his eyes hold deep sadness as the freezing tide rises to their necks. Slowly but surely, the two become submerged.

Trevor panics now, flailing his arms, grasping at his throat, wanting to breathe.

Suddenly, his father’s expression becomes one of intense anger, and he raises his hands, tightening them around Trevor’s throat, squeezing, constricting, fury and hatred burning within his eyes. He opens his mouth and screams, a cascade of bubbles pouring from him, obscuring Trevor’s vision.

When the bubbles dissipate, his father floats before him, lifeless.

*     *     *

“Daaaaad!”
Trevor screamed, jolting upright from the couch, dripping with sweat, his disheveled hair matted to his pale face. His head whipped around frantically as he caught his bearings, breathing deeply to calm his heart rate. He placed his feet on solid ground, burying his face in his hands.

“Shit,” he mumbled to no one.

Gray daylight seeped through the cracks in the blinds, and the clock on the wall read 11:24. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, rubbing his temples. He noticed that his small television at the other end of the room was on but muted, displaying the morning news. Last night had been such a blur that he remembered almost none of it. He stood and stretched his muscles, wallowing into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

As he chugged the crisp beverage, a knock on his door startled him. He swung it open and saw the same green eyes staring back at him that he had seen the night before – the eyes that had talked him down from the railing. He still wore his white T-shirt and jeans, and his smile soothed.

“Hello, Trevor,” he greeted warmly. “May I come in?”

Trevor was taken aback, not knowing how to respond to the surprise visit. He stood, briefly stunned, before motioning into his apartment with his hand. “Yeah, sure.”

His cheeks flushed with sudden embarrassment as he thought about how unsightly he must look, having just woken up covered in sweat and grime. He attempted to deflect away from his appearance by saying, “Didn’t get the chance to thank you last night.”

“It’s no problem. Sorry I had to leave so suddenly.”

Trevor’s brain was still hazy from sleep, and things weren’t quite making sense yet. “I didn’t catch your name.”

The man outstretched his hand and said, “Micah.”

Trevor accepted the greeting, noting his firm grip. He realized he was no longer wearing his hoodie and thought he must have taken it off while he had been painting the previous night. Finding it crumpled on the couch, he retrieved it and slid his arms into the sleeves.

“Did you paint these?” Micah wondered, walking over to the easel that held one of the creations, plus three others that were propped against the wall on the floor.

“Yeah, last night,” Trevor said, zipping up his hoodie. But when he glanced over at the paintings, he froze. “What the…?”

He crossed over to his art corner to examine his work more closely. They were hideous, violent, and aggressive with extreme abstraction, and he had no memory of making any of them.

“What’s wrong?” Micah asked.

Trevor picked up the first one from the floor. It was a twisted vision of a woman lying dead on a black and white checkered surface, surrounded by pools of blood. “I… I didn’t paint these. I mean…” he looked up at Micah, his own skin now ghostly white. “I don’t
remember
painting these.”

Trevor put down the gruesome artwork and picked up the next one: a rectangular hunk of metal, black circles underneath, fire, so much fire, and more blood spilling downward, filling up the bottom of the canvas. The third painting appeared to be a severe abstraction of the Golden Gate Bridge, except it was tan like stone, with its two spires spitting fire into the sky. The final piece of work still rested on the easel: a mass of whiteness entangled itself with black bloody spikes as an intense golden beam illuminated the amalgamation. Scratched into the acrylic in the center of the picture were the numbers “11:24.”

“Are you all right?” Micah asked. “You don’t look well.”

Trevor’s hands shook as he looked up at his wall clock:
11:24
. It had read 11:24 when he had awakened, and now it still displayed those numbers. The same numbers that were carved into a work of art he didn’t remember painting.

He shook his head slowly, trying desperately to remain calm. “What the hell’s going on?!”

“Trevor, what’s wrong?”

“These paintings. My clock. Everything! I don’t know what’s going on!”

Micah grabbed him by the arms solidly, holding him steady. “Just calm down and breathe for a minute. You had a really rough night, and you probably didn’t sleep very well.”

Trevor took a few deep breaths and felt himself relaxing. He had heard that sleep deprivation could fool the mind like a hallucinogen, so he decided it would be best not to jump to conclusions. He paced around his living room, breathing steadily as Micah stood back and observed cautiously.

After a minute, his guest broke the silence. “Trevor, the TV.”

Filling the screen was a shot of the Golden Gate Bridge, half-shrouded in foggy mist from the cloudy day. Trevor shivered when he saw it, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to look at it the same way again. A news program filled the airwaves, and at the bottom of the screen, a bold headline ticked across:
Group Suicide this Morning
.

Trevor stared at the ominous bridge and gasped, “Oh, god.”

“God had nothing to do with that,” Micah answered, pointing at the screen. “I can assure you.”

His brow furrowed, growing uncomfortable with the turn of conversation. “It was just an expression.”

Micah nodded. “But a meaningful one in this case.”

His guest had now made him uncomfortable, bringing up things that he wished not to discuss. “Yeah, well… If you believe in that stuff, more power to you, but I don’t.”

“Just because you don’t believe in something doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

Trevor glared at the pompous man who had welcomed himself into someone else’s home, spouting religious nonsense. He didn’t consider himself a spiteful person, so he decided to hold his tongue as to not regret what might come out of his mouth.

Micah continued, “And you
do
believe. You’re just angry at Him right now.”

Trevor clenched his jaw in frustration. “You should go.”

“The police are on their way.”

Micah’s response stunned him into silence. “Why would they come here?”

“You called 9-1-1 last night and then fled the scene. They have some questions for you.”

“You called them?” Trevor accused.

“No.”

“Then how do you know this?” Trevor felt the familiar beating of his heart begin to pound faster once more.

Micah ignored him and continued with intensity. “Do you know the first thing they’re going to ask you, Trevor? They’re going to ask what you were doing on the bridge last night after hours. And what will you tell them when they ask that?”

Trevor had grown speechless now, his eyes darting back and forth, searching his mind for a solution. He would have to tell them that he’d been planning to kill himself; the only other alternative he could think of would be to admit he’d broken the law by sneaking past the closed gate. If they knew what his true intentions were on the bridge, they would begin to doubt his mental stability, and they would wonder if he were telling the truth at all.

His eyes came to rest on the macabre series of paintings he’d unknowingly created last night, and the horror of the situation trumped any kind of logic or rational thought.

“They’ll think I’m crazy!” Trevor concluded.

Micah nodded. “They might take you to the station for monitoring.”

Trevor ran his shaking hands through his hair, panic rising within him.