Frayed

by Layne Deemer

  Pushing open the door to my bedroom, I find her wearing nothing but my faded Yale University T-shirt. My eyes skim the length of her, and I find myself ready for another round. She has her back to me and hasn’t heard me enter the room. Striding over to her, I round the edge of the bed. As I close the space between us, I notice she has the drawer to my nightstand open and is examining the contents.

  “Find anything interesting?” My voice is low and dripping with innuendo.

  Her shoulders jump and she turns around quickly, revealing the source of her intrigue.

  The drawer is relatively small, but for such a tiny space, it’s filled to the brim. I feel my heart plummet to my feet and I break out in a cold sweat. My hands feel clammy and my throat begins to constrict. What the hell is this?

  She looks up at me, her eyes searing with curiosity. “Why do you have so much orange paper, Owen?” Her brow furrows as she seems to be assembling a puzzle in her mind. Her eyes widen as she secures the final piece. She sucks in a quick breath, and on a shaky exhale she asks, “Isn’t this the same paper that those notes were written on?”

  Did Lydia put it there? Or was it Sarah? It has to be one or the other.

  Doesn’t it?

  But if it was Lydia, then why does she seem so surprised? Is she that skilled of an actress that she’s able to mask her emotions so thoroughly? In this moment, I don’t know what to believe. I barely even know my own name. I hear my voice croak as I try to find words. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  Her eyes register with surprise, and I realize I asked that question out loud.

  “It’s your drawer, Owen. You tell me.” There’s apprehension in her voice and her body is guarded.

  I have no idea what’s happening here, but clearly this is some kind of mind fuckery. My secret admirer has been using paper exactly like that for all the folded-up notes I’ve been receiving. I had all but ruled out Lydia, and aside from my deceased fiancée, I have no other leads.

  The mood in the room has shifted. An hour ago, we were lying in my bed tangled up in each other. Now we stand here like strangers. Neither one of us brave enough to make the first move.

  I can’t help but feel exposed. I have no idea where that paper came from.

  Or maybe I do.

  I’m overwhelmed with the need to offer some sort of explanation. It’s what Lydia needs from me in this moment.

  I hear myself speak, but it’s as if I’m listening to someone else. “We used to use that paper to label our bins at West. When they switched over to sticky back labels, they had no use for it anymore. There were mountains of orange squares splayed out on the table in the lunchroom. Less than a day later, they were gone, claimed by employees who never turned down a freebie. I thought I might be able to use them for store lists so I brought some home. I had forgotten all about that.” That last sentence comes out in a whisper that’s barely audible. It’s as if I’m hearing about this for the first time and yet, I know it’s all true. Every word I just uttered. The paper was always familiar, but I never quite made the connection until now. It all came back to me in a rush, first as the words I spoke to Lydia and now as images I see in my mind. I know it’s all connected.

  I feel physically ill. I rest one hand on my stomach while the other curls into a fist and pulls up to my mouth. Things are slowly beginning to click into place, and I’m suddenly terrified.

  “Owen? What’s wrong?” Lydia’s voice is laced with concern, but there’s a hint of something else. Fear.

  My brain is working overtime as I try to control a situation that I don’t understand. The only thing I’m certain of is that I need to be alone while I deal with all of this.

  “You know, I’m not so sure that was real cheese on that pizza.” I pinch my face into a grimace while I bend over slightly as if I’m in pain. “I’m not feeling so good at the moment. Maybe it’s best if you head up to your apartment for the night. I’m pretty sure it’s just something I ate, but if it’s more than that, I wouldn’t want you catching anything.”

  Her face is a mixture of concern and relief. She’s worried about me, but her unease trumps any other emotion. She doesn’t even attempt to put up a fight. “If you’re sure you’ll be okay, then I suppose I should go.” She’s already backing up out of the room as she speaks. “Um, let me know if you need anything, okay?” She practically sprints down the hall, and I hear her call out once more when she reaches the door. “Take care, Owen!” And then she’s gone.

  I’m alone with more questions than answers. I’m still standing in the same spot I was when I first walked out of the bathroom. Droplets of water cascade down my face from the hair I never dried. My towel is wrapped around me, but I may as well be standing here naked.

  You think you know who this is, but you’re wrong.

  I feel as though my mind is split in half. On one side is consciousness and on the other is ignorance. Never the twain shall meet. Until now.

  52

  It feels like an out-of-body experience as I sift back through the last few months and relive them with a new perspective. Thinking back on it now, I realize that every time my mind flashed back to the past, my body stayed active in the present. My thoughts were fixated on Sarah. Memories flooded my brain making me feel like I was reliving them while my hands betrayed me.

  I see myself leaning over the counter in my kitchen. There’s a small stack of orange paper in front of me and I’m carefully mimicking Sarah’s handwriting as I loop the letters together. I fold the note again and again until it’s just under an inch in diameter and then I carefully slide the note into my pocket.

  You think you know who this is, but you’re wrong.

  I blink my eyes several times, as the vision of myself choosing a sock from the sorting bin at my feet flashes clearly in my mind. I see myself tuck my hand into the pocket of my khakis and remove the folded note. I watch myself scan the room to make sure no one can see as I plunge my hand into the sock and deposit the note near the toe. Then I drop the sock back into the bin and use my hand to mix it with the others.

  You think you know who this is, but you’re wrong.

  My mind was full of accusations. First, I was certain Lydia left me notes because she was too shy to express herself. Then I became convinced that Sarah hadn’t died in the accident and was instead leaving me messages as punishment.

  You think you know who this is, but you’re wrong.

  I never suspected myself. But the flood of memories is relentless—me wrapping a note around my toothpaste, me sliding one inside the book on my cedar chest; me knocking the camera from its mount outside of my apartment and planting it under Lydia’s bed when she wasn’t looking; me editing myself out of the surveillance footage; me shoving the folded orange paper into my own sock on the floor of my bedroom. It’s all there. Crystal clear and in stereo. Every time I disappeared into my own mind, my body took over.

  You think you know who this is, but you’re wrong.

  The person responsible for terrorizing me these past few months is me.

  I’ve been pacing the floor of my apartment all night. I knew I’d never fall asleep, so I didn’t even try. The clock on the microwave in my kitchen reads 6:48 a.m. It’s soon time to leave for work, but I won’t be going there today. Maybe not ever.

  This must be what it feels like to lose your mind. I can’t put it off any longer. I know what I have to do.

  I reach for my phone and look at my voicemail. There are several messages from Dr. Jamie. Messages that I never intended to listen to. I swipe at the last one and press the phone to my ear.

  An audible sigh fills the silence before Dr. Jamie speaks. “Owen. You can keep avoiding me, but it doesn’t make anything that I’ve told you any less true. I know you wanted to escape reality. That’s why you moved so far away, but you can’t run away from who you are. And sooner or later, it’s all going to catch up with you. Please call me before that happens. I can help you.”

  The message ends and I lower
the phone. I’m afraid it’s a little too late for me, Dr. Jamie.

  I stare at the screen and before I can second-guess myself, I tap his name. Maybe he’s right. He might be the only person who can help me. He answers on the first ring.

  “Owen? Is that you?” He sounds very lucid despite the time difference. There’s an anxious edge to his voice.

  I take a deep inhaling breath and then I let it all out. “I-It happened again. Many times.”

  When he responds, his voice is calm and even. “Tell me what happened.”

  I spend the next fifteen minutes expelling every detail of my predicament. I’ve already told him about my little mental holidays, but this time is different. I tell him about meeting Lydia and finding the notes. I talk about running into Sarah and discovering the orange paper in my drawer.

  There’s a pause on the other end and I can almost hear his thoughts as he divvies up my brain and puts it into categories. “You have an uncanny ability to recreate your own reality, Owen. And you’re not even aware that you’re doing it. You said so yourself. You immerse yourself fully in your own thoughts while your body stays active completing tasks and making decisions. It’s a classic case of Dissociative Disorder, specifically Dissociative Amnesia with a touch of Depersonalization.”

  He’s said all of that before, but I didn’t want to listen. Truth be told, I don’t want to hear it now, either, but I don’t really have a choice. I still have so many unanswered questions. “But why the notes? I’ve been going over them trying to determine why I wrote what I did, but I can’t quite connect the dots.”

  “Well, let’s talk about that for a moment. Some of the notes sound like you have a true admirer on your hands. I think you wrote those first few to give yourself a push toward Lydia. In the beginning, it was obvious they came from her—or at least, that’s what you wanted yourself to think. Lydia notices you, she wants to know you, and she can’t stay away from you. Those were the messages you conveyed to yourself in the beginning. And it thrilled you to think that she might return the attraction. It gave you the confidence to talk to her, am I right?”

  I think about his words for a moment. What he’s saying makes sense. It’s almost as if my subconscious was giving me the push I needed to talk to Lydia. The notes were the perfect method to get me to break the ice.

  “Okay, I see where you’re going, but what about the other notes?”

  He hums into the phone. “Yes, those took on a decidedly different tone, didn’t they? And why might that be?” He pauses, but not long enough for me to answer audibly. This is a tactic he uses to get my brain to focus on the point he’s trying to make. “The next two notes were intended to get you to regain your focus. You were on a slippery slope and would soon start repeating old habits. You needed a couple of reminders not to lose control.”

  He’s not wrong. I was falling pretty fast and hard for Lydia and my emotions were starting to cloud my judgment.

  “Now that I think about it, that does make sense. But how do you explain the sixth note? I received it directly after I saw Sarah walking on the sidewalk. Sarah who is supposedly dead, but was very much alive. Is that even possible?”

  “Well, you were there, Owen. You tell me.”

  I huff irritably. “All due respect, doc, if I could do that, then I wouldn’t need you now, would I?”

  He chuckles and I feel my temper flare. What could possibly be funny at a time like this?

  “Owen.” He says my name like I’m the child and he’s the parent, ready to impart a life lesson that should be obvious to me. “You were in that car when it crashed into the tree. You were sitting right next to Sarah. You saw her with your own eyes—”

  “Yes, but I think we’ve established here that my eyes can’t be trusted.”

  “That may be the case, but in this instance, you weren’t the only one to see her. The paramedics, the police, and eventually Sarah’s parents all saw her body, the life of which had been snuffed out. She’s dead, Owen, and deep down you know that’s the truth.”

  I sigh. I do know that, but what I don’t understand is how my mind could be capable of forcing me to see things that aren’t actually there.

  As if he can read my thoughts (and he probably can), Dr. Jamie continues. “The mind is a complex thing, Owen. And sometimes, especially where tragedy is concerned, it plays tricks on us—shows us things we wish were true or maybe what we fear could be true. Your mind has been working overtime to compensate for the guilt you feel about the accident. You’ve been blaming yourself and it manifested into delusions. But that’s all they are, Owen, delusions.”

  I lower my hand and let the phone slide out onto the counter. I can hear Dr. Jamie’s voice calling out for me. I hear the words “danger” and “medication.” I reach down and end the call. It lights back up immediately. The doctor doesn’t give up easily. I decline the call and block his number. I’ve heard enough from him.

  If what Dr. Jamie said is true, then I can alter my reality without ever being fully aware of what I’m doing. I don’t think that’s a disorder. It sounds more like a superpower to me.

  My phone announces a new text with a chime I assigned to Lydia. I haven’t heard from her since she left in such a hurry last night. I’m sure she has a lot of questions. She seemed pretty anxious to leave and with good reason.

  Lydia: Feeling any better?

  It’s just three words, but they hold so much weight. I’m feeling so many things at the moment. I’m not sure if better is the right word, but I’m getting there.

  I slide my finger to unlock the screen and type out a brief response.

  Me: Not completely. I didn’t sleep well. I’m going to take the day and rest. I’ll text you later.

  The text bubble appears and then her message comes through.

  Lydia: Rest up. Hope you feel better.

  We sound more like coworkers than lovers, and maybe that’s for the best. After all, if I have some sort of secret alter-ego that lies dormant inside of me making surprise appearances without my knowledge, it might be best if I kept to myself.

  I don’t know how to process all of these thoughts, and I feel the control I’ve been so desperate to hold onto start to slip away.

  I snake my fingers through my hair, grabbing the ends and let out a frustrated groan. I know I said I planned to rest, but as soon as it’s safe to leave my apartment, I’m going to the only place I’ve ever felt truly at ease.

  The door to Rudy’s shop swings open and jolts with a bang as it slams into the bookshelf beside it.

  “Jesus Christ, kid! What the hell’s the matter with you?” Rudy scolds from behind the counter.

  My thoughts are wild and disjointed. My breathing is erratic. I haven’t seen myself in a mirror, but if the look on Rudy’s face when he sees me is any indication, my outward appearance matches my inside.

  He watches me closely, a careful expression on his face as though he’s encountered a wounded animal and is trying to determine the best way to approach it. “Okay, kid. Settle yourself. Come over here and sit down a minute.” He speaks slowly, enunciating every syllable. He gestures to the stool next to the counter and motions for me to take a seat.

  I trudge over to him and flop myself down on the small wooden stool. My shoulders hit the counter with a thud and I let my face fall in my hands. I’m beginning to rethink coming here. I don’t even know how to begin to explain what’s going on inside this fucked-up brain of mine.

  Rudy breaks the silence with a hearty cough. After a few minutes of hacking, he clears his throat a final time before speaking. “So what’s cookin’, good-lookin’?”

  I’m momentarily stunned by his choice of words, but then I remind myself that this is Rudy. Common social norms don’t apply to him. He lives by his own set of rules and even those are constantly changing.

  “I feel…” My voice is small and unsure. I try again. “I feel like I’m losing control.” I spit the words out of my mouth in rapid succession hoping to exorcis
e the demon that’s raging inside me. It’s no use.

  I lift my head and my eyes search his for answers, for understanding, for guidance. If what I’ve said fazes him at all, he doesn’t show it.

  He sighs loudly and shifts his large frame. The tiny wooden stool he’s perched on creaks from his weight. “Let me tell you something. Life is dull as dishwater if there’s nothing to keep it interesting.”

  “Rudy, right about now, I’d take dull over this. I’d welcome it with open arms, as a matter of fact.”

  He shakes his head and flings his hand in disgust. “Owen, you’re so full of shit, your eyes are brown. Nobody wants that.” He gives me a knowing look. “But you already know that. That’s not why you came here.”

  I’m not sure what he means, but I decide to just nod so he’ll continue.

  “Listen, kid. You don’t need me to tell you what to do here. You already know. It sounds like life has taken a shit for itself.” He looks at me pointedly, and the words he speaks next poke a hole straight through the fog. “So what are you gonna do about it, huh?”

  Everything clicks into place and I’m suddenly on my feet and rushing to the door. Just as I’m about to leave, I stop in my tracks and turn my head to look back at the man who’s been the only thing resembling a friend to me these past few years.

  We don’t speak, but we don’t need to. Understanding passes between us, and I realize that Rudy may be the only person on this earth who truly knows me.

  With a nod, I take hold of the doorknob and push it open with more care this time. As the door closes behind me, I hear Rudy call out, “Good luck, kid! And don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out!”

  53

  Three years ago, I left Connecticut with two duffel bags, my father’s old cedar chest, and the clothes on my back. In the short time I’ve lived here, I haven’t accumulated much more. The few items in my kitchen and bedroom and the faded futon in my living room hold no special meaning and can easily be replaced.