The Evolutionist

by Rena Mason

  Really, this is my life? It’s not making any sense, and why didn’t I notice it before? Is this some kind of whacky newfound awareness caused by my instability? No thanks—I prefer to remain blind and content to all these hidden comments and gestures and not give a damn. Maybe this is what the tones want me to See—that my life is a façade.

  Too much is going on and so much still left unsaid it seems. For reprieve, I mentally orchestrate all the ambient sounds to harmonize with the tones. Bill and Jon’s voices, Cally’s, the ambient music sifting through speakers in the restaurant, along with the voices coming from down below, and the clinking of dinnerware—they are all a part of my escape symphony. My heart starts to race. I turn my head and look toward the elevator. I want to jump up and leave, run far away, but where?

  To Dr. Light—I want to run to Dr. Light.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Halfway through dinner, I’d already made the decision to take a Valium before bed. Skipping them doesn’t feel like it’s done me any favors. Even though I haven’t felt like I’ve needed them, a little relaxation would be most welcome after this evening’s emotional chaos. I played with my food most of the time, taking only small bites here and there. They all spoke incessantly, but no one commented on my lack of participation. There was a sense of gloom around us left ignored. It felt to me like they all knew something was wrong, and I wasn’t necessarily the cause.

  Jon didn’t say much on the way home, or when he was undressing, then showering. He put on a pair of sweats and an old T-shirt, kissed my forehead as I lie in bed, then headed down to the office.

  I’m trying hard to take in slow deep breaths while thinking of Dr. Light, but I keep losing focus. It’s no use, so I give up and allow the Valium to do its work. I reach over then turn off the light.

  * * *

  The light of the fire glows beneath the hazy red sky. Flat on my back, looking up, I watch endless swirls of black smoke rise and curl. Something’s not right. I hear more than the usual crackling and popping of the fire. It sounds like low moans. I sit up and look at the mound. All of the bodies are whole again, and they are writhing. My God, I’m burning them alive!

  Frantic, I get up and run over. “Help,” Several of them yell. “The pain,” they scream. “Get us out!”

  A gnarled bundle of burning flesh, they fight and struggle to free themselves from one another. Their limbs are stretched out, reaching and swaying like anchored soft corals in a strong current.

  Toni, from across the street, inches her way toward me. “Help me,” she cries out. Half of her face is charred, bubbling open the way pizza does when it’s baking. It’s drooping, coming off. Distorting her image, like a melting picture.

  I panic, can’t think. I’m turning around and around, looking for a way to help. Then I run to the cart. Grab the axe. Race toward the mound again and stumble over something. The axe launches forward. I look back—it’s Toni. She reached her hand out and tripped me. She continues to strain and drag herself closer. Then she grabs hold of the back of my leg just above my boot.

  I’m punching and kicking her, but she doesn’t let go. It feels as though her hand has melted into my thigh. “Stop! It burns,” I scream. Remembering the axe, I turn around, dig my elbows into the hard desert clay and inch my way over to it. The handle within arm’s reach, I claw at the earth with my fingernails. Several of them crack and splinter back, a few tear away from their nail beds, but nothing hurts worse than the burning of my leg. At last, I feel the smooth handle with the tips of my fingers and pull it closer. Toni tightens her grip, and I shriek in pain. I glance at my leg and my pants are on fire. Without thinking, I sweep the axe toward her. Against the sand and rubble, the skin on my wrist peels back and bunches up under my thumb. The axe blade doesn’t have enough momentum to hit her. It stops, and she reaches for the blade. I clench my teeth then scrape the axe back across the dirt. The bundled skin beneath my thumb moves over my stripped wrist embedded with sand and pebbles. I use the handle to get myself up, and when I’m standing firm on one leg, the other still on fire, I raise the blade up into the air. The skin from my wrist flaps open and hangs. Sandy blood sprinkles onto my face and into my eyes. I squint to keep them open and chop.

  “No,” Toni yells through sloughing lips.

  The axe strikes her upper arm, but doesn’t cut deep enough to sever it. Her screams are now loud gurgles and hisses. I pull and lift the axe out, then bring it down hard, splitting what was left of her scorched face. Her grip on my leg releases. I drop and wriggle my backside around in the dirt. Then everything goes silent.

  Lying on the ground, I turn my head and look over to the mound, blinking constantly to clear the sand from my eyes. A face stares back at me—one I immediately recognize—it’s Patrick. He is burning, screaming, and he can’t get out. There are too many bodies squirming to get free. All piled on top of him. My God, what have I done? Sound comes back all at once. It’s chaos.

  “Mom! Help!”

  I jump up and run to him. Drop to my knees then grab hold of his burning hands and pull. Flames lick my raw wrist, making it sizzle and sting. Patrick’s skin slides off like a pair of gloves, exposing gooey blood on top of the flesh. He screams again, and I scream with him, holding burnt layers of his tissue in the shape of fingers and hands. I toss them away then extract the axe from Toni’s face. Maniacal, I raise and swing, raise and swing, hacking at my neighbors, killing them, trying to get them off Patrick.

  His screams intensify and my attempts to free him are useless. His shrill cries, I can’t stand them! I look down into his eyes.

  “Save me, Mom,” he groans.

  My knees buckle, but I stay upright. “Close your eyes,” I tell him. “I’ll get you out.”

  When his eyes are closed, I raise the axe again with shaking hands. “Love you,” I whisper. Tears roll into my mouth and onto my tongue as I take in a deep breath. I exhale and bring the heavy blade down with everything I’ve got left. The chop is smooth, but then I hit something more solid, stopping the motion. It nearly splits his head apart. The metallic back end of the axe flickers in the firelight. I tug on the handle. It’s stuck. The blade must be buried deep into the base of his skull. No energy left, I step away and fall back to the ground, crying.

  * * *

  My hands grip the tear-soaked pillow as if it was the handle of an axe. I let go and reach behind me for Jon. He’s not there. I sit up and take a look around. He never came to bed. It’s a first that makes me curious. I flip the covers off then go into the bathroom. After drying my tears and blowing my nose, I lift my robe from a hook in the closet then head down to the office.

  Standing in the hall with my hand on the lever, I hesitate for a second. Last time I was in there, I heard children from one of my past-life déjà vu’s laughing behind the door. I put my ear up against it and listen—nothing. The door swings open and I see Jon seated in the office chair, lying face down across the desk. I walk over to him and gently move the computer mouse from his hand. The screen lights up and he moans a little then covers his eyes with his arm.

  It’s an email from Jordan about the fundraiser sent directly to his account. She praises him for allowing her to have more control in the decision making. She thinks it’s a good idea that I get some rest, too. They have obviously been collaborating.

  What is she up to?

  A part of me thinks I know.

  Bitch.

  None of this matters now for God’s sake—I just killed my son in a nightmare!

  I click and close the message then put my hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Honey, wake up.”

  His head jerks back and his eyes open wide, staring at the computer screen. Nothing is there now but a picture of Patrick kicking a soccer ball. “What? Did I fall asleep?” He rubs his eyes.

  “Yeah. Come to bed, okay?”

  He gets up and walks to the door with me right behind him. And when he leaves the room, I look back to the shelves. His anatomy books glow electric blue in
the computer light. They are the same ones that taught me how to properly dismember him. It makes me shudder as I step out, then close the door behind me. Jon walks down the hall to our bedroom, and I quietly make my way to Patrick’s room. I open the door and creep up to his bed. He is sound asleep, snoring. Not quite like a man, but no longer like a little boy. I pull the covers up over his shoulders then lean down and kiss the head I cleaved—in my nightmare.

  * * *

  Loud rhythmic thumps jolt me from bed. I swing open the double doors and catch a glimpse of Patrick. His heavy footsteps pound the carpet as he goes downstairs. I step back and look at the clock on my nightstand. It’s a little after seven! I can’t believe I slept in so late. Why didn’t Jon wake me? It is another first.

  A cup of coffee sits on the nightstand with cream clumping on the surface. I pick it up and gulp it down in one swallow. Cold yuck, it leaves a pasty, oily texture on my tongue. I put the cup on the nightstand then dart into the bathroom.

  After brushing my teeth, I splash some water on my face. Then put my hair up in a big clip, and put on a pair of yoga pants with a matching jacket.

  Patrick comes charging in. “You’re just getting up?”

  “I’m ready. Let’s go.” I’ve got one hand crimping my eyelashes, and I’m waving him away with the other.

  “Great, I’m gonna be late,” he grumbles on his way out.

  I put on some lip gloss then jog downstairs. I grab my purse from the laundry room and rush through the door. Patrick is in the car waiting with the garage open. I get in, start the engine, and peel out.

  He’s staring out the passenger window, brooding over the fact he might be late for school. It feels strange looking at him after what happened in my dream last night. When I see his face, the image of him on fire with his head split open comes to mind. Even though it wasn’t real, it felt real. Glancing down at my wrist, I distinctly remember the rubbing and stinging like sandpaper. The burning of my leg was so intense—unlike any other nightmare I’ve ever had.

  Once I pass the school zone in front of Bishop Almeida High, I push the gas pedal to the floor and haul ass down the road at fifty miles an hour. It’s green lights all the way.

  Patrick looks up, dumbstruck, then grabs hold of the side door and grips it tight as I zip between cars. It’s kind of fun, just this once, to drive like them and cut them off. To give back a little taste of the havoc they wreak on me every day.

  In half the time it normally takes, I pull up to the school and slam on the brakes. I have a big smirk on my face. We’re not late at all, and he knows it. He scrambles to unbuckle his seatbelt then gets out of the car. “Don’t forget I’m done at one today,” he says, “and I think maybe you should lay off the caffeine a little.” He shuts the door before I can respond.

  I put the window down and shout after him. “Okay! Bye…Love you.” The last part comes out in a whisper the way it did in my dream last night.

  Without turning around, he raises his arm and waves his hand for me to drive off.

  Typical.

  Now, I suppose I should go home and get properly dressed, but the idea of a real cup of coffee seems to be more vital. I pull into the drive-thru and order the sixteen ounce with three extra shots of espresso. It’s nearly seven dollars, but worth every damn penny. I drive away from the pick-up window, then pull off to the side and put the car in park.

  The coffee is hot, and I burn my tongue, but I can’t imbibe it fast enough. Hmm…molten energy, it’s exactly what I need. When I’m halfway done, I put the car into drive then head toward the freeway. I’m amped up now between the coffee and the road racing I’d done earlier. To calm myself, I take in a few deep breaths and tune into the soft music of the tones.

  * * *

  Once again, I arrive at Dr. Light’s office building on time and without remembering how. Mine is the only car ever in the parking lot, and if it weren’t for the fact I knew I was in Vegas, this could all be taking place in the backlot of a movie studio in Hollywood. But it’s not important now. I need a quick fix for these nightmares, a cure, before something terrible happens. The latest instance confirms my doom theory, and if I’m right, it appears I will be the one responsible for everyone’s demise—burning them in some way.

  I get out of the car, walk fast, and keep my eyes down. I notice something unnerving about the building I never did before—I feel like it is looking at me. Every window is a socket with the shades cracked open just enough to peek out, and See me.

  I don’t care anymore, I need him to listen, hear me out. It’s easy to understand how people get caught up in these one-on-one therapy sessions. It is addicting. I have a tremendous feeling of power knowing I can tell him anything at all, and no matter what I say, he can’t repeat it. Then there’s the downside, where he could have me committed, but nowadays I think it would take something like a horrible psychotic episode for that to happen.

  In the building, I rush to his office ignoring the glimpses of oddities my eyes see along the way. The marble floor pulsing and swirling underfoot, walls in the lobby that weren’t there before. And plants—I do not remember seeing any of those.

  From the end of the hallway, I see him leaning against the entry, keeping the door from swinging shut with his shoe. His head is down. His gaze seems to be fixated on the floor. Even when I’m sure he hears me coming he doesn’t look up.

  I get to the door, and he moves his foot, but neither one of us makes any eye contact. “Good morning, Dr. Light.” I walk on through, head straight back to his office, throw my purse to the floor, and hop up onto the lounger.

  A minute or so later, he catches up then closes the door.

  “I killed my son last night.”

  “What?”

  “Not for real. I mean, in my nightmare.”

  After a second or two, he sighs dramatically. “Oh. That’s a relief,” he says. It’s as if he had to think about it then come up with a logical response.

  “Not really though, see…I think it means I’m going to kill my family. People I love.”

  “And what brought you to this conclusion?”

  “Nothing I can pinpoint—I just know. I’m not sure how to explain, but I’m right.”

  “Perhaps we could find out more with a little hypnotherapy today. What do you think?”

  “What? No. The last time you hypnotized me I left hearing…music. And I still hear it.”

  “Interesting…maybe if I hypnotize you today, it’ll stop.”

  “I don’t know. What if it does something worse?”

  “Are you worried?”

  “Yes actually, I am. I think the hypnosis opened a mental gateway of some sort. Things from my dreams are free to move back and forth into my reality.”

  “That’s impossible. I told you not to be afraid.”

  “If you’d seen what I have, you’d be scared, too.”

  “I’ve observed a great many things. More than you could ever imagine, unless…” He turns away and stares out at the air.

  The tones seem a little louder in here. Something is different about them, too. They have changed, sound more insistent, if that’s even possible. Instead of listening to a recording, the music is live. I only wish I could understand. “Unless, what?” I say.

  “Nothing. Let me hypnotize you. Sometimes it can help interpret the meaning of things.”

  “Are you reading my mind, Dr. Light?”

  He turns and looks straight into my eyes. “No.”

  “Seriously, I was just thinking something along the same lines, and it was like you answered. Did I say it out loud?”

  “I don’t know what you mean. Shall we begin?”

  “You really think it will help explain last night’s nightmare?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then fine. Go ahead.” I try to relax, lie back, and close my eyes, take in a deep breath then exhale. “I see the red now, Dr. Light.”

  “The sound of my voice is blue. As I speak, my voice moves through you
in waves and gently pushes out the red. You will take in three slow breaths. With each one, the blue waves of my voice will darken until you can see only a deep indigo. Do you understand?”

  He puts his icy hands on my temples again. The red disappears in a flash. Nothing is left but blue. It’s an arctic darkness he’s putting into me. My head feels heavy, weak. I’m already under his spell. The indigo is oppressive. I can’t stop sinking into it. I concentrate and put all my energy into wiggling my big toe, but I can’t. This is the first time I’ve felt powerless in his presence. Something seems different, not quite right.

  “Tell me about your dream,” he says.

  Even my lips are heavy. It is nearly impossible to move them. I inhale through my mouth to force them apart. “They were burning.” I sound like a drunk, slurring my words. “I killed my son.”

  “No. About your other dream. The one with the shadows. Do you know who they are?”

  “Not people.”

  “What then?”

  “Monsters.”

  “No, not monsters either. I want you to think about a time when they were near.”

  “Too scary.”

  “Please, try Stacy. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you? What do you see?”

  “Little lights…they dance around in the dark.”

  “Yes?”

  “They fade.”

  “Go on.”

  “They’re in a circle.”

  “Who?”

  “The twenty-six. You’re there, too. You’re one of them.” My heart starts to race. “I want to stop. I don’t want to see anymore.”

  “It’s important, Stacy. Face your fear, and tell me what you see?”

  “Their eyes. Big and black…like yours. Monsters.” I have to wake up, but I can’t snap out of this.