Bleed Through

by Arrington, Adriana

She didn’t know the half of it.

  “You can go home feeling saintly now. I’m leaving the beach in one tortured piece,” he snapped.

  The woman laughed and stuck out her hand. “Name’s Mai Nguyen. Whom may I tell my family I saved today?”

  Rain fell in a steady rhythm now, the grand deluge seconds away. There seemed to be nobody on the beach but the two of them. He kept his hand to his side. “Liam Murphy.”

  “Well then, Liam, nice to meet you. And I will feel better knowing you went home and didn’t die today.” She held out her arms as if to usher him off the sand and back to the parking lot. He found himself complying, a smile teasing at the edge of his lips, until a shriek from the ocean whipped his head back to the waves pounding the beach.

  middle-aged woman with a shock of red hair stood waist deep in the swirling waves. She screamed out at the water, terror punctuating her words. “Somebody help! Please!” She pointed outward, where thirty or forty yards away, a pale, bald head crested out of a wave and then sunk again.

  Liam streaked toward the woman, dropping his bag and flip-flops in the wet sand. Her distressed pleas sent goose bumps racing along his spine.

  “Liam! Stop! What are you doing?” Mai yelled.

  “I have to help that man! Can’t you see he’s drowning?”

  Mai caught up to Liam and clasped his arm.

  “There’s nobody here but us,” she said. Angry waves lapped against their feet.

  He swallowed his rebuttal as he looked back out at the ocean. The man had disappeared.

  Eyes full of confusion, Mai shook her head and placed her other hand on Liam’s arm. “I don’t see or hear anybody.”

  She was right. The woman had stopped screaming. In fact, she had stopped altogether. Not even footprints on the shore remained as evidence of her presence.

  “Umm, right. Sorry. I thought I heard somebody,” he mumbled.

  She made eye contact and flashed a reassuring smile, keeping her hands on his arm. “Happens to the best of us.”

  Of course, it didn’t. Not even remotely. He appreciated Mai’s white lie anyway. Most people ran away from him, and nobody attempted to comfort him.

  A bolt of lightning flashed in the sky, so close and bright the thunder cracked in his bones and blinded him temporarily.

  “We have to leave. Now!” he yelled over the pouring rain. She nodded. He grabbed his Adidas slides and bag and ran back to the parking lot. Wet sand, kicked up by Mai sprinting alongside him, pelted his legs. Preoccupied with her proximity, Liam forgot to fish out his keys until he stood before the Hyundai, staring at it like it would magically open on its own.

  “Still shaken up, aren’t you?” She placed one hand on his shoulder before slipping his bag from his fingers, rummaging through it until she held up his keys in victory.

  “Put the pointy end in the lock and turn.” Mai smirked and motioned at his car.

  Unsure whether he should be amused or irritated by her peculiar blend of sweet and sour, he swiped the keys from her hands. “Yeah, I know. Up until five minutes ago, I somehow managed to live without you bossing me around.”

  “Wonders never cease.”

  She waved goodbye before hopping into a Honda Civic three spaces over and, proving herself a royal nuisance, she flashed her lights until he jammed his keys in the lock and opened the door. Salty rainwater dripped over the seat and steering wheel as he eased into the car. Only after he slammed shut his door did she pull out of the parking lot, honking as she drove past.

  That woman was a piece of work. Exactly what kind of work, he couldn’t decide.

  No matter how much Mai intrigued him, though, she couldn’t take his mind off the drowning. The vision seemed as real as the one he’d seen at the yacht club. The woman had been as vivid as life, and the grief in her cries still echoed inside his head.

  Why all the breakthrough symptoms? His brain had a distinct limit on how many times it could differentiate between hallucination and reality. If he didn’t stop his precarious dance soon, he’d end up back in a hospital. The mere thought twisted his stomach.

  He waited fifteen minutes to avoid the worst of the storm, and the hapless tourists driving through it, before turning on the car. The windshield wipers swished back and forth, clearing a direct path to the beach in front of him, where, once again, the woman with the red hair screamed and pointed out at the water. He gritted his teeth and backed out.

  n hour later, Liam drove onto Eagle Drive. After passing the turn for the yacht club, he pulled into Isaac’s driveway. Parked underneath the carport, his stepfather’s silver bike glinted against the afternoon light. His mother’s SUV, however, was conspicuously absent.

  Fantastic. It’d be only Isaac and him at home.

  With a sigh of resignation, Liam swung his legs out of the Hyundai and walked toward the house, a squat rambler constructed of cinderblocks painted the same sickly yellow Van Gogh had selected for the hallway in “Corridor in Saint-Paul Hospital.” Dr. Jen must share a design aesthetic with military-housing developers.

  His throat constricted at the thought of his psychologist. What if she decided to drop him as a patient because of their disagreement?

  He shuffled onto the porch and checked his phone for voicemails. Still none from Dr. Jen. Or anybody else. He was in no danger of winning any popularity contests.

  The dissipated thunderstorm left the atmosphere damp and smothering. He turned the front door handle. As usual, Isaac had left the house unlocked. No matter how many times Liam begged him to implement better safety practices, he refused. Although base housing might not make for the largest accommodations, he believed they made some of the safest.

  Of course, he’d change his mind if he knew a replica lived across the street from them.

  His stepfather typically displayed better judgment, but Mrs. Channer was a shifty bugger. She camouflaged herself well as a past-her-expiration-date housewife. Most anybody would be fooled by her. But not Liam.

  “Hello?” Liam glanced around the joint dining and living room. No sign of Isaac. He ventured farther in and peeked his head around the hallway corner. The faint sound of running water came from the master suite. Good. He’d spend the next few minutes in peace while Isaac took a shower.

  The muscles in his lower back loosened just perceptibly before the stench of fresh-baked cookies snapped them taut again. Fear knotted Liam’s stomach, but then his eyes caught on a fragrance plug-in. His mother insisted on using those nasty scents and must’ve switched in a new odor. He yanked it out of the wall, stomped into the kitchen, and tossed the disturbing fragrance into the trash.

  Shirt pulled over his nose to protect it from the cookie stench, he collapsed onto the couch in the living room. A framed picture of his younger self stared at him from the top of a mahogany buffet. Taken before his troubles, or at least the ones obvious to everybody else, his smile overflowed with presumed bright prospects and blissful ignorance. He wore a crisp white dobok tied with his newly minted tae kwon do black belt.

  On occasion, he caught his mother holding the photo. She grieved the loss of her son. What she didn’t seem to understand was he shared her grief. He missed who he used to be more than she ever could. He longed to be the boy in the picture once again.

  Isaac cleared his throat from the hallway. Liam roused himself from useless memories and nostalgia. No doubt Isaac thought him lost in the mazes of his mind. And he was, in a sense. But these mazes were on the sane side.

  “How’d class go?” Isaac wore long basketball shorts and a sleeveless shirt emblazoned with “Northwestern University” on it. His biceps flexed as he leaned against the doorway and rubbed his hand over his closely shorn head.

  “Uneventful,” Liam lied. He sullenly tugged his shirt off his face.

  As a JAG, Isaac knew how to interrogate an unwilling witness. “What did you think of the professor?”

  As his father’s son, Liam knew how to avoid answering a question. “She’ll do.”

&
nbsp; Isaac’s lips tightened, and he stayed mute, probably constructing his feelings into a non-threatening statement. Since Liam had come to live with them, Dr. Jen had worked with both Allison and him on cognitive behavioral therapy. To keep Liam as stable as possible, they aimed to keep the house calm and free of conflict.

  That much they could all agree upon.

  “Liam, you can do this. I know I don’t have any idea how hard it is. But I do know you’ve got a strong will.” He looked away as if the compliment pained him.

  “Don’t insult me, Isaac. You know I can’t will myself better.”

  “I’m simply saying I believe in you.” He held up a hand in frustration. “Not every comment I say to you is a criticism.”

  “Spare me. Do you even know what it’s like? To have people judging you before they know who you really are?” Liam slapped the couch in emphasis and sat up straight. “The way you look at me, the way everybody looks at me, like I’m one step away from a mass-murder spree. It’s exhausting.”

  “Are you seriously telling me I’ve never been subjected to people’s prejudices?” Isaac barked a bitter laugh and rubbed the dark skin on his cheek before lifting his hand toward Liam. “I’m reduced to a stereotype every single day. You―even with a criminal record―can go into stores and mind your own business, and nobody will look at you twice. I go into the same store, and they’ve got more sights trained on me than a drone does on a Somalian terrorist.”

  Liam squeezed the bridge of his nose. Mired in the swamps of his mind, he didn’t have the energy for sympathy, no matter how valid a point his stepfather made.

  He gazed at Isaac, just long enough to be antagonizing, when it happened again.

  A vague, white halo surrounded his stepfather. It withdrew from his body, taking its time to depart. The white mist swirled near his feet, amalgamating into a familiar figure. Liam blinked.

  The shape had morphed into Tasha.

  he ghostly Tasha was older, perhaps twenty or so. Her normally meticulous hair had fallen into a state of disrepair, gnarled into a huge tangle that hadn’t seen a hint of care in months. Full of fear and pain, her eyes rounded into large Os. She drooled and gesticulated her fist in a violent tic.

  Liam choked out loud as his greatest fear paraded in front of him. His sister was psychotic. She shared his illness.

  This isn’t real. Tasha is healthy. She won’t get sick.

  The brown, leather couch crinkled under his death grip. Dr. Jen counseled him to analyze his hallucinations. This particular one he understood well. His concern Tasha would end up like him was no deep, dark secret he had to unlock. So why did his mind conjure up this image?

  Understanding spread through his brain like oil over a hot pan. He hadn’t created this vision. It belonged to Isaac.

  Damn.

  So not only did he have to live with the man, but now he also had to see his inner thoughts?

  The particles that made up schizophrenic Tasha dissolved, leaving the room silent with their absence.

  “She won’t end up like me,” said Liam. He picked at a scab on his knee.

  “What?” Isaac’s eyes widened.

  “Tasha. She’s gonna be fine.” He hoped with all his soul he told the truth. It wouldn’t be fair if his illness also plagued Tasha. But then, schizophrenia didn’t care about fair.

  Isaac crossed his arms.

  He dragged his feet across the floor. “The illness is on my father’s side, as I’m sure Mom told you.”

  The set of Isaac’s jaw and his sudden interest in the backyard suggested a deeper reason for his fears.

  He smacked his forehead and snorted. “I can’t believe it took me this long to put it together. There’s a history on your side too, isn’t there?”

  The resounding silence of Isaac’s answer told him all he needed to know. His stepfather continued to stare ahead, unwilling or unable to admit he might be capable of creating somebody like Liam.

  “Well, this explains a lot. You don’t hate me because I’m ill. You hate me because I’m a constant reminder of what might happen.” He rose from the couch, stood in front of Isaac, and jabbed his finger in his stepfather’s muscular chest. “So who was it? A long-forgotten aunt or uncle? Somebody left to rot on their own like Mom would’ve left me if the police hadn’t called her?”

  The muscles under Isaac’s shirt rippled. “Step away from me, son.”

  “I’m not your son.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Isaac’s lips compressed with instant regret.

  Liam didn’t mind. He fought lies all day long.

  Isaac took a deep breath. “You can’t blame your mother for what happened to you.”

  “Why not? She blames me for what I’ve done.” Liam thumped his chest. “And she left me when I needed her most.”

  “Whatever you think, she didn’t abandon you.”

  The air conditioner clanked on to combat the intense afternoon heat, and sunlight shone through the living room window, fading the navy and merlot hues of Isaac’s Turkish rugs to anemic pastels.

  “You weren’t there for the beginning of my illness. You don’t know.” Liam grabbed his head and squeezed, red ringlets sprouting through his fingertips. “Instead of fearing what Tasha will become, you should fear how my Mom will handle it. Because let me tell you, she doesn’t handle ‘uncomfortable’ situations well.” He dropped his hands and jutted out his jaw. “Haven’t you ever wondered why my mother lived half the country away from me?”

  “Your father moved, and she stayed. That’s all.” Isaac didn’t meet his gaze.

  He laughed. “Dad thought the best treatment facility for schizophrenia was in Ohio, so he left the Air Force and moved us there. Only four years stood between him and retirement when he quit.” Liam shook with rage and thrust four fingers in the air, waving them in Isaac’s face. “To provide for me, he found a crappy job that met the clinic’s health insurance requirements and worked there until he died. And Mom? She devoted one week a year to me. Poor thing would have to come and visit so Dad could get a break. Can you imagine the strain she must’ve felt?”

  “You didn’t want her near you.” A vein on Isaac’s forehead bulged.

  “Ahh. So her story is I wanted to be abandoned?” Liam dipped his head in mock understanding. “Right, right. She never doubts what I tell her. Takes every word out of my mouth as gospel.” He flipped his palms upward. “How can I possibly blame my mother for not helping me when I needed her most?”

  Isaac leveled a hard stare at him. “It’s not easy, you know. Living with somebody who’s unpredictable. It can be scary.”

  “Pardon me if I can’t summon up any pity.” Liam sniffed. “It’s pretty damn scary this side of schizophrenia too. Especially when your father dies and your mother leaves you to your own devices.”

  “You were in remission.” A wise man, Isaac stood stiff like he thought moving one muscle might trigger a physical confrontation.

  “Ever heard of a setback trigger?” Liam balled his fists. “Think having a state trooper stop by your house to tell you that your father is dead might cause one?”

  Joshua appeared next to Isaac. “Hit him in the jaw,” he urged Liam. “He’s got it coming.”

  As if he heard Joshua’s command, Isaac’s nostrils flared. “Tasha will be home soon. I think it’s best if you go out for a breath of fresh air.”

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Liam inhaled and shoved aside Joshua’s order. Even if Isaac was a prick, he spoke the truth. Tasha would be home soon. And Liam didn’t want to scare her.

  he marina loomed ahead. Parked boats, varying from modest motorboats to top-of-the-line sailboats, lined the parking lot next to it. Liam crossed the street and dropped by the base shoppette. The day required a soda.

  He walked the aisles filled with basic needs such as bread, coffee, and boxed mac-n-cheese. His father had often taken him to shoppettes when he was younger, allowing him to grab a treat for good behavior. Maybe a Slim Jim, maybe a p
ack of sugary candy. Exactly the types of food his mother now forbid in her house. He grabbed a beverage from the refrigerated section and brought it to the counter.

  “ID?” the bored cashier said.

  Liam flashed his military ID card. The cashier bent forward to read it. After a moment, she looked up at him from under her bespectacled lenses. Maybe she hadn’t ever seen a twenty-five-year-old dependent “child” before. Not many existed. Had to have special dispensation for it.

  “Yep, that’s me. Can I pay for this and be done with it?”

  The woman grunted in reply and averted her gaze.

  He contemplated peppering the cashier with questions so she had to interact with him but ultimately decided against the effort. Instead, he paid in silence, then strolled out of the shoppette and ambled by the yacht club. A few couples lingered on the clubhouse deck, chatting over early afternoon drinks. He hiked out to his usual perch at the tip of the jetty and avoided looking at the dock. The day had been trying enough without witnessing a murder.

  A small fish skipped over the water as he popped open the lid of his soda. Much as he didn’t like Isaac, he disliked fighting with him even more. What unsettled him most, though, was Tasha’s apparition.

  Could he possibly see into Isaac’s mind? Into Dr. Jen’s mind?

  The visions were probably new and improved hallucinations. But the part of Liam’s brain that clung to the hope he was better, that his illness was mostly in remission, insisted the scenes were real. Unbidden, his eyes trailed over the rippling waves to the dock.

  Water sparkled in the empty slip adjacent to the murder scene. Perhaps Cull had docked Freedom elsewhere. Liam scanned the marina and found plenty of Black Pearls and a Serenity or two, but no Freedom.

  He walked back up the jetty and reached the dock. He stepped tentatively onto the wooden slats, bleached gray by years of sunshine and salt water. A swift gust of wind pushed against his back, sending him stumbling fully onto the dock. The marina bell tolled as another blast of wind shoved him forward. He flexed his quadriceps and grounded his feet before taking small, choppy steps toward the scene of the crime.