Sunburnt

by Joey Jameson

  Normal.

  But lately the episodes seemed to be starting up again. Years down the line, things had started to shift. This time, they were more intense. Different. More disturbing.

  Sometimes he’d wake up bruised or with torn clothing. Once he woke in a public park, naked except for a pair of handcuffs shackled around one wrist. Other times he’d find his pockets full of money.

  But it wasn’t like waking up from a dream. It was as if he was coming to. Like he had taken a holiday from his body and was only now returning to regain control of his limbs.

  Lately the things he discovered in his pockets had grown more sinister. Jewellery that looked antique. Locks of hair that weren’t his own. Even nail clippings.

  Then there were the blood stains.

  They started appearing one night a couple of years ago. They had seemed innocent enough at the time. Cuts and blood on his fingertips or knees that he thought were due to having fallen during one of his episodes; the occasional graze on his forehead or nose. But then one night he woke up in an underground parking garage in the backseat of a car that he didn’t recognise. When he began his inspection of himself, it didn’t take long before he saw his top and arms were streaked with blood. Too much blood to be accidentally spilled.

  And it wasn’t his own.

  Then there was the matter of the missing persons reports. Four in the last eight years. Young men, gay men like himself, all under the age of thirty and all missing on the island. All missing in areas where he would inexplicably find himself during one of his episodes.

  Lyric knew he should have gone to the police years ago. But he was too afraid they’d have him locked up again. He was terrified of what truth he might discover about himself. He detested his time in the Institute and there was no way in hell he’d ever go back. Not over his dead body.

  There was no denying the cowardly fashion in which Lyric lived his life. He knew he should have sought help after the first incident. Turned himself in or at least gone to the police for help. But he didn’t. And he knew he never would. He always kept an eye on the local news, each day waking up and praying that no missing persons would have been reported and that he could live another day of his life without worrying he’d be caught for something he had no memory of doing.

  Lying to himself had become a part of his daily routine.

  He shook his head and stood abruptly.

  This was not the time to head down memory lane, not while in this state. This was the time to remain in control. Calm. Present.

  He showered twice. Each time letting the water run so hot that it practically scalded his skin, leaving it red and raw. He scrubbed himself from head to toe, desperate to feel clean and normal; the fear of the unknown plaguing him and making his stomach turn. He vomited twice before forcing a piece of toast down his throat in an effort to stop the shakes that were taking over his frame.

  Once dressed and somewhat presentable, he stood in his lounge, staring around, unsure of what to do with himself. He spied his ukulele in the corner of the room, propped up against a table that held a vintage record player; one of the many things in the apartment left over from his parents’ day.

  His parents had instilled in him a love of music and taught him how to play the piano, ukulele, and guitar among other things. Since he had been young, music was his escape. Ibiza was the perfect place to harbour a love and adoration for all things musical and since his episodes had recommenced in his early twenties, Lyric had found solace and comfort in his instruments.

  The sight of his ukulele was enough to still his thoughts, even for a moment, and allow him to partially convince himself that everything was going to be all right.

  He strode over to the table and picked up his uke, before heading straight for the door, knowing there was only one place for him to go.

  Chapter Twenty

  THEN

  The sun was just starting to show itself in the rosy sky, therefore the beach wasn’t busy when Lyric made his way down. He walked towards the shore as if in a trance, eyes fixed on the ground and taking no notice of those around him. His feet were bare and he wore only a pair of shorts despite the slight chill to the air, but his skin was neither warm nor cold, as if he had lost all feeling in his body.

  When he reached the sand, he fell into a lounge chair listlessly, exhausted yet buzzing at the same time. His mind had settled and begun to clear itself, letting go of the anxiety and trying to remain still and untethered, yet his chest felt heavy and dull and plagued with a sense of worry and doubt that he couldn’t shake.

  Lyric let his head fall back and rest on the lounger as he exhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and began to play. It only took a moment for his fingers to find their way on the strings of the instrument, plucking them gently and coaxing soothing vibrations from its wooden curves. His lips moved to the words of a sweet melody that he shared with the ocean before him. His skin warmed as the rising sun greeted him and told him it would be all right.

  Music took him away. Away from his thoughts and out of his head. When he was alone with his music, it was as if nothing could touch him. All his many worries and fears simply melted away and his mind became calm and still.

  After a few moments of being lost in his little world, Lyric had the feeling he was being watched. Opening his eyes, he was greeted by the sight of someone standing before him. It jarred him at first glance, worry immediately flooding his body as to who this stranger might be. But as he relaxed and took in the situation, he quickly realised he needn’t have been concerned. For on the face of the man standing before him wasn’t an accusatory or angry expression, but a look of lust.

  Lyric continued to play his instrument, only this time with his eyes open. He gazed upon the lone member of his audience, soaking up the sight and appreciating the distraction. He loved to play for an audience, however small or diverse. Secretly he loved being the centre of attention. He yearned for it—eyes on him, drinking him in. He relished the focus.

  The man watching him was young. Perhaps a few years younger than Lyric. He had long, jet-black hair pulled back in a low bun at the nape of his neck. He was dressed casually, but his appearance and the way he seemed to hold himself betrayed him as a tourist. Lyric let a small grin inch its way up his face as a way of keeping his attention. He eyed his slim, yet full physique, feeling its effect resonate between his legs. There was a sudden tension between them and Lyric waited for the stranger to return his smile. But instead he seemed to become very self-aware and he turned and continued walking down the beach.

  Disappointment flooded his whole body. As fast as it had started, the moment faded away and Lyric was left alone on the beach chair, the feeling of emptiness and fear creeping back up again inside him. He waited and watched as the guy faded away into a shapeless form before he got swallowed up by the surroundings further along the beach.

  Lyric’s smile faded away as well, and he once again closed his eyes as he remembered why he was here.

  He remained there on the beach chair for the better part of an hour, until the building sounds of the people around him forced his eyes back open. He stretched his limbs and looked towards the shoreline.

  Something dark and metallic caught his eye. It was just on the edge of the water, about to be swallowed up by the rising tide. Lyric strode over to it and picked it up.

  It was a mobile phone. Black casing, simple and yet stylish. He surveyed his immediate surroundings for any sign of someone looking for a lost phone, but there wasn’t anyone remotely close to the water’s edge. When he pressed the home key, the screen lit up to reveal a photo of a man and four women, posing for a picture, all pouty lips and glazed eyes. It was the man’s face that caught his attention. He was beautiful, with almond-shaped eyes the colour of black coffee and big black brows. His hair was dark and swept back off his face. It appeared to be tied back at the nape of his neck.

  Lyric stared at his face a moment longer before he recognised him as the stranger who’d been watc
hing him play. He looked around himself in hope, his stomach coming to life and a boyish excitement reaching his every nerve ending. He checked for a locked screen, but to his surprise with a swipe of his finger the phone unlocked itself, the familiar icons presenting themselves for his viewing pleasure.

  A sly smile played with the corners of his lips as he turned to go, taking the phone with him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  THEN

  When he got back to his apartment, Lyric took a sleeping tablet and lay down. Curled up in his bed, he slept without dreaming, plagued by the same familiar sense of anxiety and nervousness he always experienced after an episode. The air inside his apartment was warm, and a simple white sheet covered his naked frame.

  When he finally stirred from his sleeping pill haze, the sky outside his bedroom window was black and the afternoon heat long gone. He shivered beneath the thin sheet and quickly moved to cover himself with the robe hanging on the door of the en suite bathroom. He hugged his arms around him as he walked drowsily towards his open window, the floor-length white sheer curtains billowing in the evening breeze.

  He ran a hand through his dreads and gathered them behind his neck, as he surveyed the throngs of people on the streets below. He caught a few of their glances as his thoughts strayed to the dark-haired stranger from this morning.

  And his phone that Lyric had picked up from the beach.

  He turned to where he had set it on the bedside table and checked the notification screen and saw eight missed calls. All intermittently placed over the past couple of hours from someone the man had saved in his contacts as simply “‘B’.”

  Having scrolled through his texts he came to find out that the guy was called Lenox. And whoever he was, he was bound to be searching the beach for his phone.

  The beach…

  Lyric checked the large clock on the wall across the open-plan lounge.

  Twelve-thirty.

  He threw on a pair of swimming trunks and a plain white vest, grabbed his keys and both his phone and the one he had found on the beach, and set off.

  WHEN LYRIC ARRIVED at his destination, he wondered if this was a stupid move. The beach was peppered with shadowy figures, all enjoying the late-night warmth and chilled-out vibe by the sea. He sat near the water’s edge and looked back towards the groups of people, straining his eyes to spot him. As the minutes passed, Lyric realised the chances of him being down here at this exact time were slim to none. But something in his gut told him to wait.

  After an hour of listening out in vain for a foreign accent, Lyric decided to take a quick dip and call it a night. He peeled off his vest and walked into the water. There was a slight chill to the sea that felt good against his skin as he dunked himself under, letting the small waves wash over his head.

  For a moment, all was quiet. Not only was the noise from the beach dimmed, but also the sounds from inside his head. Under the water, all was still and time seemed to follow suit. Lyric kicked his legs and swam out a bit to escape even further from the demons that awaited him back at shore. He allowed himself to forget all the plaguing worries about his condition. When he surfaced, he looked back at the bright lights of Ibiza’s shoreline, and took a moment to appreciate its beauty even when bathed in shadow.

  He stayed afloat for a while until the fire in his legs from treading water became too strong to ignore and forced him back to shore.

  When his feet could feel the sand, he walked out of the water, letting the droplets drip down off his broad chest as he inched his way out. As he shook the excess water from his dreads his gaze fell upon a group of people just off to his left. He squinted in the darkness. It looked like a guy and a couple of girls. He stood still for a moment, letting the air dry his body and realised that they, whoever they were, were looking towards him and giggling in a very schoolgirlish sort of way.

  One of them yelled something in his direction in what sounded like a British accent. Something about having “nice abs,” followed by lots of shushing and more giggling.

  It was him. Lenox. From earlier. It had to be. Although his face was awash in shadow, Lyric could see the shine coming from his black hair that was drawn messily back into a bun. He was dressed in a smart button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  And he was looking this way.

  Lyric decided to take a chance. He pulled the vest over his head and grabbed the two phones he had brought with him, then slowly made his way over to where the group sat.

  There were some hushed mutterings as they silenced each other. Lyric took a deep breath and flashed his most award-winning smile.

  “Esperaba verte de nuevo,” he said in Spanish, knowing full well Lenox probably didn’t speak the language.

  “I’m sorry, what’s that?” Lenox responded, a look of total confusion on his face.

  “Oh, apologies,” Lyric said, placing a hand to his chest, “I’m not sure why I assumed you were Spanish. Forgive me.” He lied through his enormous grin.

  The girls, as well as Lenox, seemed at a loss for words as they sat there, clearly stunned by Lyric’s attempt to be chivalrous. “I was just saying I was hoping to see you again.”

  “Oh,” Lenox muttered.

  Lyric held out an iPhone. “I think this belongs to you…”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  NOW

  “Why don’t you tell us about your time at L’Institut Pere Mata?” the male officer asked, his tone somewhat mocking.

  But he only returned the question with silence.

  “Mustn’t have been a very fun time for you,” the female officer added, her gaze down on the file in front of her. “Looks like you spent most of your time there in solitary confinement.”

  He flinched again. The memories of his time there flooded back with an unwelcome veracity. He closed his eyes and tried counting down from one hundred, as he had so many times before, but could already feel himself beginning to fade away in that all-too-familiar way. The ringing in his ears overwhelmed him, as did the sensation of weightlessness. He gripped the chair beneath him as if it would help anchor him to his body, the officers’ monotone drones quieting and fading away into hushed static.

  “Lyric…”

  The effect of that word was like a crack of a whip inside his head. It was the first time she had used his name since they had sat down. The sound of it jarred him further and suddenly he was back in the room. He looked down at his hands, counting his fingers and pinching the skin on his forearm; a trick he had learned in the hospital to bring him back to the present moment and out of whatever state he was in. The rising panic slowly subsided as did the ringing in his ears.

  He raised his head to look them both in the eye, his previous arrogant manner gone, replaced by a look of fear and uncertainty. Tears pooled behind his eyes, prickling their way out to the surface and spilling down over his lids.

  “Lyric…do you remember much about your time at the L’Institut Pere Mata in Reus, Catalonia?”

  The female officer’s manner had shifted, as well, as if she too could detect the change in atmosphere. She assessed him with wide eyes, leaning forward in her chair and resting her hands on the table between them. Her expression softened as she took Lyric in, like a mother would regard another person’s child who was in some sort of pain.

  Lyric studied her face in return as if seeing her for the first time. He opened his lips to speak, but couldn’t find his voice. He swallowed air and tried again, but still his throat felt dry and closed.

  She waited a moment further before sitting back and pulling out a report from the file she was clutching. She placed it in front of Lyric so he could read.

  His bleary eyes drifted down to the document, noticing the hospital stamp first at the top of the page. He scanned it without really reading it, words jumping off the page at him but bouncing back as if not having much of an effect.

  “Lyric, when you first arrived at the Institute, following the death of your family, you were diagnose
d with Dissociative Identity Disorder…Do you remember that?”

  The answer to her rhetorical question was obvious.

  How could he forget?

  Every time he closed his eyes, he could hear the voices of his doctors; their questions; the prick of the needles in his arms; the therapy sessions; the tests. Try as he might, there was no way he would ever be able to forget a single minute of his time at the hospital, let alone the condition that would plague him for the rest of his days.

  Dissociative Identity Disorder.

  How he had gotten so good at dealing with doctors. How he had managed to win over the people looking after him. Day by day. Moment by moment, he was always busy. Knowing that if he were ever to see the other side of these hospital walls there was work to be done. Tales to be spun. Skills to be crafted if he were to convince them all that the voices had faded away…

  “Lyric, I’m afraid it’s time we got down to the reason we’re all here.” The male voice startled him at first.

  “Lyric,” the female officer said, picking up where her companion left off, “can you tell us about Cedar…”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THEN

  That night, after their kiss, and after Lenox left him on the beach, Lyric stood rooted to the spot, watching his figure grow increasingly smaller until he disappeared into the shadows. His gut was screaming out in agony at his head for letting Lenox go, but it was fear that held him back.

  Fear had become a part of his daily routine these days and he figured that Lenox was better off keeping his distance. The thought of getting close to someone and putting them at risk was too much for him to fathom.

  And yet, later that night, it was all he could think about. No matter how brief their meeting had been, there was no denying the connection he felt towards him already. Their conversation had flowed so easily and it was the most at ease he had felt in a while.