by J. R. Tate
I stop pacing and point at him. "Usually you text me to let me know. Why didn't you this time?"
Nathan lets out a sarcastic laugh and stands up, stepping toward me. "Since when do I have to report my every waking move to you, huh? Stop nagging me!"
Okay, I do sound like a nagging wife. "I'm sorry, Nathan. I'm really concerned about you, though. I wish you'd talk to me!"
He sits on the edge of the bed again, appearing exhausted just from that small bit of getting up. "I can't."
I grab his hand and kiss his palm. "Why?"
"You wouldn't understand, Rose." He looks like a little boy in trouble.
"Try me."
For a split second, I swear he's going to finally open up and tell me, but he hesitates. "I'm just needing rest. I'll be okay."
Damn, I wish that were true. I know it's not. My husband, though still very handsome, doesn't look the same to me. He's usually a happy go lucky type of guy, and suddenly he's high-strung and very argumentative. He usually makes peace and cheers me up. It all seems to be getting worse every day.
Standing up, I walk toward the door. "See that psychologist, Nick. Do something. I'm gonna go make dinner for your son. I hope you join us."
***
Nathan
Standing up, I walk to the window that overlooks our backyard. Fall is setting in, and the trees are turning orange and brown. Usually I love the fall foliage, but today, the sun is like a stake burning a hole right through my forehead. Rose is really pissed at me. I guess I can't blame her, but really, how will she react if I tell her what is happening? I can’t imagine how I'd feel if the tables were turned.
Despite the fact that she's angry and Rusty is looking at me like I should be in a straightjacket, I figure I need to make an appearance downstairs. Rose is cooking at the stove and he is still on the couch, watching TV. At least he's out of his room. Lately it's been hard to get him to come out. I walk slow - with each step, I feel like I'm running a marathon. I can't wait to get a full night's sleep again.
"Rose, I'm sorry. I hate that we've been fighting so much."
She doesn't turn around and continues to stir what looks like spaghetti sauce. Her shoulders tense up, which speaks louder than anything she could've thought to say to me.
"How was your day?" Small talk at its finest, but I can't stand the silence between us.
"Busy."
She stirs the pasta and grabs a colander from the cabinet, setting it in the sink. Walking to her, I grab it. "I'll hold it for you if you need to drain the spaghetti."
She doesn't look at me. Instead, she picks the pot up and pours the steaming water through it as I hoist it over the sink. The steam rises up and feels good on my skin. I can't stand how awkward it feels between us. She's my wife and suddenly we both feel like strangers.
"I'm trying, Rose."
Setting the pasta aside, she checks the sauce one more time. "Try harder, Nathan. What have you done to try?"
"I'm meaning I'm trying to talk to you. I don't want things to be short between us."
Rose arches her eyebrow and pulls the garlic toast from the oven. The scent is strong and makes my stomach growl, which is refreshing. I haven't had much of an appetite, but the food looks amazing as she prepares it.
"I told you where I stand. Until you get help, I'm not sure what else you want me to do."
The whole dinner is just as awkward. Rusty doesn't even look up from his plate, and though the food is good, I can't finish it. Setting my fork down, I push away from the table. I would explain my exit, but will either of them give a shit? Probably not, seeing as we've all said about five words to each other all evening. Just as I suspect, neither asks me where I'm going when I leave the kitchen. Walking up the stairs, I stop right before walking into my bedroom. The girl from this morning's fire is standing in the corner. She is facing away, but looks over her shoulder when she hears me. She is still covered in the ashes and soot, and I'm completely speechless. Was it my imagination messing with me again?
"I thought you said I wasn't gonna die." Her voice is weak and she turns away again before I can even think up a response.
Stammering on my words, I finally am able to find my voice. "I'm sorry. What do you want from me?" The question comes out harsher than I intend, and she looks hurt.
"You lied to me."
She turns and points her index finger at me, a scowl on her face as she gets closer. I notice that her feet aren't even touching the floor, she's just sort of gliding. Moving back, I scoot into the doorframe, unable to move. Sweat drips down into my eyes, stinging them.
"I didn't lie to you." Why the hell am I arguing with this girl? She isn't even really here, or is she?
"Nathan." Her eyes turn black and she's right next to me, face to face. "Nathan," she repeats, only her voice changes. Again, she says my name, only it's louder and sounds more like Rose. I feel a hand on my arm and I finally notice Rose at my side, yelling my name. "Nathan! What is going on?"
The room is now empty aside from Rose and me. The girl is gone with no sign that she was ever here. Swiping my hand across my face, I feel the moisture on my fingertips. I can't even catch my breath, so I sit on the edge of the bed and duck my head. What in the hell? I’m not dreaming. I'm very much awake.
"Nathan, are you okay?" Rose's tone is more of an accusation than concern and I feel anger course through me. She's looking at me like I'm a psycho.
Getting up, I walk to the other side of the room and throw my hand in the air. "Like you give a shit, Rose!"
"You were standing against the door all frozen. You looked terrified. I do care, Nathan! I do care!" She slams her hand against her chest. "And yet you're still not gonna tell me what the hell is going on, are you? You're still gonna tell me you're getting better and that whatever this is will pass, right?" She's yelling at the top of her lungs. So much for keeping Rusty out of it.
To hell with it. She's really wanting to know what's happening, so here goes nothing. "Okay, you asked for it, Rose." I take a deep breath to calm down. Lowering my voice, I continue, "I had to leave work this morning because apparently, I was talking to a dead girl. We went into this apartment and she was under some rubble. I crawl under with her and she's awake and asking me if she's gonna die. I get her out, take her to the medics, and they inform me she's been dead awhile and that her neck was broken." I stop myself. Laying it all out really is overwhelming, and the look on my wife's face isn't helpful.
"What?" Her voice shakes, but it's all she says as she waits for me to keep going.
"Yeah. The captain decides I'm not fit to stay on my tour so he sends me home. And guess what? That little scene you just saw, yeah, that was her again. She was right here in this room. She was asking me why I lied to her when I said she wasn't gonna die." I wait to see if Rose has any input, but she doesn't. "She's not the only thing I've been seeing. I see this scary-ass woman with razor teeth in the TV. And the voice, forget about it. It's enough to make a grown man shit his pants."
Rose appears to be in complete shock, but I can't blame her. Before all of this, I would've never believed it either. "All the more reason to go talk to the psychologist. I've read about this. Hell, I've seen it in the ER, Nathan. If you're mentally ill, we need to get you on medications."
"I'm not mentally ill." I shake my head. "This is not schizophrenia or whatever the hell else they call it."
"And how do you know that, Nathan? How can you honestly say that?"
"I just know." Honestly, I don't know. I am completely clueless about the whole situation, but being labeled as mentally ill will be detrimental to me in more ways than one, the main thing being my job.
"I don't think you're trained to know that."
"I don't think you are either," I spat back. "So you're suggesting I go check myself into a nut house? Go get drugged up to the gill so I don't know what's reality and what's not? No. Hell no. I'm not doing that."
Rose walks into the bathroom and shuts the door. I'm shocked s
he's not more sympathetic about all of this. I've always been sane. Not once have I ever conjured up ideas like this, and now she does not believe me. She comes back out dressed in pajama pants and a loose shirt, and grabs her pillow off the bed.
"I'm sleeping on the couch again tonight. I want you to think about all of this. You've got a high stress job that can make even the strongest of men develop problems. There's no shame in that, and I'm not sure why you're getting so offended at the fact that I want you to get help." Finally, it's the first sign she shows that she cares and a few tears fall from her eyes.
I don't know how to respond, so I nod my head. I miss her next to me in bed. I miss our late night conversations about anything and everything. I miss making love to her. That is the best therapy for me.
"I want us to find out what is going on before it gets worse, okay Nathan?"
Again, I shake my head. I don't want to talk to the psychologist. I don't want to get on medication. "America is so quick to suggest popping a pill for every little thing. What happens if they put me on something and it doesn't fix anything? Instead, it's replaced by other side effects that might affect my ability to be a firefighter. Think about that? Every day I live and breathe for the department. If that's taken away, what do I have?" I feel the tears begin to fall down my cheeks, and I quickly swipe them away with the back of my arm.
"At least you'd still be living and breathing, wouldn't you?"
Chapter Five
“At least you’d still be living and breathing, wouldn’t you?”
Rose’s words echo through my head. Lying on my bed, I stare up at the ceiling and think about our argument. I’ve recently looked up what psychosis means. It hits home, but at the same time, I can’t admit to it. She tosses around words like mental illness and schizophrenia, quick to put a label on me before she even knows what the hell is going on. Like I’ve told myself a thousand times, America is so quick with diagnoses, rather than taking the time to find the truth behind something.
The truth behind something. What exactly is going on? The things I’ve been seeing are so familiar to me, but at the same time, I can’t peg where or what they’ve come from. Could I be mentally ill? I guess there’s a chance, but I’ll never admit it out loud. Psychology is a scary thing. Some say it’s real. Some say it’s made up. Many believe a person who is mentally ill is demented. And I can’t forget how young the science is. Lobotomies and old psych wards – need I say more?
A chill runs down my spine and I feel the hair on my neck stand up. Rose is on the couch, as promised. I wonder if our relationship will ever be the same. I knew the minute I told her what was happening she’d have the reaction she did, but with her continuous nagging, it’s impossible to keep it all to myself. Adjusting my weight under the covers, I try and close my eyes, but I’m scared of what I’ll see when things go completely black.
I try to find some consistency in putting together the times I’ve heard the voices or when I’ve seen the woman. Does it happen at the same time everyday? What are the circumstances behind it? Middle of the night, in the afternoon – there is absolutely no consistency. It even happened on the job with the little girl. The fact that it has affected work really pisses me off. How am I supposed to control something like this when I can’t even get a handle on it?
I grab one of Rose’s pillows and put it over my head. I just need some sleep. Some long, restful sleep where I won’t wake up until the morning. Maybe I can get up and make Rose and Rusty breakfast. It’ll show them I’m not completely crazy and that I am trying to get things back to normal. My body and mind fails me. My thoughts kick into overdrive and every time I close my eyes, I see the haunting images that are forever burned into my skull. I won’t ever forget the tinny voice that asks me questions. The young girl’s glossy eyes flash in front of me and I feel myself slide off the edge of the bed, crashing to the floor with a hard thud. My head collides with the nightstand and a sharp pain shoots down my neck.
“Son of a bitch…” I mutter, feeling the blood above my eyebrow with my index finger.
Crawling on the floor, I finally fight off the vertigo and stand up. Why in the hell is the room so cold? Did someone turn the heater off? It’s so chilly that when I breathe, I can see it as if I’m outside in the middle of a cold front. I check the thermostat on the landing. It’s set for seventy-two, just like we usually keep it.
Hugging my midsection, I look over the railing and see that all of the lights in the house are out. Rose must have gone to bed early, but when I look at the alarm clock in my room, it shows it’s after midnight. Maybe I did doze a little and not realize it. Ambling toward my bathroom, I feel another wave of dizziness take over my senses and I lean against the wall to brace myself. The cut above my eyebrow is still bleeding, and I dab a wet washcloth against it to clean it up. The gash is deep and painful, and I wince as I apply pressure to it.
I’m starting to look like a homeless man, and my reflection haunts me almost as bad as the other things I’ve been seeing. How much longer of this can I take before physically, I give out?
Dipping my head, I splash warm water on my face, savoring the way it feels against my cold skin. The water drips down, pooling in the bottom of the sink and I stare at it as it swirls down the drain. Lifting my head, I look in the mirror again, only this time it isn’t me staring back, but the same woman who always appears in my TV. Her face is bloody and she reaches out, clenching onto my neck. Her grip is tight and her nails dig in, sending the most excruciating pain throughout my body. I try to fight her off, but her strength is no match for me. Pulling on me, she slams me into the mirror, shattering it into several pieces.
I yell out, but my voice doesn’t work. She’s clamped down on my vocal cords, and with each attempt to scream, she squeezes harder, her black eyes dark as she stares at me. Her expression doesn’t change – it’s pure evil as she clenches her teeth. The edges of my vision grow black and fuzzy, and I feel my legs give out. I try to gasp for air, but none makes it to my lungs. Is this it? This is how I’m going to die?
She finally releases me and I crash to the floor, landing on top of the shards of the mirror beneath me. The woman, or whatever the hell she is, hovers over me, staring down at me as if she’s about to try something else.
Glaring up, I muster just enough energy to say, “What do you want from me?” It’s a struggle to get the short sentence out, but by the way she blows up, she’s obviously heard every word.
“Your life since you didn’t save mine.” It comes out in a hiss, and it takes me a second to register exactly what she’s said.
Blinking, I go to respond, but she’s gone. It’s as if she has never been here. I’m left alone on the cold wood floor near the toilet, pieces of mirror around me. I know I’m bleeding, as my shirt has soaked some of it up against my skin. My head is killing me. I’m still unable to catch my breath. I lean my head against the wall, and in a matter of seconds, my body finally gives up, my adrenaline fades, and my vision goes black.
***
Rose
The crashing coming from upstairs wakes me up from a deep sleep. My initial thought is that someone is robbing the place, and I worry for Rusty’s safety. Taking the stairs two at a time, I check his room first, but he’s sound asleep. How he’s able to sleep through something that loud is beyond me, but I press on. That’s not my worry. Is Nathan okay? With all of the strange stuff happening lately, I fear the worst, and my heart sinks when I go into our bathroom.
“Nathan?”
He doesn’t respond and I kneel beside him, attempting to assess the situation. The mirror above the sink is completely demolished. He’s passed out on the floor. Checking him over, I notice blood soaked into his shirt. There’s a new cut above his eye, and he’s got scratches and redness around his neck.
I try to wake him up again and check his pulse. He’s breathing and his pulse is strong. “Nathan, wake up!” I raise my voice and get a response out of him – he raises his eyebrows, but doesn
’t open his eyes. A guttural moan escapes from his throat, so I say his name again. “Nathan!”
Lifting his shirt, I check the cut. It’s not bleeding as bad as it looks to have been just a few minutes before, but it’s definitely deep enough that he’ll need stitches. I apply pressure to it, and it finally gets a reaction out of him. His eyes shoot open and he lets out a deeper yell.
He attempts to move away, but is unsuccessful. Instead, he stares up at me, almost like he doesn’t recognize me.
“Nathan, it’s Rose. What in the hell is going on?” I know he’s hurting – he’s definitely got some injuries that need to be looked at, but I want to know how in the hell it happened.
He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”
“The back of your shirt is covered in blood. What happened to the mirror?” I hate to doubt my husband, but I have to think about self-mutilation and how people with mental illness are known to do this to themselves. Is he capable of doing this much damage to himself? A few weeks ago I would’ve never even considered it, but with everything that has transpired, I know it’s a possibility now.
“I’d tell you but you wouldn’t believe me,” he whispers, staring straight into my eyes.
His comment kills me. I want to believe him. I want to believe that he’s seeing what he’s seeing. I just can’t. I’ve been doing research. I’ve talked with other nurses without making it obvious that I’m speaking from experience. Firefighters go through extreme mental stress. Nathan has been on the job for twenty years. Why won’t he just go talk to someone? I feel the emotion bubble up inside of me, but I have to put on a brave face. I’m sitting on the floor with my injured husband in my arms. I can’t turn into a blubbering fool right now. I can’t let him know that I’m worried sick and think that he’s hurting himself.
“Tell me what, Nathan?”
“I didn’t do this, Rose.” He closes his eyes and winces. “I swear I didn’t do this.”
