Pieces Of One, Part 2 (The Dark Life Collection)

by Ricketts, SVC

  Bryson’s questions pierce me, as well as the points he brings up. But I’m also reminded of not being able to walk upright for a few days and that was not my choice.

  I recline back into my chair tilting my head back, exasperation over this conversation taking its toll. “Don’t be silly. I did turn eighteen a few days ago, you know that. I’m not a serial killer or a mental patient, but I do have my uncontrollable demons. As far as what I feel for you? I honestly don’t know. Can you just give me some time? This is all quite overwhelming.”

  He smiles at the prospect of an opening. “We have our whole lives…or, at least the next few days.”

  THE PLANE TOUCHES down in London, but we don’t disembark. The glamazon and her fellow flight crew members leave and are replaced by refreshed new ones. Passengers hustle to get off the plane, and new ones get on. They mill around finding their seats and put their carry-ons in place. Bryson is busy on his laptop with the momentary allowance of airport Wi–Fi to send some emails he’d drafted. A man in a dark blue suit walks by accidently bumping into Bryson’s over-extended elbow.

  “Oh excuse me,” the man immediately says.

  When he apologizes politely to Bryson, I try to pick up on his strange accent. I can’t quite place it, Eastern European possibly. Curiously, I look up and the air in the cabin vacuums out, stealing the oxygen from my lungs. The hairs on my arm cling to the ions like electric static to a balloon. The ghastly pale man has ash-white blonde hair, but that’s not what makes my skin prickle. Under his bushy eyebrows of the same color, reddish-violet eyes between white lashes wander over me. His smile twists, rippling my skin to crawl. It isn’t his appearance, I’ve seen albinos before, but it’s this man’s expression through those haunting eyes that goose bump my skin. When my jaw aches, I realize I’m clenching my teeth tightly like a bear trap. My grip becomes a vice on Bryson’s arm getting his attention. Although terrified, I can’t disconnect my gaze from the man’s eyes.

  Don’t trust him, Trista. Get out! Run! He’s here! RUN! The nightmare’s voices blare in my ears.

  The man struggles with his carry-on, so Bryson offers assistance. When settled, the man scoots into his seat, a few rows behind us. If I look between our seats, I have a clear view of him. He too cannot take his eyes off me. Rolling back into my seat, I try to catch my breath and my nails dig into the armrests. When Bryson sits back down, he looks at me strangely. “It isn’t polite staring like that.”

  Grabbing him, I hiss frantically, “Those eyes! They were the eyes in my nightmare! Bryson, he’s the one.”

  Glancing back at the man, he thins his lips. “It’s okay, I’m here, and Jason and Hennessey are right there,” he says unconvincingly, putting his arm around my shoulder. “It’s a short jaunt to Munich and then we’re off to Split. We’re about to push out of the gate so nothing is going to happen in the air. We’ll be the first ones off and go directly to the terminal.”

  We don’t see the man get off the plane with us, nor is he at the private terminal, but I can’t shake the fact my nightmare had been a heartbeat away in my reality. I’m living the nightmare. I wonder if the other dreams, in some Freudian way, are going to spring to life as well.

  IT’S TEN O’CLOCK in the morning CET, but four o’clock in the morning EST so I’m struggling with the jet lag on the drive from Split to Makarska. For some reason, Bryson insisted on us having a car for him to drive even though the guys are behind us in a black limo. It must have something to do with not relying on others. I guess he gets tired of being chauffeured around. As he said, the drive would take another hour and a half and the view along the way is indeed glorious. The translucent blues of the ocean are unlike anything I’ve seen before. The beaches back home are sort of blue, but more of a green and brown hue. Although the sun is out, the air is icy making the windows fog under my breath. It’s similar to an East Coast Spring and it reminds me of home. My gaze lands on everything and nothing as I stare out of the car window thinking of home, melancholy thoughts consuming me. Thinking about how my mother must be sick with worry along with Jones, Kitta and Alex. I wonder if Jones or Kitta have told my mother what’s going on.

  Alex. What must you be thinking of me now? With that thought, a shiver careens through my body.

  “Cold?” Bryson asks, turning up the heater.

  My fingers dig into the bushy faux fur coat Bryson pulled from my luggage as if that would help. “I’m sorry I laughed at you when you insisted they pack this. For some reason I thought beach, so I figured it would be warmer.”

  There is nothing in my voice when I speak above a whisper. I turn my head and focus on Bryson. A warm glow from inside edges the corner of my lip, almost completing a small grin.

  He meets my gaze and smiles back, taking my hand with a little squeeze. The tiny sign of happiness fades as my thoughts trickle back to Alex. My infidelity and the complexity of lies are not just the result from Marvy’s original screw-up, I did this. I was unfaithful—I’m still being unfaithful—and I was the one who bold-faced lied to Alex. I’m the one digging my own grave with poor choices. The excuse of getting information to the FBI still stands, but I created this drama.

  Bryson notices my expression change. “Thinking of Marvy and your family? Or are you thinking of someone else?”

  The ceiling of the car is a good place to settle my eyes, so I crane my head back, taking deep breaths. “I’m thinking about everyone I’ve left back home thinking something horrible has happened to me. When we get to the hotel, can I use your laptop to send them a message letting them know I’m alright?”

  I understand my request makes Bryson uneasy, but I am not prepared for his response. “Trista, after I have this meeting, I’ll be free of these people. We don’t have to go home. We can start our lives together anywhere. I want to show you so much of the world.”

  My head drops as fast as my gaping mouth. “Are you crazy?” I shout incredulously. “Of course I’m going home! You may not have familial connections, but I do. And as far as us goes, after this is over, whatever this is, will happen back home. There is so much you don’t understand and they won’t understand unless I can explain it face-to-face.”

  “Your family will understand that I love you and will do anything for you,” Bryson says softly.

  They’re never going to understand what I’ve done and neither do you.

  Tired. I’m so very fucking tired. “You don’t love me. You can’t.”

  My eyes drift to the blur of scenery from the passenger widow. “Bryson, it has always been my dream to get out and see the world. But trapped in this nightmarish incubus makes me just want to go home and curl up in my floral duvet with clean smelling sheets. Before all of this, all I wanted was to go to Baylor, graduate with Honors, and get a fantastic job at some Tech company. Now…,” I linger the unfinished thought and flip my hand up abandoning that dream. “I don’t know what my future is. I need my anchor. My family is my anchor, my solid ground.”

  I shut my eyes to the beautiful ocean view. “Please, give me this. I know I can’t call, but I would give anything to hear my mom’s voice. I just want to touch base.”

  Never seeing or hearing from my mom again is not something I’ve considered. The unexpected potential loss of everything I know is an actuality. Laying it out in words makes it real and brings it to life. It makes me miss my mom even more. Shit, I even miss Jones. I chew on my lip to stop any tears from falling; I’m tired of crying.

  “I understand, Trista. I would sell everything I have to talk to my parents or my nonna one more time. Knowing those gossip vultures, news has probably hit the media, so more than likely your family knows about us already. When we get to the hotel, you can call, but just make it short. We can’t take the chance of a call being traced back to them.

  His allowance encourages the tears to fall, I’m so happy. Leaping over to his side, I hug him making him swerve a little too close to the edge of the tiny road. “Whoops! That would have been bad, sorry.”


  Bryson gives me a terse, but playful grimace as he rights the car. He flashes a wide smile like I’ve transferred happiness to him. Seeing that twinkle reflecting back overloads my joy. How is it possible to have my heart beat for two?

  I’M NOT SOPHISTICATED enough to comment on the magnificent hotel we pull up to. Bryson keeps glancing back seeking my approval, but I am too focused on making that call. When we get to the room, I race to the phone, but am frustrated having to ask for Bryson help with the International Country Code to place my call. I anxiously await the call’s connection with my heart banging against my rib cage. Though, I’m crestfallen when the answering machine picks up.

  “Hi Mom, sorry for disappearing on you. I had some things to deal with so I needed to get away for a bit. You know, time to think. You’ve probably seen the papers or heard about Bryson, but it’s not what you think. I know I’m being vague, but I’ll explain when I get home. Just wanted to let you know I’m safe and will be home soon. I love you guys and miss you! Oh and please tell everybody else so they don’t worry too.”

  Bryson is at my back, rubbing my arms as I hang up dismally and I lean back into him. “I want to show you something,” he says gently.

  Leading me into the bedroom, he opens the French doors revealing the balcony’s expansive view of the seascape below. Our room is high enough to make the people below look like dolls playing in the sand. My eyes follow the seabirds dipping and gracefully gliding with the breeze. A few kites dot the skyline as their companion.

  “Better?” he asks, wrapping me up in his arms. His touch melts me and provides a ballast to cling to.

  “It’s breath taking.” I close my eyes to absorb the ambiance of the ocean below. It’s a failed attempt to let the serenity seep through my body and I’m despondent over the unsuccessful call.

  “Do you want to go down to the beach?”

  Tilting my head back against his chest, I shoot him a sarcastic look. “You’re kidding right?”

  Acknowledging the reference to my beach nightmare, he nods. “Oh yeah, never mind. Well, we could grab a bite or go into town and do some shopping, whatever you want.”

  It’s cute that he is trying so hard, but it doesn’t shake my hopelessness. “Or we can…” he hints, tightening his grip along my midsection and sways his hips.

  His advances get no response as I’m not paying attention. I feel him move my hair to one side and I reflexively consent to the kisses on my neck. My gaze follows the road leading to the hotel along the beach. It looks as if it goes into the heart of town.

  “How about taking a run into town? It doesn’t look far.”

  Somewhat put off by my slighting, he steps back and sighs. “Trista, I love you, but I don’t run. I lift weights, do the stair climber, the elliptical; I’ll climb mountains with you, teach you how to ski on snow and water, I’ll even swim the English Channel if you want, but I don’t run. Sorry, hon,” he chuckles and kisses my cheek.

  Bryson pops open one of my suitcases and hands me the running shoes Serafina packed. “Here. If it will make you feel better, you go. I have some things I have to take care of anyway. Henn will go with you.”

  “He runs?” I close one eye trying to visualize the burly blonde jogging and chuckle. Plus I’ve only seen him in a suit and tie. I can’t imagine what he looks like in running shorts and a t-shirt.

  Bryson laughs. “Hmm…probably not. Just stay on the beach road so he can follow you in the car then.”

  “YOU WANT ME to do what?” Hennessey snickers. “No thanks, I’ll just follow you in the car.” Shaking his head, he grabs the keys from the counter and heads out. “I’ll be downstairs.”

  Quickly changing into a sports bra, t-shirt, and shorts, I pull my hair into a ponytail. When I stand in front of the full-length mirror on the door, I’m kind of excited to do something normal. Everything fits and my new expensive running shoes feel like they were customized. I look like me again and it thrills me. Besides, I need to get out in the open; smell the salty air and somehow let being in this beautiful travel destination seep in.

  People bustle into the elevator when it hits the lobby. I’ve always found it strangely rude that people don’t have the common courtesy to wait and let people get off the elevator first. I have to bump and push my way through before the elevator doors close taking me back up to every floor and then every floor back down. Behind a large woman, a man’s hand reaches out to hold the elevator doors open for me to exit. I can’t see who it is, but I do notice the black onyx gold ring on his pinky finger. I say thank you anyway and squeeze past the plump woman and her shopping bags.

  It is no less crowded in the lobby and I don’t see Hennessey so I step outside searching the street side. I recognize the black limo that Hennessey and Jason picked up at the airport and wave. As soon as he sees me, he starts the car pulling away from the curb.

  Once by my side, the window scrolls down. Hennessey pulls down his aviator sunglasses to peer over the rim. “Don’t try to lose me, and don’t talk to anyone. It may be pretty, but it can be very ugly for tourists,” he warns.

  Forcing myself not to roll my eyes, I give him the thumbs up, put my ear buds in and crank up the techno music. Heart-pumping music is just what I need to get my blood going and feet moving.

  It’s a fantastic day for a run. The weather is cool, but with the sun out, it warms the air to just the right temperature. As promised, I stay on a road where Hennessey can follow in the car.

  Makarska is quite astonishing with its stone mountains surrounding the town. The road I’m on cuts off the hillside and takes me along the waterfront filled with boat traffic. It’s breathtaking to run on foreign soil, exploring a country with beauty I didn’t know existed. Muscle memory takes over from the burn in my legs. The numbness lets me know I’ve moved passed a pedestrian level of running and I’m actually working my muscles. Sweat beads down my face and my t-shirt sticks to my back. It feels good and I’m elated to get back into this regiment. I know I’m a soppy mess, but I don’t care. If I were to get back to the room in pristine condition, it wasn’t a good enough workout.

  The view would be considered a tranquil distraction, but as my feet pound the stones that make up the road, my thoughts wander to things I want to forget. Even with the fierce synthesized beats in my ears, I find it hard to breathe without concentrating on the simple task.

  “In through the nose and out the mouth,” I reaffirm. The spontaneous well up of tears doesn’t help. Apparently, I’ve lost control over that.

  Forget it. Not even going to try, I give up. I’ll just be a crazy ass tourist breaking down on the beach. Awesome.

  I realize I’ve given up on a lot of things lately. Things I once found beautiful have lost their luster. Things I used to find magical, no longer glisten and are dull hue. The ocean is just water; the flowers–just plants, and the sand waits to bury me. The home in my heart is dead for me now and there is no going back. I try to recreate the feeling of bliss and renew my love for my father’s home away from home. I take an eternity staring at the stunning panoramic ocean view thinking of my father’s picnics, but there is nothing. Dread and fear are their replacements, stirring within me as I sneer at the beach. I am just a girl, on a beach. Standing amongst other tourists and nautical anglers, drowning in my own proverbial quicksand. Mourning the death of my life keeps the tears flowing, and I cannot keep up with them to brush them away. They quickly meld together with my sweat, soaking my face, rolling off my nose, down my cheeks, and off my chin.

  The thing about wallowing is that it can be all-consuming. It’s pointless, but easy to slip into and let it take over. Without considerable effort, the darkness suffuses itself into every crevice of your existence. One becomes a shell walking through a dark life of misery.

  No past experience has ever felt like this. I can only assume that one of the alters has always taken over to spare me or at least help keep me functioning. I cannot allow them to do that this time. This is something I need
to handle myself; I need to stay me, to save me. Enough is enough.

  Purposefully thinking of menial things, I look for distractions. Something that will wash away the sorrowful thoughts edging my reflections. I fixate on the boats beyond the waves, cataloguing them. A few sailboats, a fisherman’s boat, couples in canoes in the bay, and a trimaran. I can’t help but feel distain looking at all the boats and their happy passengers. With foolish hope, a fringe of my dream bobs in the ocean. A tall, handsome brown-haired man appears from one of the cabins. Squinting, my spirit lifts until he turns around, it’s not Alex and my heart plummets.

  Stop wishing, he wouldn’t be here and even if he was, how would he know you’d be taking a run?

  Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I curse my stupidity.

  I need to run this out of me, not do this leisurely jogging thing. Exhaust my body to the point where my mind can become numb. Compulsively, I start to move. I take off, my feet gaining speed with the wind at my back, fueled by my self-loathing. I jet past the moored boats and cheerful people, hating them more for their carefree attitudes. Bolting forward, I hastily bank left into an alley between some narrow buildings. I know Hennessey can’t follow, but I don’t care. I run until I can’t breathe any longer. My chest constricts from the furious pace and from the pain. Finally coming to a stop, I lean against the brick side of a tall building heaving air through my wailing cries. My sprint has the opposite effect that I intended it to. Instead of enjoying the peace of a distracted mind, my efforts bring up insuppressible raw emotions. I crumple forward, my side beginning to cramp. Dropping to my hands and knees, my despair echoes in the empty street filling them with sobs.

  Tires screech to a halt, then a car door slams, followed by running footsteps. “Mrs. Seviride! Mrs. Seviride! Are you okay? What happened?”

  I waive off Hennessey, but I have no voice to respond with. It pisses me off that he calls me that. When I try to stand on my own, dizziness takes over and my legs become absurdly useless. Hennessey picks me up, taking me back to the car. I hang onto him with whatever strength is left in my arms, curling up as much as possible to alleviate my crimping gut pain.