by Sabre, Mason
They used the table in the kitchen; it barely seated two people. She tended to use it more than the main one in the dining room. The main one was for a woman who hadn’t killed her husband. For a woman who had children. It was for a woman who had a family. She didn’t fit into any of those categories, and it was all her fault. She didn’t eat so much anyway. Mostly she lived on cereal or toast or sandwiches. She saw little point in cooking just for herself, and often she wasn’t hungry so it didn’t matter.
Devan served himself a smaller portion; it was fit more for a child than a fully grown man. “You’re not hungry?” Tara asked.
“Not really. I feel a little off today.” He picked up his fork and pushed his food around his plate, showing little enthusiasm to actually eat it.
Tara lifted his mug and he nodded. She filled it with coffee and he accepted with a thank you. He drank it without adding milk or sugar. Tara watched wide-eyed as he gulped it down without even waiting for it to cool a little.
“You don’t feel well? You’re sick today?”
“No, just…off. It’s okay.” He rested his fork against his plate and leaned back. He wasn’t going to eat more. Not that he had eaten anything – two forkfuls at most. At least he had drunk his coffee. “You enjoy your breakfast.”
“I feel so terrible to sit here and stuff my face if you’re not eating.” She felt more than terrible really. Especially with Devan. He wasn’t just someone who didn’t want food because they had had enough. He was someone who lived on the streets and most of the time had no idea where his next meal was coming from.
“I can get something later. Don’t worry.”
Sitting with Devan, eating scrambled eggs on toast and sharing a pot of coffee, reminded her of better mornings, when everything in her world was right. They reminded her of Eric – everything reminded her of Eric. “This is good,” she said, pulling her mind away from places she knew it shouldn’t venture to and just trying to enjoy the taste of home-cooked food for a change.
“So is the coffee.” He smiled but shifted uneasily in his seat. “I think I should be going soon,” he said, sounding more nervous than sincere. “You have been very kind to me. Are my clothes ready?”
She had washed them before bed and then bundled them into the tumble dryer. They should have been thrown away really. They were of little use to him; so ripped and worn there was no way they offered any warmth, much less utility. “You can keep the clothes you’re wearing if you like,” she said, indicating to Eric’s clothes.
He glanced down as if he had forgotten what he was wearing. Smoothing the top down with his hands, he lifted his eyes to hers again. “Are you sure?”
The idea of taking the clothes back, washing them, folding them and putting them away, seemed pointless, as well as heartless. What was the point in holding onto these things now? “No one else is going to use them.” Eric never would again. She winced inside at her own thoughts, but it was the truth. Eric worked with these people; people like Devan. He would want his things to go to someone who needed them rather than rot away in a closet for countless years.
The truth was, though, that she didn’t want Devan to go. It was absurd. She didn’t even know him. All she knew were the gaps she had mostly filled in about him with her own contrivances. She hadn’t had a chance to ask him about Eric - that was the main reason she had been trying to see him at Taylor’s. She wanted to know about the part of Eric’s life she hadn’t really been a part of. There was something more than that, though. If Devan left, then she would go back to her same pointless life. The same one as before, where time simply went by. Old days went, new days came, the clock just ticked over, but there wasn’t any sense in it. She had no purpose. With Devan around, even when she was sitting in the coffee shop hoping to catch him, it made her feel something. Maybe it was a glimmer of hope or the spark of life inside her, but whatever it was, she didn’t want to let it go. “Do you really have to?” she asked him fearing the answer. “You’re more than welcome to stay here another night or for as long as you need.”
He fidgeted in his seat. “I’ve imposed on you enough already.”
“It’s not imposing if I am offering. You need somewhere to stay and, as you can see, I have plenty of room.”
He reached for the coffee to pour himself another. He didn’t fill his mug, though. He left enough coffee for Tara to get herself a second drink. “It isn’t as simple as that.”
“Why?” She didn’t like how whiney and needy her voice sounded as she asked him. It was pathetic. She was pathetic - but she couldn’t let him go. “Is it your sister? The one you’re looking for?”
He shook his head.
“Your friend?”
“I just have to go.” His face grew pale and his hands started shaking again - or maybe they hadn’t stopped. .
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No. I…” Right then, he retched. Clamping his hand over his mouth, he raced into the kitchen and threw up in the sink. His body rejected every last drop of coffee and the two bits of food he had eaten. He retched until there was nothing but dry heaves. When he was done, he rinsed it down the plughole.
Tara was standing behind him, not knowing whether she should rub his back or just stand out of the way. She decided on the latter and sought to help by handing him the kitchen towel to wipe his mouth. He took the towel and patted his face dry after he had rinsed his face with handfuls of water.
“You okay?” she asked.
He leant against the kitchen counter, but he swayed as if he was going to miss it. Tara dashed forward to catch him, steadying him with her hand on his arm. She couldn’t tell if it was sweat or water on his face. “I’ll be alright in a second,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, but Tara didn’t believe him.
“There’s no need for you to go out there like this. You need to rest.”
“I can't do this.” He slid down the cabinet until he was sitting on the floor and brought his hands up to his face. Was he crying? Tara knelt down with him, concerned. “I have to get out of here. I can’t…” He bent forward, his hands sliding into his hair. He clutched fistfuls of it, his frustration evident.
“What can’t you do? I don’t understand. Is it something I can help with?”
He half laughed, half let out an exasperated sigh. “I have so much to do and no time. What if I fail?”
“What do you mean?” He was sweating. Beads of it ran from his hairline and down his forehead. Reaching out her hand, she placed it against his forehead. His skin was hot and clammy, hotter than she had ever felt before. “Jesus, you have a fever.” She was just about to stand up and wet the kitchen towel to cool him down when she noticed his hand; the one with the bandage on it. Blood had soaked through it. She didn’t ask this time, though. Instead, she just grabbed his hand to inspect it.
“No, Tara,” he protested, and tried to pull his hand away. But he was weak, and Tara had no problem keeping his hand in her lap. She unfastened the knot and unravelled the bandage from his hand. She couldn’t contain her gasp as she forced his fingers back and revealed his palm. There was a bird. It was blue and brown with shades of orange. She had never seen anything so beautiful and intricate before. She found the source of the bleeding, but it was either impossible or a very strange coincidence. The bird bled from its heart. It was the tiniest hole, not one that should produce that much blood. It trickled out and down his hand.
“This is a tattoo?”
“It’s a swallow,” he said. He tried to free his hand, but she held onto it. “Please, Tara. You don’t understand. Let my hand go.” He was breathless when he spoke, making her heart squeeze painfully - but she had to see.
“Let me look.” She touched the blood with her fingertip, but as she did, pain shot through her hand, reverberating all the way along her arm and exploding up along her neck and face with a numbing buzz. She cried out and let go. His hand dropped down to his knee and he slipped sideways as she scuttled to the other side of the kitchen
and cradled her arm. “Devan!” she exclaimed, but he didn’t answer.
He wasn’t moving. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest that she could feel the surge of blood through every vein in her body. “Devan?” As she moved towards him, pain surged through her shoulder and into her body, where it spread out like running water. She couldn’t see. She couldn’t hear. Everything grew dark. She couldn’t even feel. She just was.
She called his name. “Devan,” she whimpered, but there was no sound.
Chapter Eight
It was the kind of darkness that light couldn’t penetrate. There were no shapes or shadows. There was nothing but rich, thick, devouring darkness, and no amount of time would enable her eyes to adjust. It was scary and disorientating. Tara held out her hands in front of her. She couldn’t see them. She couldn’t see a thing; not even shades of darkness outlining furniture. She turned around, tried to look, but she saw nothing. She strained her ears, tried to listen, but she heard nothing. She breathed in deep, tried to feel the air through her nose, but felt nothing. That’s all there was…nothing.
Tears built up behind her eyes as the panic twisted her gut, causing a rush of fear to run up along her spine. She wrapped her arms around herself to offer some self-comfort, but that was of little help to push down the growing distress inside. She used to hug herself that way after Eric had died. Sometimes she would try to imagine it was him and rock herself to sleep. She did that now, not to sleep, but to push the fear away - only it wasn’t working. If anything, the complete lack of her senses made her more afraid.
“Devan?” she called desperately. She was certain that she wasn’t dreaming. It didn’t feel like a dream - it was too real. Being able to maintain enough control of your faculties in your dreams to debate whether you were actually asleep or not seemed more like a thing for the movies or books. She stretched out her fingers to scratch at her back where she held herself; her nails bit into her flesh. She wasn’t dreaming.
There was a dot or a light, or maybe even a star, off in the distance. She squinted to try to bring it into better focus so she might identify it, but it was no use. She concentrated so hard that it became hard to decide if it was real or just something she had made herself see. She inched forward, afraid that she would fall over something if she took full steps. What if there was something on the ground? She couldn’t see her feet. She couldn’t see anything at all. She brought a hand to her face, but even while touching her own nose, she couldn’t make out her hand; not even a blurred shape of it.
“Devan?” she called out softly. She said it again, raising her voice a little. “Devan? Are you there?” She had a vague memory of Devan’s hand. It had dropped when she let it go and he had slid sideways as if he had no control over his body. What if he was dead? What if she had done it again? Fresh panic rose with images of him lying dead in her kitchen - and it would be her fault again. She started to run, forgetting her fear of tripping. Thoughts of Devan and the need to get to him flooded her mind. Panic propelled her forward, towards the tiny dot of light - but she didn’t seem to be moving at all.
She was running, yet her feet made no sound as they hit the ground. In fact, it didn’t feel like there was a ground. She stopped and dared to crouch down, her hand out, fingers reaching. She found her feet; she wasn’t wearing any shoes. She slid her fingers along her bare skin until she got to her toes. She could feel under her foot, yet she hadn’t lifted it up. She knelt down and splayed her hands out where there should have been ground - but there was nothing there. With one hand, she reached down into the nothingness - there was no invisible force to stop her hand. She slapped the non-existent ground, and something did stop her hand then. But it was nothing still.
She sat back on her haunches. “Devan?” she cried. “Please answer me. Please tell me what’s going on.” She sobbed into the nothingness and began to crawl. The dot was still there. It was the only thing she could see; the only thing that gave her any hope at all. “Devan, please just answer me.”
Tears ran down her face. Sobbing she repeated his name over and over. “Devan?” she called, until she was screaming his name. But there was still no answer. She moved towards the dot, but she never seemed to be getting any closer to it.
It was then that she heard her name. It was quiet and far away and off to the side. “Tara?”
“Devan?” She stopped to listen. “Devan, is that you?”
“Tara?” His voice was all around her. “Tara?” he repeated. It was Devan…no, it was Eric…but then it was Devan again. Her head spun in confusion.
“Eric?”
“Tara?”
“Where are you?” She stood then and ran towards the dot of light again. She ran until her legs hurt and her lungs burnt in her chest. She ran forever, calling their names. “Devan…Eric.” She yelled them over and over until her voice became hoarse. Then, suddenly, she was falling. She hadn’t tripped; there had been nothing in the way. There was no wind to rush against her face; there was nothing at all, but the sensations in her head and stomach told her that she was falling, fast. She stretched her arms out to the side to grab onto something - anything. She tried to look above her. “Devan?”
Abruptly, her fall stopped, She put her hands over her face, not daring to look anymore, but she didn’t hit anything.. She just breathed and listened. It was as if someone had turned the volume up gradually. Sounds suddenly began to filter in again, but they were faint, hisses she couldn’t quite make out. Air kissed her skin, warm like sunshine. More importantly, she could feel someone there.
“Eric?”
“Open your eyes,” he whispered. His hands were on hers, removing them from her face. “Open your eyes, Tara,” he said, but it wasn’t Eric’s voice.
“Devan?”
“I’m right here.”
She tried to blink, but daggers of light pierced her pupils, making her blink them closed in defence again. She rubbed them, hoping to ease the strain. She lowered her hand but Devan caught it in his own. “What happened?”
“You fell,” he said. “Can you open your eyes slowly?”
She nodded and tried, but the moment they opened, pain speared through them once more. She had to force them open. The world seemed different, tilted in some way. She tried to sit up, but her head swam.
“Don’t try to get up. Just give yourself a moment.”
“No, I didn’t fall. I…” She cast her mind back to before the darkness. She thought about Devan throwing up and then her sitting with him. His hand - she’d touched his hand and then what? She attempted to sit up again, but her head felt weighted down from the inside. A wave of nausea rushed over her and she sat back again. She licked her lips; they were dry. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry too. “On your hand…I saw... I touched it.”
“Don’t think about that now. Here, open your mouth.”
“What is it?”
“Water.” Devan put a glass to her mouth. She took small sips until the dryness in her mouth vanished and she could swallow without the twinges of pain. Taking in her surroundings, she realised she was in her lounge, lying on her sofa. She didn’t remember getting there. She did notice that the lamp was on in the corner and the curtains were drawn.
“What time is it?”
“It’s just evening.” Tara strained to see the clock on the mantel piece. It was after six in the evening.
“I passed out?”
“For a while.”
“It’s been hours.” Tara attempted to sit up again, but Devan pushed her back down. “Just help me up?”
“I don’t think it’s a great idea,” he said, his hand on her shoulder.
“It’s fine. I need to get up and move about,” Tara insisted. Devan’s proximity wasn’t allowing her to think clearly either. She wanted to get up and go and look around. She wanted to go into the kitchen. It felt as if she had been away for a long time and was coming back a changed person. Things felt different. Being awake felt like she was dreaming. She turned to l
ook at Devan. “Did I lie on the sofa all day?”
He rocked back on his heels. “About an hour.” When she frowned he added, “I woke about an hour ago, then I put you on the sofa.”
“You don’t think that’s strange? The time?”
Devan shrugged.
Tara pushed herself to her feet. Her muscles were stiff and they argued as she stretched them out. She stood on wobbly, unsteady feet.. Devan reached out to grab hold of her with his unbandaged hand. A jolt ran through her at the contact. She could feel his skin against hers. Really feel it. Not just the presence of his hand around hers, but every contour, every texture - and the temperature. “You still have a fever?” she asked when she noted how hot his hand was.
“It’ll pass. It always does.”
“You get them a lot?”
He shrugged again but didn’t answer. She let go of his hand and moved to go to the kitchen, but Devan stayed close, a warm shadow behind her. She used the door frame, furniture, anything really, to steady herself as she walked. Her confidence grew with each step, along with her strength. She led Devan through the dining room to the kitchen, everything suddenly seeming so alien to her. She glanced around to see if anything was missing or moved. Something felt wrong and off. When she got to the kitchen, the table was as she had left it. She touched the coffee pot - it was stone cold. There were a couple of flies buzzing around the food, delighting in their find. The pan was where Devan had left it after serving breakfast, sitting on the counter unwashed. She picked it up to examine it. The food was hard and dark, as if encrusted over longer than just a few hours.
“How is this possible?” she demanded of Devan as she thrust the pan in his direction to show him. “It’s like it’s been here all week. What’s going on?”
Devan took the pan and moved the spatula around in it. The food snapped away in hard clumps. “You had a nasty fall. It’s okay.” He put the pan back on the side and went over to her. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, and while his touch did make Tara grow a little calmer inside, it also clouded her mind. She was forgetting something, but she didn’t have a clue what it was.
