by C
“You have no idea what I’m going to do. And besides, I’m free to make my own decisions. Why don’t you go back to St. Patrick’s and pray?”
At the crosswalk, she cast a glance behind her. Morgan stood motionless in the spot where she had left him, his eyes still begging her to come back. She glared and then joined the other pedestrians making their way across the avenue. She checked the time on her watch. If she ran, she would have barely enough time. Amanda began a frantic sprint, weaving her way through the crowded sidewalk, ignoring the curses and exclamations of people that she bumped into during her mad dash.
Winded and hoarse, she reached the Masters Academy, forcing herself to keep going, running up the steps and through the hallways to the classroom. Skidding to a halt, she watched students file out of the room.
“Leila!” Amanda’s shout prompted a dozen people to turn and stare, but she saw only one.
Leila looked at Amanda like she was a raving lunatic. Maybe she was. Leila half turned—as though to ignore her—but Amanda rushed in front of her and said, “I need your help!”
“What is your problem? You’re a complete psycho, do you know that?”
“Forget that for a sec.” Amanda pulled her to a corner of the hallway, out of earshot. “Do you have the pills with you?”
“Maybe. What’s it to you?”
“I need one. No, wait …” Amanda weighed how hard her task would be. “Make that two. Look, I know you have them. You always bring the box to Little Pete’s. Please, Leila.”
“Well, where’s your cocky attitude now? I might be able to help. But it depends on how much you got.”
“I have enough.”
Leila gave a smug smile and told her the price of two pills.
Amanda raised her hand to her forehead, rubbing it as though to produce some idea of what to do. The pills would bankrupt her account. “Are you serious? It’s that much?”
“Of course I’m serious. In case you never picked up on it, I don’t like you.”
“Okay, fine.”
“What was that?”
“I said, ‘Fine!’” Amanda shouted, her emotions spiraling out of control. “Let’s just do it fast. I don’t have all day.”
Each minute meant sixty seconds further from fixing things with Ethan. She feared she had only a small window of opportunity in which he would reconsider his decision. Then, she was certain, he would forever lock the door of forgiveness.
She and Leila walked together to the nearest ATM. Amanda bypassed the warnings informing her that this would close the account and then removed the bills from the machine—the hard-earned cash from years of scanning groceries at Supermarket Saver. In a simple exchange for two pills, it was all gone. Leila walked away jubilant, already yakking on her phone, likely bragging about her ridiculous profit, reaped from desperation. Amanda raced the other way, the pills tucked in her pocket and the next step forming in her mind.
She reached her apartment. Thankfully, Nikki was absent. Amanda only needed one thing. She grabbed it and then popped the pills into her mouth. In less than five minutes, she hurried back outside and paused, about to hail a cab. But what about money? She dug into her pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill: the last cash left to her name. It would be sufficient for one ride on the subway into Manhattan. She sprinted toward the station, hoping that the two pills wouldn’t kick in until she reached Ethan’s apartment.
Waiting for the subway, her mind flooded with the mental bombardment that had been flung at her, not just today but for weeks. She could hardly think straight anymore. What was up or down, right or wrong? Did such dichotomies even exist? In a way, ever since she stepped into that lounge on her first day at the Masters Academy, she was powerless. Ethan had captivated her. He was larger than life, the man she admired more than anyone. He enthralled her.
So how could she help what she was about to do? He was worth it. Besides, she had the pills. They would make everything safe. Once she entered that confident, wondrous bliss of euphoric existentialism, consequences wouldn’t worry her anymore. As she hurried onto the subway and then sat down, she could already feel the pills manipulating her body, pulsating within her, intermingling within her bloodstream.
She never created a Plan B. She fidgeted in her seat, her anxiousness fluttering like the subway car. Ethan could be working right now. What were his hours anyway? Where exactly was his office? She still didn’t know many things about him. But she couldn’t blame him for not disclosing everything to her. Goodness knows that she kept enough from him. She’d kept too much from him: her aloofness had contributed to this seismic schism between them.
Amanda left the subway, her heart racing. She ran, frantic that she might be too late, and turned onto his block. What possible reactions might she face? She spotted his apartment, five buildings down. A lump formed in her throat. … He might not even invite her inside. Maybe this time—this brief, impersonal encounter at his front door—would be the last time that she would ever see him. No more soothing voice, no more placing her hand in his, no more evenings spent with familiar faces at Little Pete’s. This wonderful world she had built around him would crumble in an instant.
If it were even possible, her heart began pounding faster: she saw his car parked outside. He was here. It was now or never. She hoped against hope that a closed heart would not similarly close the door on her.
She rang the doorbell, the cheerful chime mocking her somberness. The chimes rang in her head, reverberating over and over again. The front door seemed to spin in front of her, almost like a revolving door to an old-time department store. Good: the drugs were beginning to work.
The door stopped spinning, and Ethan opened it. He leaned on the doorframe, blocking her entrance. “Can I help you?”
Amanda hated the coldness, as though she were a stranger coming to sell him pet insurance. “Can … Can I come in for a minute, please?”
“You better give me a good reason.” His face was a blank mask. Didn’t he care at all?
“I want to show you something.”
“What?”
“I want to show you myself. I want to show you my painting.”
He stared at her, wide-eyed. “Come on in.”
His apartment was dark. The large living room curtains, blocking the sunshine, gave the illusion of night. He took a seat on the edge of the couch, waiting for her.
In some ways, she had waited for this moment her entire life. To be close with someone, to let him into her heart and to feel secure enough with him to share this intimate piece of herself, was a tremendous gift. She had assumed it would never come. She pressed the canvas close: it was wrapped modestly in brown paper, shielding it from unwanted viewers. She looked at Ethan, his lustful stare not straying from the covered painting. Why wouldn’t he meet her gaze? This wasn’t just about what the painting looked like … it was deeper than that … it was sharing her very self, her “inner spark” with him. She hadn’t imagined the first time being like this: removed, impersonal, a desperate attempt to salvage a failing nascent relationship.
She shook her head, dismissing these flighty doubts. Now was the right time. He was the right man.
Amanda tugged at the brown paper, beginning with the upper corners. Once given, it could never be taken back. But she loved him. That made everything right. She justified it. Everything undone, she deliberately removed the paper, the painting laid bare before him. There were the drops of tears flowing from the stormy sky. There was the umbrella composed of the three interlocking hands. There was her image, standing and looking at the puddle formed at her feet. And there was the lady … the beautiful, mystifying lady whose reflection shone from the puddle.
For a split second, it seemed as though everything stopped. She waited, holding her breath, for his reaction. Then, without any warning, the entire room jolted, tilting onto an angle. Gasping, she caught herself, just preventing herself from tumbling to the floor. Just as quickly, the room jerked the other way, like a ship
tossed by angry waves, trying to right itself. Meanwhile, the floorboards began to rattle and shake. The wood panels began to burn, the heat reaching her feet even through the soles of her shoes. She coughed, as though smoke filled her lungs, and her heart pounded. She cast a furtive glance around the room. The paint on the walls begin to ripple, their surfaces becoming an effluent stream of dark, liquid red: blood. She started to shake, an overriding sense of darkness and doom spreading through the room. Paranoia consumed her.
Shadows inexplicably appeared on the walls. But how was that possible? The curtains were closed—no light existed to cast such projections. Enlivened, the shadows emerged from dormant positions, transforming into prowling, terrifying creatures of the night. Thick, black pus oozed from their disfigured limbs, the stench of rotting flesh wafting toward Amanda, her stomach struggling to blockade its vomit.
She wanted to scream in horror, but no sound escaped from her open mouth. The shadowy, fallen creatures continued to grow, unfurling their scarred, mangled bodies, disproportionate in height and figure. Then they spoke, each in a strange, unearthly language. It was a jarring, disillusioned jumble of consonants and guttural expectorations that—though unintelligible to human ears—somehow cut to her core.
Panicking, she sought out Ethan’s eyes, but he stared at the painting in her hands, his smile a bizarre and twisted aping of true joy. She looked at him, not sure whether to be more terrified of him—and what was about to transpire—or these peripheral puppets of some even more nightmarish fiend.
Ethan rose from the sofa and approached her, his gaze ravenous as he said, “This is finally … mine.” He seemed to relish his own words and prowled ever closer.
The hideous sounds surrounding them heightened, a frantic chorus approaching its climax as Ethan’s hands stretched forth upon the object of his desire.
In an instant, it was gone.
Amanda had relinquished it, and it was never to return.
Blackness followed, and she welcomed this darkness: a numb and obfuscated escape.
Chapter Fourteen
Up in Flames
Amanda reopened her eyes—perhaps minutes or hours later, maybe even days. Her mind was cloudy, as though a thick fog had descended upon her. Her cheek rested against something smooth and hard. Everything was quiet and still. She lifted her head.
She lay prone on the wood floor in Ethan’s living room. Nearby, she spied her book bag, unzipped and its contents spilled out. Searching her hazy memory for what had brought her here and then transpired, fleeting images flashed across her consciousness, snapshots of a living horror. A long, whimpered moan escaped her. Hurried footsteps came in response.
“Amanda?” Ethan crouched beside her, his voice full of concern. “Are you awake?”
Instinctual fear gripped her, and she shrank from his outstretched hands. She considered him. He appeared perfectly normal, save the worry that creased his brow. She scanned the living room. Everything seemed impeccable: nothing out of place. The only difference was that now the curtains were open, revealing a night sky.
Ethan watched her, frowning. “How are you feeling?”
“What happened?” Her voice sounded hoarse, and her words trembled.
“Do you remember what I told you the first night you found out about the pill?”
She closed her eyes, wishing the panic would ebb and her racing heart would stop pounding. “N-No …”
“I told you that when I take the pill, I make sure I’m always in control. I don’t exceed my tolerance level. How many pills did you take before coming here?”
“Two.”
“That’s what I thought. One too many.”
“So … everything that happened …?”
“When you take a small dosage, you have pleasant hallucinations. Take one too many and you end up … well, you’ve experienced what you end up with.” He took her hand. “I’m sorry it was so bad for you. I couldn’t even help: you wouldn’t let me touch you. Here, let’s move to the couch. That’ll be more comfortable.”
Amanda swayed, light-headed, and clung to his arm. She moved her body, but it felt like it belonged to someone else.
“See?” he said. “Everything is fine now. You’re safe here.”
She began to nod but gasped instead: her left arm was streaked with dried red liquid. “I’m bleeding!”
“Oh, that?” He chuckled. “Relax, Amanda. It’s just paint.”
“Why do I have this on me?”
“I tried to stop you, but you were determined to paint, and it’s hard to reason with someone who has taken too many pills. I guess you had a fit of creativity that couldn’t be contained. You said you wanted to work on your sketch.”
He pointed to the coffee table in front of them, where her sketchbook sat. It lay open, though her angle prevented her from seeing the image. Gripping the table for support, she reached over and held up the sketchbook.
Her knees buckled and she collapsed back onto the sofa, the fear that had never fully subsided now coming back in full force. She stared, transfixed, not being able to turn away from the revulsion in front of her.
Her sketch of Portrait of a Mother was there, all as before … except for the mother’s face. A strange image stared back at her, not with maternal affection, but with a monstrous beckoning to torment. Dry, caked lips, though ghastly thin, opened in a sneer; the structure of her nose was corrupted, bones jetting out in an abnormal monstrosity; her cheeks were sallow, the grayish skin dangling as though dead.
The mother’s eyes revealed the necessity of the red paint. Small, snake-like slits encased two fiery red pupils, themselves enshrined in a cloak of bloodshot chaos. It resembled the face of a corpse, yet somehow still looked alive. It was more than a sketch made by flesh and blood. It was here—with her … and she couldn’t take it anymore.
Casting the sketchbook away from her, Amanda attempted to liberate herself from this inexplicable force, now prowling there against her.
“What’s wrong? What is it?” Ethan picked up the sketchbook. He looked at it for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders, unperturbed.
“Can’t you see? Can’t you feel it here with us?”
“Trust me: it’s just the pills. Actually, if you ask me, I think your sketch looks much better. It’s a huge improvement over the original. What you’ve done is provoking and bold—very avant-garde. I don’t know why you don’t like it now; when you finished, you told me it was your greatest work.”
She hid her face in her hands, despair overcoming her. What if the most frightening thing was inside, in herself? “What’s happening to me?”
He put his arm around her, but Amanda felt nothing. “Just give it a few more hours. The drug will wear off and you’ll be back to normal.”
“I think I’ve reached the point where I can’t return to who I was. I don’t know who I am.”
“Everything is out of proportion when you’re in this state. Why don’t you try to rest for a while?”
He helped her lie down and tucked a soft throw around her. Then he stood up and began to pull on his jacket.
“Wait! What are you doing? You’re leaving? Where are you going?”
“I’m sorry; the timing is terrible. I’ve got to go to work.”
“What time is it?”
Ethan glanced at his phone. “It’s ten o’clock at night.”
“You work nights now?”
“They called me in. We have a special assignment. Everyone is required to be there.”
“But what about us? What about everything that happened? I showed you my painting and … and you’re just leaving me?”
“Everything is going to be fine, Amanda. We’re going to be fine. I’ll be back as soon as possible, and we can talk more. You can stay the night. Just promise me that you won’t leave the apartment. You’re liable to do anything in this condition, and I don’t want something to happen to you.”
In spite of everything, she smiled faintly: he still wanted her. Her
eyelids grew heavy. “Just don’t be too long.”
He stroked her hair and kissed her on the forehead. He walked out the door, and shortly after, she heard his car roar to life. He sped away, the wheels squealing.
Sleep seemed like a welcome reprieve. She began to slip into a still oblivion …
“I showed you my painting.” Her words to Ethan echoed in her mind. She sprang from the couch, every nerve in her body alert.
Where was her painting?
She didn’t see it anywhere. The stillness of the apartment felt eerie, as though some unseen stranger watched her every move. Unnerved, she crept toward the front door, ensuring that it was locked, and then closed the curtains.
She performed a meticulous search of the living room, even looking underneath the couch on the off chance that her painting had ended up there.
Amanda stood still, suspicion rising within her. Ethan hadn’t said when he planned to return. He wouldn’t be back soon, but how much time did she have?
She made her way down the hallway, trying to control her fright. The pills were causing this paranoia, nothing more. She peeked into the first room on the right: his bedroom. There didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary. His open closet revealed a row of designer shirts hanging alongside his dress pants. A single picture sat on his dresser, and she picked it up to take a closer look: a man and a woman standing together, with the United States flag waving behind them on a large flagpole. The man had dark black hair, the woman a dazzling smile—Ethan’s parents, she guessed. She replaced the picture, doing her best to return it to the exact same spot.
She checked the bathroom and then came to a closed door at the end of the hallway—the final room. She stood in the dark hallway, debating. Ethan had never shown her inside here. Footsteps sounded nearby and she jumped, gasping. But there was no one; the footsteps belonged to the tenants upstairs.
Amanda needed to do this and do it quickly. She had no idea when Ethan would return. She grasped the doorknob and turned. The door opened, emitting a loud, high-pitched creak. In the dark, the vague outline of a large desk hovered against the opposite wall. She fumbled along the wall for the light switch, flicking the power on to reveal what lay hidden.
