Chapter Nineteen

THEN

 

When he found his way home, Lyric sat on his bed for almost an hour, stiff as a board and practically unmoving. Too afraid that if he stirred it might either jar memories of what had happened or alert someone to his whereabouts.

He quickly popped two tablets of his chlorpromazine, chasing it with a swig of vodka, straight out of the bottle. Not exactly the ideal way to eat his tablets, but he was desperate for something to calm his nerves.

The blinds were pulled and all his lights were off and he stared intently at his phone as if afraid it was about to spring to life and attack. But instead it stayed motionless and quiet, as though the world had forgotten about him. He willed it to remain that way. The same went for his front door; he regarded it with fear, as if someone might come looking for him and bang it down. His ears remained intensely receptive to all the sounds around him, but were greeted with nothing but quiet.

Nevertheless, his ears rung and his skin vibrated as he attempted to filter out the panic that was threatening to take hold. He tried to remember back to his counselling. Think soothing thoughts, count down from one hundred, fill your head with white noise and try to remain calm.

And wait for the meds to kick in.

This wasn’t the first time he had woken up in a strange place, unsure of how he had gotten there or what he had done. These types of awakenings were becoming all too familiar to him.

Ever since the accident.

His parents used to think he was sleepwalking; at nighttime when he was younger he’d wander into odd places in the house—under the stairs, in the attic—and they would find him mumbling softly to himself as if in some sort of dream-state. This continued for years, until suddenly, these events seemed to stop of their own accord. Nothing more had come of them, at least nothing worthy of seeking help or a cure for them. His family simply thought he had grown out of these sleepwalking states. When he was twelve, he seemed to fall into the wrong crowd and the episodes started up again. Only this time, they were a bit more severe. He would find himself in situations that he couldn’t explain and had no memory of how or what had happened.

Then his whole world collapsed.

After his parents and Cedar died when he was eighteen, something shifted inside him. He began to feel less and less like himself; irritable and angry and full of disdain. It was more than just grief. It was as if he had darkened somehow. It wasn’t long after their funeral that the episodes swung into high gear. He would lash out at everyone and everything; the stealing and the violence and the blackout episodes grew worse. It all seemed like it was happening to someone else, and he was just the spectator.

Then came the time spent in the institute. It was such a confusing period of his life. He couldn’t make heads or tails of what was happening to him and why they thought he did all those horrible things he was getting into trouble for.

But it wasn’t up to him to try to understand why, as they said at the hospital, it was only important that it all stopped.

Two years of intensive therapy, confinement, group talks and exercises. When he was released he got better.

At least he thought he had.

He would take his pills at the prescribed time, check in at the prescribed time, and show up for his check-ups as they called them. For years, he felt like he was on the right track to being normal again.

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.