Bishop huddled in the corner of the train, holding his knees to his chest. His face was pale, and beads of sweat glistened across his forehead. He was trembling. Emotion, too overwhelming, closed his throat, negating the power of speech.
Delusions again, he thought. But they aren’t real. Please tell me they aren’t real.
“You all right, buddy?” asked a passenger. He was leaning over Bishop.
Bishop saw the man’s hand, like a dagger sailing toward him. His body jumped and jerked. The man retracted.
“Someone call 911,” he said.
Bishop could see the girl’s memories laid out like a blanket behind his eyes.
The train screamed to a halt as the lights flickered on and off. A passenger on the phone with emergency services described Bishop, who forced himself to his feet, his heart fluttering. He walked off the train, his arms wrapped across his body and his head down. The visions tainted his thoughts as he ascended the stairs, avoiding anyone who approached too closely. Desperately, he quickened his pace to the street, where the night had enveloped the city. Bishop was shivering, pacing the sidewalk.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Don’t know what to do.” His heart was jumping as he struggled to breathe deeply. “What am I supposed to do?”
He sat on a bench outside City Hall, unable to shake the feel of the man’s skin. The smell of his breath, pungent with alcohol, tasted foul in his throat. The touch of his hands on her breasts as she laid frozen on the bed, her eyes lost and frightened, ashamed and alone. The thoughts tortured Bishop. He wanted to rake the man’s eyes out. He wanted to take Lindsey and keep her safe. He started to cry. His sad heart filled with love for Lindsey and called to her a gentle comfort of trust, telling her that someone did care. That he knew she hurt and hoped that she could hear his plea, believing that in some magical way she could hear his message.
A growl erupted beneath the city like a sadistic cry of fear intent on interrupting the flow of Bishop’s emotion. He could feel the willful filtering of electricity bounce from every atom of air, consuming the space between the hearts of the people who occupied the streets, the cars, the shops, and the restaurants. He could see the electricity give rise and power to the electrical impulses of the minds of the world. His shivering subsided as the glow of the light, the tunnel’s light, replaced the nightmarish thoughts of Lindsey’s fear. The light, a radiating entity, an overwhelming emotional rush, deposited into his heart with a pure joy unlike anything he’d ever felt.
Quickly his muscles released the tension of Lindsey’s nightmare, and Bishop could sense that the night-mare dissipated into the electrical impulses that bounced across the atmosphere, crushed by the entropy of a higher power. He breathed in deeply, drawing the thick air into his lungs. And just as he released the breath, his thoughts became clear. Peace fell over him.
A police patrol car, lights flashing, halted in front of Bishop’s bench. The red and blue glow cemented Bishop’s stare. He didn’t waver or threaten to run. Two officers exited the car. They slammed the car doors with a heavy thud. The officer closest to Bishop shined a flashlight in his eyes.
Bishop breathed in deeply.
“’Scuse me,” the officer said. “Can I see some ID?”
Bishop was slow in his response, being careful with his actions. He cleared his throat, reaching into his pocket.
“Sure,” he said softly and handed them his identification.
The officer studied the card and relayed Bishop’s credentials into the CB that was clipped to his shoulder.
“Is there a problem?”
“We received a 911 call regarding a distressed male who matches your description. Everything all right?”
Bishop nodded. He wanted the light out of his eyes.
Wanted to be left alone. “No problems at all.” “Have you been taking anything tonight?” “I’ve never taken a drug in my life.”
The second officer laughed. “That’s what they all say.” “Been drinking maybe? Maybe hitting the bars for your birthday?”
“I don’t drink either.”
“What do you do?” the second officer responded.
Remain calm, Bishop thought. You’ve done nothing wrong.
“At the moment I’m just sitting.”
A static voice from the CB interrupted them, and the first officer turned away. “Stay right where you are,” the second officer said. “Don’t make any sudden moves.”
Bishop turned away, forgiving the officer for his prejudices.
“He’s clean,” the officer said, returning the ID to Bishop. “Sorry to bother you.
Have a nice birthday.”
“Let’s not run into each other again,” the second officer warned.
Bishop watched as their doors slammed shut again, and the warning lights flickered off as the car sped away. Pedestrians walking the sidewalk couldn’t help but throw a glance over to Bishop. And Bishop returned every eye. Was he dangerous enough to elicit such a response? Every eye was on him. Even the moon with its full glow and blue shine seemed to stare down on him.
The clarity of the moon’s surface pulsated like the steady pounding of the human heart. Bishop could feel his breath slowing in unison with the moon’s rhythm. But what was it saying? He attempted to clear his thoughts. And the voice was within him, like that of a hushed whispered breath.
Spread the Word of God!
Bishop pursed his lips, trying to catch his breath, swallowing the air forcefully down his throat.
“There’s nothing I can do!” he said. “There’s nothing at all I can do!”
Spread the hand of God!
He leaned forward, holding his head.
“Nothing I can do,” he said, standing. Holding his arms against his chest and avoiding the moon’s glow, he started off through the streets, avoiding eye contact with anyone he passed. He wanted to be alone, wanted to shake the eyes off him. He wanted to avoid the touch of all the people.
There’s nothing I can do, he thought.
Soon he was in Battery Park, an old familiar serenity he had come to know years earlier before all the madness had crept into his life. It was a place where he could go to avoid the pain of his home. The Hudson River was calm. And the New Jersey lights were steadfast across the river. He sat on a cement bench, wanting the serenity to work its magic on the day’s chaos. He was alone in the park, the way he wanted it. And the familiar city sounds were lost to the gentle brush of the Hudson’s waves.
He thought of Susan then. He thought of love and their plans for the future. He pictured the two of them dancing, the thought of skin against skin and the warmth of the body. Bishop always said he loved to touch the feel of her touch, for there were no nightmares in her heart.
But the serenity was distracted by the crack of a glass bottle against the cement. Bishop turned to see the dark image of a man swaying in the soft wind. He was dressed from head to toe in a disheveled overcoat. The once brown fabric was turned black with dirt and soot. His features were hidden behind the veil of a thick, dirty beard that glistened with sweat and grime. His eyes, unable to focus, rolled lazily behind dreary eyelids. Bishop watched as he stumbled onto to the grass and vomited blood and phlegm. His body trembling as he finished spewing stomach acid, and when he rolled onto his back, he reached into his coat pocket and took from it a glass pipe and cellophane.
“Crack,” he said, “my love. Take the pain away.”
He drew in the smoke and took a deep breath pushing the drug into his lungs. His body jerked and then went limp, the pipe falling to his side. A stream of smoke slithered from his lips. He started to scream and wail and took his head into his hands.
“Ah, God, help me!” he said through a river of tears. “Jesus, please help me.”
Bishop clenched his teeth. He turned away, his throat closing on him.
“Please help me, please,” the man repeated.
Bishop wanted no part in the man’s plea even though his heart ached from the sight of the stranger. But he understood he had to do something. There was a reason behind the night, and no coincidences were in place. Bishop got up quietly. The man was weeping.
“The memories,” he called. “Turn them away. Such nightmares, such devils. Please turn them away. Please!”
Bishop approached cautiously and cringed when he saw the young man behind the old façade. And the man could not control his tears. Bishop turned his eyes to the moon, hovering over the city like a controlled sphere of ocean. He swallowed his tears and the fear that accompanied them.
Spread the Word of God!
“Don’t be afraid anymore,” Bishop said. “Please! Don’t be afraid.” His hands were trembling as he slowly reached for the man’s temples. His fingers clamped to the flesh like two magnets pulled together by the force of attraction.
And the man’s chest jumped forward then froze as tears streamed across Bishop’s skin.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Please let this be the right thing to do.”
Abruptly, darkness blinded Bishop, his head dizzy as he stumbled onto his back. He could feel himself moving through the darkness searching for a light to direct him as his heart raced, and he could feel himself being pulled through the darkness. It was like riding a light beam. The synapses and cells swelled in his brain, creating connections to an undiscovered labyrinth. And at last there came the light. Bishop saw the junkie, but he was young, no more than nineteen. He saw him in military uniform in the desert. It was the first Gulf War. Bishop knew this because the junkie knew it; this was his memory. Tanks and armed jeeps stopped outside a small village, and the GIs handed food provisions to the villagers.
But the memories moved quickly. It was more than a memory; the scene was real, and Bishop was there.
“Nothin’ like at home, Jimmy,” called a soldier to the junkie. Both were handing out food.
“Ain’t nothing like it, Daniel,” said Jimmy. Jimmy smiled as he laughed, but then the scene skewed. The memory was filtered with jagged lines and flashes of ultraviolet light.
The bomb exploded abruptly. The eyes of the child were stiff and intent but then dissipated, ripped from the shoulders and vaporized. A wave of force drove Jimmy to the sand, snapping his neck. Bishop could feel the pain drive through his skull. The scene went black, but only briefly. The sound was deafening; it pierced the eardrum, snapping the noise to a mute. Then the decapitation hit Jimmy’s chest, falling to the ground. His eyes rolled about, Jimmy’s hands holding his ears. And then Daniel’s eyes set on him. They were still, with a smile of relief. Blood dripped from the torn skin and bone. But those eyes just kept staring.
Then a scream erupted inside Jimmy’s head.
Bishop felt the light beam rush forward, the scene dissipating as he was taken back into the darkness. He saw flashes of light, glimpses of life. Jimmy in the hospital, wrapped in bandages and struggling to breathe. Jimmy was with his parents; his father’s hand was on his shoulder, tears in his eyes. The head, severed, flashed like gunshots across the sky. Jimmy cringed from the nightmares of a severed smiling head.
He took his first taste of crack cocaine at a prostitute’s home in Alphabet City, and the high helped the pain dissipate. But still he saw Daniel in his dreams and in the fog of smoke behind an incredible rush. So he used more and lost everything: parents, home, friends, and family. He risked them all to wash away the nightmare.
And in Battery Park, the memories wiped clear from Bishop’s eyes. Jimmy convulsed on the grass, coughing, phlegm wrenching from his throat.
Bishop cleared his thoughts and sat up. He held his knees and tried to control his breathing.
“I’m sorry. So sorry!” he said.
Jimmy clenched his chest. He was struggling to breathe. Gasping for air.
“He’s dying,” Bishop wailed. “Oh God! What have I done?”
Jimmy was grabbing his throat.
A shriek of the memory wailed through Bishop. He grasped his temples. Jimmy gawked and gasped. He was trembling and convulsing. But the memories were thick, invading Bishop’s thoughts with a relentless screech. Tears formed like puddles in Bishop’s eyes.
“No more,” Bishop said. “No more, James.” His head shook. “Oh God. Oh God!” He started to run, trying to force the thoughts from his mind. “Not again!” he hollered, repeating the plea over and over.
And Jimmy’s heart started to calm, his breathing beginning to slow. He gripped his chest and could feel Bishop’s hand inside.