| |
Amara’s energy drained away as she pulled her overnight bag from the trunk of her Camry. The air from an unseasonably warm day cooled as the sun dipped behind the neighborhood trees. It would be night soon. The night was when she felt most alive, the most connected with the world around her. When the sun took its nightly dip beyond the horizon, as the temperature dropped and darkness covered the world, her body came alive.
She loved the solitude of night, though she never felt alone. The voices were always there. Her voices. Sometimes, they consoled her, not by their words, but by the never-ending presence saving her from the emptiness of her loveless marriage.
She never understood why so few people saw beauty in the darkest hours. Who hadn’t taken a stroll down a starlit road, danced in the moonlight with their love, or wished on a star to do so? The night was a beautiful time to be alive, to dream while awake.
Her visual and mental acuity, dexterity, and stamina sharpened the darker her environment. Her whole body improved.
AMARA.
The awareness of the voices in her head.
AMARA!
She turned subtly, afraid that someone might catch her looking, but, as usual, there was no one nearby to hear. About a block away, she saw a red-haired man, but the voice was too close to be coming from him.
Leave me alone!
YOU DID IT, AMARA. YOU KILLED THOM.
No, I didn’t!
AWW, YOU NEVER LISTEN TO US.
That’s because you lie all the time! Why do you do this to me?
A surge of anger shot through her, and Amara cut the conversation off. What was the point in arguing with herself? In the distance, she heard the faint sound of heckles, but the voices no longer dominated her thoughts. That was good.
Her house loomed nearby, a large, two-story red brick foursquare in a row of brick foursquares. She picked up her pace, anxious to be home. If she lost control and yelled at the voices—which she rarely did, but at times anger got the better of her—at least there’d be no one to see. Not that there were many people on Piper’s lonely streets. A couple of people who preferred to power walk to their jobs at the big hotels on the river, and the occasional jogger.
Just a few more steps. Hey, wasn’t that red-haired guy farther back?
NO, CRAZY WOMAN.
The wavering reply sent a chill through her. The voice, for once, didn’t sound too confident. Her voices were always cocksure. To hear one sound uncertain didn’t bode well, even if it was only a subconscious part of her. If her voices came unglued, might it not be an omen of what was to come? A complete loss of sanity, perhaps?
The door to her neighbor’s porch swung open, and Melanie Winslow, her chubby, gray-haired neighbor, emerged with her tiny Yorkie, Trotter, in tow. Melanie had bundled to the neck in an emerald cashmere cape and scarf despite the relatively mild autumn weather. Her wardrobe made Amara aware of her short sleeves and bare arms. Why wasn’t she colder?
“Amara!” Melanie cried, her round face lighting up. Gray bangs blew into her eyes, and she swatted them away with her leash hand, giving Trotter an unpleasant jerk off his feet. “What a pleasant surprise. I haven’t seen you out lately. Are you all right? I saw the police cars outside, and I’ve been worried about you and Thom.”
“I’m—I’m not,” Amara said, slowing down reluctantly. “That is—I’m coming home now. It’s been a terrible past few hours.”
Melanie’s brows rose, and Amara could tell if she didn’t disentangle herself from Melanie’s conversational clutches, she’d be stuck explaining every minute of her morning despite Trotter’s incessant tugs at his mistress’s hand.
The setting sun emerged from beyond the trees, and a few golden setting rays struck Amara in the face. She winced and moved forward, edging toward her door.
“I—can we talk later?”
Assured those explanations were forthcoming, Melanie’s face brightened. “Sure! Sure. Trotter, heel!” Melanie gave her leash a commanding tug, but Trotter, as usual, paid no mind, yanking and fighting toward his favorite telephone pole. “Why don’t we do coffee later? Or tea? I bought this wonderful Chai from the corner coffee shop—you know—that Indian place?”
“Sure, Melanie,” Amara said. “But I’ve got to go, now. I’m exhausted.”
“Poor thing,” Melanie cooed. “You look exhausted. Does this have to do with the police—?”
“I am... exhausted. We’ll talk later.”
She strode to her door and wondered for a moment where her keys were. It took a full minute of searching—minutes she would have sworn weighed on her like sandbags—before she found them in a side pocket of her purse.
She shut the door behind her and leaned on it heavily. Home... but not really. Though it was hers, it had always felt more like Thom’s, and with Thom gone, the home had lost its soul. Hadn’t Thom picked the neighborhood? Chosen the building? Urged Amara into agreeing that it was perfect for them, despite her preference for a smaller place downtown? Still, once the life insurance came through, it’d be hers without mortgage payments. He’d made sure that if he died, she’d be taken care of—she’d told Detective Jewell the truth about that. About everything.
NO, YOU DIDN’T.
The draft that followed her from outdoors passed, and the smell of astringent cleaner hit her nostrils. It only took a second of wondering what she was smelling before a graphic picture of what it was and why she smelled it triggered the urge to vomit. She raced across the living room and through the kitchen to their guest bath. Acidic orange juice scorched her throat as it made a return trip up her esophagus. As she vomited, tears fell into the porcelain bowl. She mourned the loss of her husband. As she grieved, great sobs wracked her body. Strangely, the sense that someone nearby watched and sympathized with her consoled her. Maybe they cared.
Don’t be stupid. Hallucinations don’t have compassion.
She pulled the lid to the commode down and, after wiping her mouth with toilet paper, she laid her arms and head atop it. It took several minutes for her body to relax, minutes when her newly emptied stomach cried out to be filled.
What can I eat that will stay down? Comfort food. It was what she needed, the only nourishment that had a chance of staying in her stomach for more than a minute.
She rose on shaky legs, and half walked, half staggered to the refrigerator.
Comfort food.
She looked past the pasta salad and the vegetables. Milk, creamer, applesauce. No, no, no. Hot dogs. Close.
Two thawed porterhouse steaks lay on the bottom shelf, the dinner she’d planned for her and Thom that night. She withdrew the plate, grateful that she hadn’t marinated them yet.
Comfort food.
She crossed the kitchen, laid them on the granite countertop, and pulled back the plastic wrap.
THAT’S IT, AMARA. YOU KNOW YOU WANT IT.
She would have sworn hands caressed her triceps as she wrenched a chunk of raw meat from the rest of the steak. Popping it into her mouth, she groaned in delight as the blood from the uncooked meat trickled down her throat.
“Oh... that’s good,” she said aloud. She tore off another chunk. And another.
When nearly all the steak was gone, her fatigue had vanished leaving her invigorated and strangely horny.
How sick are you? That is wrong, just wrong! Your husband died last night, and here you are getting off on the taste of raw meat! She wiped her hands on her pants, leaving cold, wet spots on her slacks. Think about trees, good books, the way the wind smells in the fall...
And she tried. But the trees became phallic symbols, the books turned into lusty romances, and the wind became the sensation of her sweater brushing against her breasts.
My sweater? But—
Her bra was unhooked, though she didn’t remember doing it.
Oh, God, not again.
She ran to the cabinet, yanked out a prescription bottle, and shook out an Ambien. Then another. She swallowed them dry, dashed to the cabinet, chased it with a glass of water, and marched purposefully to her room.
Gathering her blankets about her, she swore to sleep. She would not masturbate. Not with her husband gone less than two days.
She wouldn’t masturbate, but she had no doubt she would dream. The fantasy men would come again tonight, those blurry creatures that hovered between twilight and solidity, and they would touch her...
As the drug claimed her exhausted body, Amara saw the shadowy bodies emerge from the corners of her room. A muscular, tanned male with dark, wavy hair turned to his companion, another male of similar description, but more leonine, with straight hair.
“I thought you were going to go give her a hug, Angelo,” the short-haired one said. David, Amara thought, glad to be asleep at last.
“Cut me some slack, will you?” the second replied. “She ran to her little pills like she always does. Now she’s down for the count.”
David shook his head. “The meat turned her on. She was probably thinking about her recent shag with Perry.”
Angelo shook his head, and from behind them, Amara saw one more form emerge before the drug pulled her into its spell of sweet oblivion. Average height, only a little taller than her, with a pale face and bright blue eyes. Perry. The breathtaking young man from the police station.
Angelo smirked. “Yes, and now we get to have a drink.”
