part0030

I t had been a bright morning, but I could hardly tell through the dark tint of the car windows. Happily distracted from thoughts, I watched the world around me change; every second, I was looking at something new as we traveled down the highway.

My parents were taking me to a friend’s house to spend the night. It was always a treat to visit my friend, Claire and her brother, Nicholas, but I knew the real reason my parents were pushing me out of the house tonight. I had overheard the housekeeper mention setting the dining table for eight that evening, and even though I was young, I was old enough to know our family hadn’t grown by five in the last day. My parents planned on entertaining some important friends that night, and they wanted me out of the way.

I should not have been bothered by the thought since it was a rare occasion to avoid being included in family functions as a whole, but the idea of seeing Claire again was enough to ease the sting.

The last time Claire and I had seen each other, we had made a fool of Nicholas, and I was sure he wouldn’t be as glad to see me as I was to see him. It was childish and mean, but Claire had dared me, and the idea of not following through was more frightening than angering Nick .

Only later, I wished I had known how much our friendship would waver, and maybe then I wouldn’t have been so cruel.

Claire’s father was always an active man, more so than he should have been—his mind revolved around crazy ideas and a dangerous optimism, so much, that whenever he had an idea, or had heard one of his neighbors talking about their latest projects, he was confident he could do them too, as long as he set his mind to it. Once he had done that, there was no deterring him until the calamity unfolded before his eyes.

It happened every project he worked on—the back patio or the plumbing in the kitchen. When the garbage disposal stopped working, he thought he had the knowledge and skill to fix it, but when he was finished, the situation only became more involved and resulted in Claire’s mom calling the local plumber. Needless to say, they ended up needing to replace the whole kitchen sink.

Then there was the treehouse… Nicholas had proposed the idea to his dad, and he jumped on the project, convincing his wife that it was a prime opportunity to bond with his son. At first, the treehouse seemed like an exciting adventure, one where we could spend the days and evenings high up into the canopy. Claire and I had already devised a plan to lay claim to the treehouse, banning Nicolas at the first chance we had. We laughed and joked about how we would paint the whole thing pink, and no boy would be brave enough to enter then.

But our imagination was just that, dreams and fantasies because the project never went far enough to be considered an actual structure. After several weekends and tons of mishaps with the tools, Claire’s mom had convinced the two of them to give up on their dream of having a treehouse. I could picture it clearly in my mind, as we whirled past a thicket of trees. Eight boards, nailed to the trunk of the large oak tree in their backyard.

Claire’s dad insisted he do most of the menial work before Nicholas had joined him, claiming it wasn’t safe enough, but Nick would never get the chance to climb those eight lopsided steps up. There was nowhere for him to go once at the top, except for a few poorly angled, and barely secured boards nailed to the winding branches of the tree.

Nicholas’s dad’s latest project had been repaving the path to their shed out back when Claire had challenged me to the dare. Nick had just gotten home from junior football practice when Claire had lured him into the backyard. My heart raced as he approached, rounding the corner when I would catch him off guard and lead him into our trap.

Just as he passed the bush I had been hiding in, I leapt out, covered in one of his own Halloween masks and screamed at the top of my lungs, propelling myself forward with my arms flailing about. If he had been older, and not so frightened or caught off guard, he might have recognized the mask as his own, but he hadn’t, and because of this, he ran, screaming further into the backyard.

We had only intended on scaring him and had not known that he would run straight for the newly paved cement. Claire had tried to stop him, but it was too late. Seconds before he was to run into the still wet mixture, he tripped and fell. His hands and face pressed into the wet cement, forever marking our prank in history.

As I thought about it then, there in the car, I had hoped Nick would forgive me the next time I saw him, but the look on his face that day, beneath the thin layer of muck on his face, was not one I suspect I would ever forget—and neither would he. They had lived out in the country, a small development on the outskirts of town, and as we drove, the traffic grew quieter, fewer and fewer cars crossed us in passing, but as we continued, the road started warping, turning into something altogether different, and yet familiar.

I recognized the road as the one we had taken that day, the one where we left our world behind in hopes of getting away from whatever dark past my parents were running from. As we drove past the pines, the fog grew thicker, taking me back to the day when my life would never be the same. My chest pounded as I relived the moment once more, the familiar cold air, the dreary morning, and the silence that wrapped its arms around everyone.

There was no music, no chatter from my parents, only the hum of the rubber as the tires propelled us forward.

Forced to relive the event a second time was more terrifying than the first because, as I sat there in the backseat, I knew what fate awaited us, and I was powerless to stop it. In that moment, I wanted to say the words, to warn them to slow down, or to take a different route, anything to avoid the collision that awaited us, but the words wouldn’t leave my lips, frozen by fear. It would appear that even though I knew what was to happen, I couldn’t prevent it; I was forced to experience the tragedy once more.

As we approached the intersection, I braced myself for impact, waiting in anticipation for it to come, but it didn’t. We drove past the crossing, and nothing happened. There was no car waiting, no blinding lights to break through the fog, and no collision sending us into the continuous roll that brought about my parents’ demise.

It seemed fate was playing a cruel joke on me.

My parents embraced hands, as my dad turned to my mother, looking fondly at her where she sat. It wasn’t the events that I had been waiting for. This wasn’t how it had happened , I told myself.

Maybe, my fate had changed. It seemed unlikely; as I knew the events had already come to pass, but no matter how hard I shook the idea, it seemed so real. Running my hand over the leather, I could feel the stitches beneath my fingers, smell the new car smell and remnants of my mother’s perfume in the air. I could see the trees as they passed by, each a defined shade of green, see the leaves in distinct detail.

The trees soon started to fade, reaching farther and farther away as we pushed uphill, headed for the bridge that overlooked the river below. I never cared much for the old thing. The bridge was rickety, and because it was made of wood, it rattled and shook as we drove over it, each jerk sending a shiver down my spine .

When I was younger, I would close my eyes until we had made it across, but as we pushed forward, I found it impossible to close my eyes. The fog was thick, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, warning me of what was to come.

We were nearly halfway across the bridge when it happened. A vehicle approached us, blinding lights breaking through the thick fog at the last moment.

As soon as the thought came to mind, it was already too late. Everything that was happening around me felt familiar in a way, and yet, even though I had lived the event once, this was nothing like the first. The vehicles collided, knocked into a continuous motion, we were pushed to the railing of the bridge, saved momentarily by the broken guardrails. The vehicle’s front tires, just barely hanging over the edge but held there by the weight of the rest of the vehicle.

The driver backed up, his headlights slowly disappearing into the fog and reappearing quickly as he reared us again.

It was happening again, and I couldn’t stop it.

The vehicle plunged into the river, my body pulling away from the seat, but still held down by the seat belt, suspended in a moment of time as I fell. There was a brief second where I thought, maybe it was already over, but the thought was gone shortly thereafter. My stomach dropped, reminding me that I was still falling, waiting for the plunge that was inevitably going to happen.

We hit the water, thrashing forward in our seats. The vehicle started filling with water almost instantly. The cold, crisp water swirled around my ankles, rising quicker and quicker. I feared for my parents, but when I looked up, they were gone. There was no one in the front seat.

Adrenaline filled my body, sending me into overdrive as I tried to unbuckle the seatbelt, but it wouldn’t give; it tethered me to the seat, with every intention of dragging me down into the dark waters below. After another few seconds, the latch final gave, but the water had already risen to my chest. Despite the adrenaline and the fear, the water had already clutched its cold arms around me, encompassing me with a shiver I could not fight.

I moved about the cab of the vehicle, trying to open the doors but the water had created a strong pressure against the metal of the vehicle, preventing me. The front end of the vehicle was submerging faster; I needed to get out of this deathtrap.

Hastily fumbling through the rising water, I pressed the button in an attempt to roll the window down, but the motor only ground, whined, and allowed the window to lower six inches but not enough to climb out until finally giving out in a whimpering last breath. My attempt at escape had only given the water a quicker way in.

The water kept rising, and I was running out of time. I moved toward the front of the cab. Nestling into the driver’s seat, I braced myself and kicked at the windshield. It shook, sending a vibration through my body on recoil but didn’t budge. I kicked it again, and yet the glass didn’t break. The water was at my neck now, it was rising faster and faster. Soon I wouldn’t be able to breathe.

As the water rose, I took one last breath and kicked with as much force as I could muster, but the glass only cracked a little. I kicked again, the web of broken glass expanding a little more with each assault. Again, and again, I struck the glass until I was weak and faint from holding my breath. I was going to die, I thought, but with one final kick, the glass finally gave way, and a rush of water came crashing in, hitting me like a wall. The vehicle was sinking and far too quickly.

With what little strength I had left, I swam through the new opening toward the surface. The closer I moved, the easier it became to see that light on the top of the water’s surface. I was almost there.

But as the surface became closer and closer, something grabbed my ankle, pulling me down with a fierce strength and infinite determination, but when I looked down to see what had a hold on me, there was only darkness. I was too weak; I couldn’t fight against its hold on me. The last bit of air slipped through my lips as I surrendered into its embrace, sinking into the darkness.

Panic coursed through my veins, pushing me into consciousness.

It was just a dream , I told myself, but it felt as real as that day, repeating over and over in my mind. I woke, thrust upright; I was covered in a cold sweat.

Remembering what Hart had taught me, I took several breaths in and out, slowing my breathing. As I pulled the blankets back up to my chest, I heard a faint sound behind me. The room was dark, still well late into the night or early morning—the clouds had blocked out the moon, leaving no trace of light.

I turned over onto my side as my heart rate climbed once more. The outline of a figure sat there, watching me. Quickly, I reached a hand under my pillow, feeling for the letter opener I had hidden there two weeks ago, but as soon as my grip wrapped around the silver, I released my hold, letting it rest there beneath my pillow.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to wake you,” A familiar voice said, as he clicked on the light resting on the nightstand.

Hart was sitting in the chair next to my bed, his white shirt was speckled with blood, and his knuckles were bruised and bloodied. Small cuts formed on the surface of his skin between each knuckle bone. There was a handgun, tucked into a side holster on his belt. I might not have seen it if he had been wearing a jacket, but as he sat before me, only clad in a once crisp and pristine white shirt, his sidearm was left exposed. His face was tired, and depleted, remnants of dried blood were flaked across his rigid jawline. His teeth were clenched, not in anger but contemplation. His thoughts wandered and his eyes seemed lost, frozen off in the distance.

As I looked at him, I knew I should have been scared, but I wasn’t. Despite his appearance, I knew deep down, he wasn’t here to kill me. No, whatever evil act that weighed heavily on his mind had already been committed. The look on his face wasn’t one of a man who was ready to act but one who was reflecting on those actions. And if that wasn’t enough, the blood on his shirt told me that whatever he had done was already over.

“It’s okay, it wasn’t you,” I said, my voice low.

I pulled him out of the abyss and back to the present, as he turned to look at me with dark, sad eyes. The light cast a shadow upon his face that made him appear at war with himself, pulled from each end, the light and darkness fighting over the hold they each had.

My hand never strayed too far from the makeshift weapon hidden under my pillow. “Should I be worried?” I asked, nodding toward the spray of blood and gun holstered on his hip.

He looked down at himself as if he was suddenly aware that he looked like he had been in a brawl, and a very nasty one at that.

He shook his head, “No. I only meant to have a word but forgot how late it was,” he said, as if that was enough to explain why he was in my bedroom looking as if he had just killed a man.

“And the other guy?” I asked, letting my curiosity get the best of me.

He contemplated whether or not he wanted to tell me whose blood was speckled on his shirt but decided against it. All I received for my inquiry was a hard look.

I wrapped the blanket around my neck, protecting me from the sudden chill in the room.

“Is that what you’ll do to me?” I asked. “If I can’t tell you what my father knew about Savoy?”

Hart looked at me, a mixture of emotions stirring about within. I could see the struggle; he was mad that I asked him such a question, even a bit surprised, but there was also a coldness about him, that told me if a line needed crossing, he wasn’t afraid to cross it.

After what seemed like several minutes of sullenness, Hart said, “No.” He turned to look at me so that our gazes were locked, “You’ve been through enough.”

In that moment, it was like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. It wasn’t so much the words themselves but the way he looked at me with empathetic eyes. My breath hitched, and for several moments I thought I would never let it go.

We sat in silence like that for a while, he lost in his thoughts and me watching him, wrapped in the warmth and protection of my comforter. Even if I wanted to, I knew I couldn’t sleep, not after the nightmare, not after waking to find him at my bedside or discovering him covered in blood.

Was this finally the moment? Was he going to let me go? Maybe he would take me back to New Orleans—it didn’t really matter, I thought to myself. Any police station would do. Hell, any city really, I just wanted to be back on larger soil—preferably North America, but I wouldn’t be picky, not now.

I wondered what the determining factor was for him. What had he discovered in that moment that had convinced him now that I knew nothing of what he asked? Would he tell me if he had learned something new?

Question after question raced through my mind after learning that he believed me, sincerely believed me. Before I could ask him anything though, he turned to me, pulling my thoughts in a different direction. “Is it like that every night?” he asked.

At first, I wasn’t sure what he meant, but then I realized, he was referring to the nightmare. He had been there long enough to see it.

“No,” I said, my voice was soft, “not every night.” That was a lie, but despite recognizing it, he didn’t question me.

He seemed lost in thought again. Finally, after another moment, he said, “Is it the accident that keeps you awake, or something else?” Hart continued to surprise me, every time he deduced some element of my life, connecting the dots quicker than I would have expected anyone else to, I had to commend him.

“In a form, yes, everything lately seems to come back to the accident,” I said, pausing. “At first it starts out the same, but as the nightmare plays out, the facts start to warp, twisting and turning into fiction. The nightmare grows, the collision always becomes more and more violent each time…” My voice trailed off .

Hart didn’t say anything, though; he just watched me. “This time,” I continued, “I felt like I was drowning. The car dove off a bridge and into the river below. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t reach the surface. It was there…” I paused, “…but no matter how hard I swam, I never reached the top.”

After a long pause, he said, “It’s just a dream. It’s not real.” But as he said the words, it almost felt like he was trying to convince himself instead of me. “Try your best to get some rest—we start your lessons tomorrow.” With one last glance toward me, he stood, turned the light off and walked into the darkness.