Читать книгу A Necessary Risk - Kathleen Long - Страница 8

Jim Thomas pivoted slowly on one heel, frantically scanning the wall of his dorm room, searching for something—anything—familiar.

Framed photos assaulted his senses, distorted faces taunting, haunting. Their voices jockeyed for position inside his brain, screaming, threatening. He pressed his palms to either side of his head and squeezed.

Who were they?

Why wouldn’t they stop?

His gaze landed on a calendar and he recognized his own handwriting. His room. He must be in his dorm room. Familiar surroundings. Safe.

Maybe the voices were a dream.

A very bad dream.

Maybe he’d wake up any moment now and the voices would be gone. The pain would be gone.

For a split second, a teasing sense of calm whispered through him before the unrelenting paranoia and dread took over once more.

Jim’s chest ached and he struggled to draw in a breath, struggled to slow the racing beat of his heart. He opened his mouth to scream, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t call out for help, his throat tight with fear and panic.

The pressure inside his head continued to build, becoming so intense he wished his brain would blow apart to end the agony.

Jim squeezed his hands harder against his skull and turned aimlessly. He bounced off the wall, then reached for the bed but staggered, losing his balance and slamming into the opposite wall.

He slid down the length of the cold plaster, fingers tracing the worn paint until they bumped up against the edge of the sliding glass door.

He sank to the floor momentarily but pulled himself up, using every ounce of strength in his body to will his legs to support his weight.

His heavy, bone-weary weight.

Heavy head.

Heavy heart.

Heavy life.

Jim sagged again but hooked one hand through the door handle, holding tight. The latch gave way and the door slid wide, opening to the pathetic patch of concrete the school called a private balcony.

He laughed through the pain, amazed he could remember the housing lottery, amazed how important winning this balcony had once seemed.

Now all he cared about was the pain.

The head-banging, excruciating pain that pulsated through his head. Minute after minute. Day after day.

The voices sounded again, urging him forward, promising him the pain would stop if only he listened.

He stumbled onto the balcony, welcoming the caress of the crisp autumn air against his face.

He gripped the railing and leaned over, studying the sidewalk below. The concrete drew a lazy pattern of curves through the carefully trimmed grass and the perfectly sculptured gardens. A group of students walking below laughed, no doubt consumed by the idiocy of college life.

They looked perfect. They sounded perfect.

Damned perfect.

Jim stepped up onto the bottom rail. First one foot. Then the other.

His headed pounded now as if his brain no longer fit inside his skull and pressed to break through. He looked to the sky and balanced, hoping the pain would ease. Hoping the pounding would stop.

But it never did.

The voices.

He had no choice now but to listen to the voices.

Jim stepped up onto the second rail and leaned forward, welcoming the rush of air against his face as he fell, arms spread wide.

He soared.

He flew.

He eagerly anticipated the imminent release from the pain, and as the ground rushed at him, Jim smiled.

At last.