Читать книгу Sharp edges - S.A Partridge - Страница 7

IT’S TOO COLD. My body erupts into a million tiny convulsions, despite the best efforts of my well-worn duvet cover. I toss and turn until the uncontrollable shivering eventually wins the battle­ and my body jerks awake.

As my eyes adjust, the cause of the sudden drop in temperature becomes clear. Water leaks from the cracks and gaps in the window, streaming down the walls into a rapidly expanding puddle on the wooden floor. There’s a muted sound coming from behind the curtain, like fingers scratching on wet glass.

It takes a moment for me to realise that something is trying to enter my bedroom from the outside.

I’m fully awake now, the smell of the sea strong in the air. Slowly, I detangle my limbs from the blanket and clamber out of bed. When my bare feet touch the wet surface, patches of goose bumps flare up my arms and down my back. Wisps of frozen air escape from my mouth.

The sound is louder now. I can hear the roar of the ocean, the howl of the wind. I need to find the cause of all this, but it takes an age for my outstretched hand to pull the curtain aside, as if I’m moving in slow motion.

Her pale cheek is squashed against the window pane, while her fingers search the glass for any opening. Her hair floats around her gracefully like tentacles curling in and out. At first she doesn’t see me, but then she turns her head and I find myself staring into her familiar pale-blue eyes.

My body aches to be closer to her. I reach out my hand and she mirrors my gesture, flexing her fingers against the glass, as desperate as mine are for contact. But something is wrong with time, and our movements are too slow.

The force of the water causes fractures to slowly spiderweb across the surface. Her hands push against it; her slender body twisting itself till it fills the whole window, searching for a way inside. Tiny bubbles float from her lips as she forms words I can’t hear.

My own lips say her name. “Demi.” The sound is hollow in the empty room.

Green seawater curls and rolls against the glass, then recedes as a wave crests against the side of the house. The window trembles under the strain. I watch, mesmerised, as wave after wave slaps at the glass, getting higher and higher until the grey sky is no longer visible outside. My mind travels to my parents, asleep in their bedroom, and I stand up and ready myself to run, to get them out of the house before it floods completely.

But I don’t. My feet are locked in place.

The glass cracks like thunder and shatters. Water barrels into the room and I have to spread my legs apart to keep standing as it gushes past.

I reach out, ready to grab her hand, but before we can touch, the water throws me back, down into the murky green depths. I tumble over and over, till the force of the deluge carries me away, out the door and into the passage. Photos of my family tumble from the wall and are swallowed by the sea. Her mouth opens and closes as she calls my name, but I’m already out of reach. My fingers snatch at nothing.

I wake up covered in a cold, slick sweat and gasping for air. My chest heaves painfully as my breathing struggles to stabilise, but my heart is beating too fast. Instinctively, my fingers reach for the plastic pill box on the side of my bed, the one with a compartment marked for each day of the week. I count the days marked out on top: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, but I haven’t been keeping track. I don’t know what day it is. My trembling fingers pry open a lid at random and I pop a little white pill in my mouth and swallow it dry. My body is so used to this action that I don’t even choke any more.

It takes a couple of seconds for my brain to register that the room is not underwater. It was only the dream again.

I go through the steps of the calming exercise Dr Klaassen taught me. Focus on the real world. It’s stupid, but it helps.

I force my eyes to take in one thing at a time and ignore the memories of her screaming for my attention.

My guitar gathers dust in the corner. Two of the strings are broken. The Ernie Ball replacements are still in their unopened packaging on the floor, frozen in time since the day I bought them. To the left, my surfboard rests on its side against the wall. It’s useless to me now. I’m never going to go back in the water. There’s no point.

I move on to the next insignificant thing, then the next. Comic books, crumpled jeans, a coffee cup, a couple of CDs, debris of a young man’s life. It doesn’t even feel like my stuff any more.

It takes a while for the anxiety to pass, but it’s replaced by a dull ache I’ve come to accept will never go away. I never thought I could miss someone so much. It’s like an oxygen tube has been torn out my nose and I’m slowly suffocating from the inside.

Forgetting Dr Klaassen’s advice, I close my eyes and try to remember the dream, but the details are already fading. I shut them tighter, but it’s no use. She’s gone. This recurring dream is torturing me. She comes to me: real and soft and in the flesh. The more I want her to go away, the more I need her to stay. It’s ripping me apart, like pages being torn from a book until there’s nothing left but the spine.

Wolverine senses that I’m awake and begins snuffling outside my door. When I don’t open up for him, he starts to whine. He doesn’t understand what’s changed, why I don’t respond when he presses his wet nose against me. I just can’t. There’s nothing left in me for any of that normal stuff.

As if she’s developed a sixth sense herself, Mom enters the room and shuts the door carefully behind her so the dog can’t follow. She deposits a fresh glass of water on the bedside table and smiles as she straightens my duvet, a little unspoken reminder that I have to take my pills. Her smile is too forced, and the dark bags beneath her eyes reveal her true feelings. They’re a little hopeful, but mostly afraid, as if she’s wondering what type of mood I’m in today. Dad just stays away.

“Good, morning, angel,” she says, too chipper to be genuine.

I shield my eyes as she pulls aside the curtain and opens the window. Water doesn’t come crashing in, only millions of dust particles floating lazily in the sunlight.

Mom straightens her shoulders and blinks back her unhappiness. It’s what she does when she’s putting on her “Everything is fine” mask.

“Damian, honey, don’t you think it’s time you let me clean up in here? I’ll make you a bed on the couch. You can watch some TV, like you used to when you were in school?”

She wrings her hands hopefully. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand how her voice grates my brain and makes my teeth zing. I want to shout for her to get out, but I don’t have the energy to sit up, let alone to fight. I let my head slump back against the pillow. “Not today, Mom, please. Just let me lie here, okay?”

She chews on her bottom lip as if she wants to say something else, but decides against it. Instead she nods and slips out the room, shutting the door soundlessly behind her. Wolverine starts to whine again.

I stare out the window, being awake never used to take so much effort. All I want to do is sleep, but the caffeine or whatever else they put in my meds keeps me awake. I want the nothingness to take me away, but that would be too easy. I’m not ready to forget her yet.

If I’d been there this wouldn’t have happened. It was my fault. If I had stayed with her, she would still be alive. I repeat this simple truth to myself until I’m physically sick from it.

My stomach twists into a chemical dry heave and I retch over the side of the bed. Nothing comes out. Maybe it’s my body attempting to purge itself of the pain. I lie still till my heart stops beating so fast.

I don’t hear my door opening again, but feel Mom’s familiar fingers, roughened from decades of washing dishes, curl around my arms. A sob escapes my throat.

“Shh, honey, it’s alright. Can I make you a cup of tea? You’ll feel better afterwards.”

I try to throw her arms off but there’s no strength in my muscles. “Just leave me alone!”

My voice is nothing but a croak. I’m so pathetic.

She skulks to the doorway like she’s been stung. She must feel so helpless. We used to be close, but that was before Demi died and I got turned inside out.

“Things will get better with time.”

I can’t believe she said that, as if she can imagine a world where I could actually be happy again. I had my chance and it’s gone. The only reason I’m not dead is because I’m selfishly clinging onto my memories of her, willing her spirit to come and find me and take me with her.

I can’t stand her not being here. I see her face in my mind, her sweet blue eyes that used to light up whenever she saw me, her tiny nose and pierced lip and blonde, blonde hair streaked with every colour of the rainbow.

It feels like I’ve lost my mind.

I don’t know how much time passes. My fingers search the bedside table for my pills. There should be ten, maybe twelve left. I touch the cool metal of the bracelet I like to keep close as a reminder. I grab it and tuck it in my pocket, before slipping another pill into my mouth. I close my eyes and wait for my mind to stop racing. But the memories are waiting.

I STARTED WAITING TABLES to save up enough cash for a car. It wasn’t the coolest job to have in high school, but money’s money, and I had no friends to judge me for it anyway.

One night a family of six walked in and changed my life. Three guys, a really pretty blonde and two older people I assumed were the parents. The girl was cute; all blue eyes and out-of-control hair. She chewed on strands of her hair while she read through the menu. I had to psych myself up before I walked over.

“Good evening, folks. My name is Damian and I will be your waiter for this evening. Can I get you something to drink?”

Our eyes met for a second and we shared a secret grin, as if she knew that I knew that this was the last place on earth she wanted to be. I have no idea what came over me but I winked at the girl before returning my attention to her mother. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a blush blossom on her cheeks.

“It was my daughter’s birthday over the weekend, so tonight has to be extra special,” her mother said in warning. She was a classy lady in matching beige. The steakhouse seemed a really odd choice.

“I’ll make sure she gets the star treatment.”

I kept my word. I added tiny little extras throughout the meal, like a black straw in her drink when everyone else got the boring see-through kind, gherkins cut out in the shape of stars surrounding her burger, and let’s not forget the sparkler in the brownie. I also spared her the embarrassment of being sung to by the other waiters. My efforts earned me a bright smile, so I knew I was doing something right. Her family, all of them, didn’t notice a thing.

While I was ringing up their bill at the counter, I found myself staring into her big blue eyes.

“Hey there, Birthday Girl.”

“Hey. I uh, just wanted to say thanks for the extra stuff, you know, the straw and everything.”

She twirled a strand of hair around her finger in fast forward. I imagine that she was feeling incredibly shy, making conversation with a random stranger. I hoped she felt the same spark.

“I know what it feels like when no one makes a fuss about your birthday.”

“What makes you think no one made a fuss?”

“Well, you didn’t look stoked when you came in.”

“I guess not, but it’s hard to find places that’ll feed my three constantly hungry brothers on a budget. Monday-night burger specials have saved our lives.”

My eyebrows rose at the mention of brothers. I was hoping the guys at the table were family. I decided to make sure.

“I’m surprised your boyfriend didn’t have anything special planned for tonight.”

“I don’t have one,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Besides, my friends threw me a party on the weekend. It was great.”

The tiniest smile flickered at the corners of her mouth.

“Then I won’t feel bad about asking for your number.”

What followed was one of my rare experiences of the awkward silence.

“Are you being serious or is this you playing the part of charming waiter, trying to make a girl feel special on her birthday?”

I grinned. “Well, at least you think I’m charming. Would you mind if I asked your name?”

“It’s Demi, like the actress. Now answer the question.”

I was acting a lot braver than I felt, but my mind was flying off the adrenalin from talking to this girl.

“I like you,” I said as I wiped the sweat from my brow. This girl was making me nervous. “You’re not like most of the girls who come in here to flirt with me, hoping I’ll serve them beer. You’re real.”

“Lucky for you I hate beer, then.”

“Feisty. I like that.”

She turned to see if her parents were watching. I panicked.

“You still haven’t given me your number.”

She smiled at me and plucked a pen from my top pocket.

She wrote her number on one of the branded serviettes. She even drew a little heart at the end.

Demi wasn’t my first girlfriend, but she was the only one who mattered. She got me. The little firecracker with the childish giggle and the punk-girl fashion sense managed to get under my full-of-shit skin. The funny thing is, I never even looked at girls like her before: the outgoing kind. She changed me. I stopped being a wallflower at parties, stopped pretending that I was better than anyone else because I didn’t follow the crowd.

She was the only girl I ever said “I love you” to. I said it before she did, and that was entirely her doing too. There was urgency inside me to prove that I cared, that I wanted to be with her and no one else, that she was mine and I was hers and that what we had would outlast everyone else who’s ever been in love.

I PUSH at my temples until the memory disappears, my eyes burn with fatigue. I want to sleep. It feels like I’ve been awake for days. My body rocks back and forth. Crazy Damian! That’s what they all think. I saw the look of pity on her friends’ faces at the funeral.

One of Demi’s friends, I think her name is Ashley or something, was the worst. She stared at me during the whole ceremony, shock all over her face. She didn’t even come and offer her condolences like V and Siya did, but hurried off before anyone could speak to her. Why do I care anyway? None of them meant it, not even Siya’s offer to hang out sometime, whatever. It was all just talk.

I didn’t think I would ever see any of them again.

I LIE facing the wall when my door opens and Wolverine pads in. I hear him snuffling around the bed, feel his cold, wet nose in my back. I don’t have any energy to shout for him to get out. How long have I been in bed?

I turn over to see V standing in my doorway, her hands in her pockets like she doesn’t give a damn whether she’s there or not. She’s dressed in black, just like at the funeral. Her dark fringe hangs in her face like a veil. It strikes me that I’m lying half-naked in my bed, but yeah, I don’t give a damn either.

We don’t exchange greetings.

“I just thought I’d tell you that James is alive,” she says. Her voice is cold and even, and her face is emotionless.

The words pound around my head and my fists grab a handful of duvet.

“What do you mean, he’s alive?”

Did her lip just curl into a sneer? I thought it did, but when I look again, her face is blank.

“He’s going to be fine. They say he’s going to be out of the hospital in a day or two.”

My heart starts pumping heart-attack fast. “You visited him?”

“No. The nurse called me after they found him on the train tracks. My number came up the most on his phone, so they assumed we were close. They wanted to get the number of his parents, in case … in case he didn’t make it, but I didn’t have it.”

The way she says it, all hard and cold, makes it sound like he means nothing to her. It has the opposite effect on me. I’m too angry to speak.

“He came to the funeral, you know. That’s when it happened. Maybe it was guilt that made him do it: A life for a life. Too bad it didn’t work.”

When I don’t respond she leaves as silently as she arrived. No hello, no goodbye. I hope it’s the last I ever see of her.

I force myself upright, causing stars to pop in front of my eyes. I’m not sure when last I ate but I’m sure it was more than a day ago. I can’t bear to eat when Demi can’t. I don’t care if I starve to death. I want to be with her. The thought kept me in bed for days, but I’m awake now.

I force my legs over the side of the bed. They’re stiff, as if my brain has made up its mind that I’m dead and rigor mortis has already set in. Pins and needles have caused my feet to curl inwards, and I have to rub my thighs vigorously to get the blood flowing before I can finally stand up.

Wolverine jumps up excitedly, yapping at my ankles and whipping me with his tail. I ignore him and continue to lurch my way to the bathroom. When I get there, the effort causes me to fall forward and I clutch the side of the basin to keep from sinking to my knees. I smell like sick sweat and onions.

The guy in the mirror doesn’t look anything like me. The face that stares back is corpse white, with hollow eyes and a thin, drawn-on mouth. He’s nothing like the sun-browned surfer who spent hours in the water. I’m a monster now, which makes sense, considering what I plan to do to James when I see him.

I wash my face with cold water, and brush my furry teeth. My stomach reacts to the water by complaining loudly for food. But I don’t want to eat.

In the lounge, Mom does a double take and guiltily drops the magazine she was reading onto the floor. While she fumbles for it, I grab my car keys from the hook on the wall.

“Damian? Where are you going?”

I wish I was still that little kid who could lay all his problems on his mother, and be able to walk away trouble-free to carry on playing computer games or whatever the hell I did for fun at that age. But I’m not that kid any more and some problems are too big to entrust to someone else.

“I’ll be back now-now.”

“Honey, I don’t think …”

But I’m already walking to my car. All the camping stuff from that weekend is still in the back seat. I hesitate before unlocking the door. As hard as it is seeing the camping mattress we shared and the fold-out chair she sat in, I have to push past the pain. I have to do this. He killed her. Now I have to kill him.

I DRIVE in a trance. I suspect I’m not really awake; I’m pushing the pedals and turning the wheel by instinct alone.

Back in school we always used to scare each other with ghost stories about Groote Schuur Hospital. It’s terrifying to look at – all towers and arched Gothic windows overlooking a small cemetery crowded with stone angels and homeless people.

The inside is pretty scary too. My feet take me past rows and rows of people waiting to be seen by doctors, all with the same haunted look. Nurses gather behind murky glass windows, grim as gargoyles.

I walk down pale-green corridors, slipping into the shadows. No one stops me or asks me why I’m there. There’s no notice board displaying the visiting hours, no Thank You cards from past patients. The air smells sharply of surgical alcohol.

I search each room in the ward, taking in one broken body after another. Patients stare at me curiously, but no one speaks to me. Maybe they can sense why I’m here. Somewhere down the passage a baby’s cry fights to be heard above the grumbling air conditioners. A tube light flickers from the ceiling, deepening the shadows. I stumble on.

When I first spot his pale skin and black spiky hair it doesn’t seem real. He’s sitting on the side of the bed, buttoning up a rumpled black shirt. Was it the one he wore at the funeral? It must be. It feels like we are all survivors from that day, stuck in time, waiting for someone to hit the Stop button.

He doesn’t see me staring from the doorway. Hatred boils up inside me, fuelling my starved body, and my hands instinctively ball into fists in my jeans pockets. Seeing him sitting there, living and breathing like a normal human being, is too much. Suddenly I can’t breathe. My hand reaches out to the wall for support.

I watch him pat the pockets of his black jeans, looking for something, then smooth back his hair. The stitches on his cheek are the only sign he was in an accident. He touches his face lightly with the tips of his fingers and flinches. It’s nothing more than a scratch. A scratch! How is that possible when he’s supposed to be dead?

He catches me out of the corner of his eye, but doesn’t turn to face me. He continues to pull on his shoes with exaggerated coolness. When he speaks, he doesn’t look me in the eye.

“Let me guess. You’re here to tell me that it’s my fault and you wish I had stayed dead.”

“Something like that, yes.”

He coughs out a laugh. “You’re not the only one. But please, go ahead. Get it out of your system.”

God, I hate him. “How can you sit there and act like it’s no big deal? You fucked up my life, all our lives.” The words are bitter in my mouth; the act of talking to James sickens me.

He takes his time to look at me. There’s a hint of sadness there, but mostly defiance. How dare that little prick feel anything for her? I want to kick those sarcastic teeth into the back of his skull.

He pulls on a black leather jacket, the kind the bad guys always wear in movies, one arm at a time.

“I’m sorry she died, Damian. I really am. If it makes you feel better, you can do whatever you want to me. Punch me, kick me, whatever. I won’t stop you.”

It’s funny, really, how he continues the bad-boy act like it’s some sort of protective coating.

My body starts to shake. A laugh is working its way up my throat.

My reaction is clearly not what he expected and it deflates him. The defiant look disappears. His eyes search the room, but the other beds are empty. We’re alone. Good. I want him to be scared.

“She was everything to me, you know. No, you wouldn’t know what I’m talking about. You’re the type who only plays with girls. She wasn’t just some crush. She was my whole fucking world.”

I’m not talking to him, but to myself. He seems to have realised this. His face has gone white, and he’s watching me carefully, keeping his distance.

I brush my fingers through my hair. My body has stopped shaking, and I can feel my strength slowly returning. My face starts to hurt. It’s because I’m smiling. He was right in a way. It feels good to get it all out of my system.

“Do you think I liked hanging out with you guys or going to those stupid trance parties? I did it for her. I’d do anything for her. I don’t have a reason to be alive without her. Do you understand that?”

He doesn’t answer, but continues to stare at me, waiting for me to finish. He’s trying to guess my intentions. Let me make it easy for him.

“She drowned because of you. That’s why I’m here. I’ve got nothing to lose. You know that, right?”

Without saying a word, James slides off the bed and stands to face me. I haven’t known the guy that long. I don’t know if he’s a coward or a fighter, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no way I’m letting him walk out this room.

I enter the room and slam the door behind me.

He steps forward. “Whatever you’re planning to do, I just want you to know …”

My first punch finishes his sentence for him. I don’t stop, but continue to pound my fists into his flesh. His body shrinks into a ball to try and defend itself, but I don’t stop.

I don’t want to hear his excuses. I don’t want to give him the chance to tell me that hurting him won’t bring her back. All I want is to finish the job the train failed to do. I don’t stop even when he’s on the ground, but let my feet continue when my arms get too tired. He’s nothing but a punching bag to me.

I ignore the pathetic sounds he makes when I kick him in the ribs. I need him to die. I lose myself in a red rage.

The door opens and strong arms grab me from behind.

“Wat gaan hier aan?” What’s going on here?

An unearthly roar, like it’s coming from a beast inside me, escape my mouth.

Nursing staff hurry into the room to tend to James. I kick out at them. “Leave him alone!” I bellow. “He’s a fucking mur­derer.”

I’m thrown into the passage. My first instinct is to run back inside to finish what I started, but two men in blue cleaners’ uniforms hold me back.

“You’re going to kill him,” one of them says.

“I don’t care, let me go!”

With the help of the nurses, James is lifted back to the bed. He holds his hands to his broken nose and blood streams through his fingers onto the green tiled floor. The pool of blood makes me feel like I’m back in the dream. The pale-green walls shimmer like water around me. Is Demi trying to tell me something?

James is shaking his head to one of the nurse’s questions. They look at me crossly. What is he telling them?

“Don’t listen to him. He’s a murderer!” I scream.

No one listens. The base of my skull has started to throb. Sweat forms a thick layer on my skin.

James looks at me over his hand. “You think you’re the only one who lost everything, Damian, but you’re wrong.”

How dare he! I shout until the skin of my throat rips. I don’t even know what I’m shouting. I just want him to know that he’s wrong. He has no right to be upset. Rough hands pull me away.

MY CAPTORS carry me down the dimly lit passage. My shoes drag behind me, followed by a nurse. I can hear her square-toed shoes clip-clopping on the tiles.

I’m sweating like crazy and the shimmering hasn’t gone away. The dream is closer now, I can feel it.

“Where are you taking me?” I ask the man to my left. The badge on his overalls identifies him as Barry.

“We’re almost there, don’t worry. The nurse will sort you out.”

I’m led into a small room that smells like mould. The men hold me down on the bare mattress, while the nurse secures my wrists to the metal rails on the side of the bed.

“What are you doing? Stop it!”

I kick with my legs, but they’ve all moved out of reach. Sweat from my forehead is dripping into my eyes, making everything blurry.

The nurse stands over me, her hand on my forehead. The moisture in my eyes and the light shining above my head makes it impossible to see her face. She’s just a dark smudge.

“We’re going to give you a sedative to calm you down,” she says.

“Don’t touch me,” I say, trying to wriggle my head out of her grasp.

She rubs a swab on the inside of my arm and without hesitation inserts a long needle into my skin. It doesn’t hurt, but the sight of it makes me queasy. When she’s done, she drops the needle into a red biohazard bin and starts walking away.

“Hey, where are you going? You can’t just keep me here. I didn’t do anything wrong. He’s the one who should be locked up. Hey!”

Still, no one listens to me.

Barry and the other cleaner disappear. The nurse writes something on a clipboard and then leaves as well.

“Hey!” I shout, but there’s no one left to hear me.

I try to pull my arms free, but what little strength I had is gone. I grit my teeth and ball my fists, but it’s no use. I move my head left and right, but the room is bare of anything that could help me. There’s not even a sheet on my bed or a pillow under my head. This must be where they keep the crazies.

It’s not fair that I’m tied down and drugged while James is free to go. I’ve lost everything. Everything! He doesn’t even care. He can walk out of here and carry on with his life. What’s left for me? Nothing!

I peer at the blood blackening my knuckles. I could have killed him. I should have. The thought brings me little comfort. It doesn’t change anything. She’s still gone, he’s still here. I’m still lost.

Eventually my body stops fighting. The drug is starting to kick in, mixing with the medication already flooding my system. I watch the peeling ceiling heave in and out, feeling my chest rise and fall slowly. My breathing is shallow. The dream is close now. I can almost smell the sea.

My eyelids begin to droop. In the distance I can hear the roar of the ocean.

Demi, if you’re there, I want you to know that I love you.

Water begins to seep through the gap under the door, spreading to form a darkening pool. I watch as it drips through the keyhole, sweats down the wood in tiny rivulets. Waves tap at the windows, washing away the grime and bird crap that’s encrusted the glass over the years.

My breath weakens, escaping from my lips in icy gusts. My eyelids close. It takes a lifetime for them to open again. When they do, she’s here, floating in the water in front of me. She’s never been this close. I can see the oceans in her eyes, the universe in her pupils.

She reaches for my hand. I fight my bonds and this time they give. I rise up and slowly extend my hand. With the other I pull from my pocket the silver charm bracelet which I was supposed to have given her on her birthday. The little heart floats up, the tiny diamond inside twinkling.

There’s no deluge to separate us this time. In the eternity it takes for me to reach her, I let go of my hatred for James, the pain I’ve been holding onto for days. She’s the only thing that matters.

Our fingers touch, and with that I sink into oblivion.