by Jessica Park
Minutes go by, and all I can taste is death. I pull myself from Sam’s body with the clear decision to get help. Staying here is giving up on him, and I can’t do that. Some crazy part of me thinks that maybe—just maybe—I am wrong, that he can be saved. I refuse to have it be too late.
“I’ll be back. I’ll get help. Do you hear me? This will be fixed. I can fix this. I can fix you! I can!” I’m screaming to no one, but I scream anyway. “You taught me that I can do anything I fucking want. I’m going to prove you right. Watch, Sam. Watch me.”
Panting, I rush to find my cell phone in the bedroom. After I stumble and catch myself, the comforter is soiled in blood, but I keep going and grab my phone from the dresser.
Micah and Felicia or Kelly and April—they’ll help me. They’ll know what to do. But I’ve got no fucking cell signal because the storm blew out service.
I’m barely dressed when I step out onto the deck off my room and hold up the phone. Still nothing.
Jesus. I suddenly realize how serious the storm was, the kind of trouble we’re really in.
Trees are down everywhere, and a few trunks are torn up at the roots. From here, I can see how wild the ocean is. Waves rise higher, and with more density than usual, they crash into the cliffs with relentless force. The wind is still strong, the sky gray like steel and showing no breaks of light.
I try to protect my eyes with one arm as I make my way through the debris on the deck and race down the stairs. I can’t find a signal, no matter what I do, so I have to get into town. Given the aftermath of the storm, my little piece-of-shit car will never make it, but I can run. Sharp pain sears through my foot, but I don’t stop until I’m halfway down the driveway and faced with a nightmarish tangle of live electrical wires. I might be blind with panic, but I’ve got enough sense not to run through them.
Think, I beg of myself. Think. Focus.
Sam’s truck.
Driving off-road will be rough, but it’ll be a lot faster than trying to navigate on foot through the newly downed trees, dense foliage, and rocks. I can barely see through my tears, and I’m in the driver’s seat before realizing that I need the keys. I shake out the visor—not there. I have to go back upstairs.
Every second counts right now, so I need to remember where they are. A picture flashes through my head—the floor of my bedroom, almost under the bed.
I will find the keys and get help. I will motherfucking undo what has been done, and Sam will not…Sam will not…
Sam will not. The end.
He just won’t because I cannot handle even the thought, so I will fix him.
I’ll drag Sam into the truck and crash through tree limbs, and I will…I will…I will fucking turn back time, so Sam and I are in each other’s arms, and there are no guns and no Costa and…
Costa might still be around, but he didn’t kill me earlier. He won’t kill me now.
And if he does? If Sam is gone, then I don’t care what happens to me.
I’m still getting us out of here.
Except…except I start to understand, there is no point. Nothing I do will change what has happened.
I cannot force life where there is none.
A wall of clarity slams into me, and it’s a miracle that I do not collapse against the brutal force.
Sam is dead.
I felt it happen.
The only reason that I’m in this truck right now is because my demons resurfaced to confuse my reality, to let me deny the truth.
Sam is dead.
I walk back into my apartment. I want to lie on the floor next to him and hold him. It’s the last time I’ll ever do that. But I can’t even look up as I enter the living room because I’ll see Sam and the blood and the mayhem.
My face falls into my hands, and I let myself sob until I’m brave enough to look up and accept that Sam is dead. When I finally gather the strength, the floor of my apartment is empty.
There is no Sam.
There is not even a trace of blood.
I shut my eyes. I was wrong that I could see truth because I must finally be going solidly crazy. I’m having a coping reaction or…maybe I don’t want to see what hurts too much. I don’t know anymore.
I have a glimmer of hope. I’ve made mistakes before. I remember. I did not see Amy when she was clearly in bed on the day she attempted suicide. Sam could be here. It’s a force of will, but when I look again, he is still gone.
No body, no blood.
Nothing.
What the fuck is happening to me?
I look at my hands. They’re clean.
No, it’s not possible.
I look down and see my shirt is also clean. Any trace of Sam and of violence and death is gone.
My knees give out, and I drop to the floor. I pound the old wood boards with my fists until my own blood colors my hands, and I feel something resembling human.
I stumble to the bathroom and intentionally avoid looking at the wall with Sam’s words. I lean on the sink and stare into the mirror.
“You are crazy, Stella.” Calm envelops me now because I understand the only truth there is. “You are totally fucking nuts, and you cannot save yourself, so go hide. You’ll never make sense of the world because you are too broken and too far gone.”
There is only one explanation for what I’ve seen. There is no Sam Bishop. I made him up.
I’d chased after some psychotic fabrication because I was so weak and pathetic that I needed to create someone to hold on to. But if I can stay crazy, then I can keep Sam alive because I just can’t survive his death if he ever were real.
Except that he can’t be real. If he were, his body could not have simply disappeared, blood and all. If someone inexplicably dragged his body out of the apartment, I would still have blood on my hands, and there is nothing.
To keep him, I need to disappear back into the dream world that I know how to create.
I back out of the bathroom and immediately crawl into bed where I can wrap myself in his smell, imagined or not. I won’t look in the living room or the kitchen again. I won’t go downstairs to see his apartment or his truck. I won’t hang off the bed and reach for his keys that should be there from when he tossed them from his pocket. If anything about him is gone, then this reality that I’ve created won’t hold up.
My brain went wonky enough that I killed him off in my daydream world. But I know about fucked-up realities more than most people, so I can get my Sam world back.
I can dissociate.
I can believe anything.
I can trust myself to fall down the rabbit hole again.
The covers go over my head, and my legs pull into my chest. I let myself disappear. There is no line between truth and fiction for me, and I’d rather be crazy and get to keep Sam than find sanity and lose him.
THE DAY PASSES WITH INCREASING QUIET. The winds peter out, the hard slap of waves against rocks slows, and my mind easily slips into nothingness. I might just stay in this bed forever. The only thing keeping me from totally vanishing is that my wrist is inexplicably burning under my bracelet, and it’s as if the heat is trying to tell me that I’m alive and that I’m not allowed to disappear—or die. I won’t kill myself. No matter how delusional and crazy and miserable I get, I won’t. I twist it and scratch beneath the leather, irked by the feel, yet I won’t take it off.
I will myself to ignore it and hide under the comforter, so I can black out the world. Sleep is impossible, but I can easily stay in this hypnotic zone.
I try to make Sam appear, to resurrect what my imagination created, but no matter how hard I try, he is frustratingly elusive. After hours of focusing on him, on working my mind to rebuild the one I love, I’ve got nothing to show for it.
Finally, when I’ve had enough, my anger and pain reach a limit that propels me out of bed. I grab fistfuls of sheets and tear them off, howling and crying in pain, and then I ball them into a messy pile. I shove the mattress half off the frame and throw pillows across the roo
m.
Sunrise starts to show through the French doors, and I drastically resent the onset of light. Without thinking, I take a vase from the dresser and hurl it through the glass as though that could make the sun retreat. Fresh post-storm air fills the room, but I don’t feel it on my skin.
I catch sight of myself in the dresser mirror, the one where I watched while the nonexistent Sam made love to me. My chest is heaving, my eyes are bloodshot, and my hair is plastered to my head with sweat. Just as I’m about to throw a heavy antique clock at my reflection, I hear a sound on the deck.
Or I think I do. Maybe I’m just making it up.
But the glass from the shattered door makes a distinctive noise under footsteps.
“Stella.”
Blankly, I stare at the person in front of me. I should be elated, but I can’t stop shaking my head. Sam is wearing the same sweatpants that he had on when he died. But there are no gunshot wounds, no blood, not even any scars. There’s no indication that anything happened. He’s whole. He’s perfect. This vision cannot be trusted because I don’t know if I can make it last.
I look at Sam and wait for him to disappear before my eyes.
Instead, he steps through the doorframe, sidestepping the jagged shards of glass clinging to the wood. “Stella,” he says again.
Now, I turn to the mirror and send the clock in my hand smack into the image of my head. Fragments of me fall to the floor.
I look back at Sam. “You’re not really here. I know that. But come in anyway.”
“I am here. And I’m going to explain.”
“It’s okay,” I say calmly. “Losing my mind means that I don’t need things explained to me. I can just roll with it. As far as hallucinations go, you’re a pretty good one. So, come on in, and let’s see what my fucked-up head does with you next.”
“You’re not crazy, Stell. I really am alive.”
“No, you’re not. You never were.” When I take a step, I feel something sharp. It takes a moment, but I look down as I lift my foot.
The keys to Sam’s truck. They can’t be real, and to prove it, I slam my foot down on them. But I cry out because the pain shooting through me certainly seems to be real enough.
Sam rushes forward and grabs my arm to prevent me from stomping my foot again. “Stop, stop.”
I stare at the floor. My voice sounds far away as I talk, “If your keys are real, then you are real. But you also aren’t. It seems that I’ve concocted keys, too. So interesting.” I sigh. “I can’t quite figure this all out.”
“Oh God.” His hands go to my wrists, and he lifts them to his face. “Stella, look at me, touch me. I am real. You didn’t make anything up.”
His voice is so kind, so sweet, but my mind must be doing that. He moves my hands over his face, down to his shoulders. I know every inch of his body, and feeling it again breaks my heart.
I flash to seeing him in the moonlight—shirtless, muscular, and perfect—as he showed me how to trust in him and in myself while he made love to me.
“I know this doesn’t make sense to you right now, but I’m going to tell you everything. Please stay with me. Please don’t disappear.”
Suddenly, he takes me in his arms and tightly holds me. My arms stay at my sides, listlessness and exhaustion winning out over everything. I’m having a weird fantasy. Then, his arms squeeze me hard.
“You died in my arms,” I murmur. “There was lots of blood, lots of screaming. Well, I was screaming. You were rather calm. And now, you’re alive. So, no, none of that is real. It’s very simple. But I can pretend.”
Sam pulls back and takes my face in his hands. His eyes search mine, clearly trying to assess how far off the deep end I’ve jumped. I could save him the time and tell him that there’s no hope for me, but it seems like a lot of effort.
“I did die,” he says. “You’re right. Costa shot me. Twice. And I told you to trust me, that it would be okay. Remember?”
I nod. “I remember that.”
“And I came back to you, right? I’m here.”
I laugh dryly. “Yes. That makes complete sense. You know, given my state of mind.”
The anxiety and concern on his face is clear, and it starts to cut through my numbness. I feel badly that I’m disappointing my fantasy Sam. I should play along better.
“I came back to you,” he says firmly, “and now, you’re going to come back to me.”
Sam swiftly leans in, and when his lips reach mine, it’s as though I’ve been hit by lightning. And truth. The taste, the feel, the rush of him is full of clarity.
Sam is real. This kiss is real. I know that.
He was also dead. I know that, too.
My sobbing separates us, and I collapse against him, grabbing at the front of his shirt, as I bury my wet face in his chest. I’m nearly hyperventilating while I do what I can to trust him.
His hands rub my back, and he tries to soothe my emotions. “Breathe, baby, please. Just breathe.”
He holds me and waits for my storm to calm. Sam has patience, and he doesn’t falter in his hold or his words, talking to me, while some semblance of sanity reenters my mind.
He sits us down on the bed. “This is the bed we slept in two nights ago. On the sheets that you found in the closet when you moved in here. You didn’t want new ones, you decided, because you liked how soft these were from age. It took three rounds through the washing machine to get out the musty smell. Remember?”
I nod again. “Yes. I used scented fabric softener that smelled like lavender.”
“Right. And the keys you stepped on?”
“Those are for your truck? It’s outside?”
“Yes. Do you want to see?”
“Yes.”
Sam stands and lifts me, carrying me to the broken French doors and outside over glass. My arms are around his neck, my head resting against his shoulder. He takes us along the wraparound porch to the front of the house, and in the driveway, I see his truck. The driver’s side visor is down from when I searched for the keys nearly twenty-four hours ago.
“I tried to get help,” I say. “I think electrical wires were down on the road.”
“There are. I saw them. I managed to get a signal and texted my family so that they know we’re all right.” He carries me back inside and sets me down on the bed again. “It’s freezing. We need to get you dressed.” He turns to retrieve clothes from my closet.
“Bishop, don’t go, don’t go…” I am panicked.
“I’m not leaving you, okay? I’m right here. Watch me. I know you’re scared. I know. But I’m not leaving. I wouldn’t lie to you. You know that, right?”
He does tell me the truth—always. I’m sure of that. It’s one of the few things I believe.
My eyes stay glued to him when he pulls a shirt from a hanger and takes pants from the dresser.
“I’m sorry that I broke the mirror.” It’s a stupid thing to say, given the circumstances.
He smiles. “If you’d died in front of me, I’d have broken a mirror, too.”
“There’s also the glass from the door. I broke that, too.”
“I’ll fix it. It’ll be like it never happened.”
“Will it be like you never bled to death?” I start crying again. I can’t help it.
Then, he is kneeling in front of me, holding my hands. “I’ll fix that, too.” He kisses each of my fingers and then wipes away my tears. “You must be cold.”
A sweater slips over my head, and then I am stepping into soft pants.
When he stands, I quickly grab on to his hand. “Don’t let go of me again.”
“I won’t.” He scoops me up in his arms and takes me from the cold room, down the hall, and stops in the living room, next to the wall of paint colors.
“See these? I made these for you. They’re real.”
There are a few bumps in the paint, and I run my fingers over them as if I’m reading braille.
“Feel that?” he asks.
“I do.�
�� But I’m hesitant. I reread the lines he wrote for me, and it seems implausible that I would fabricate those.
With great care, he sets my feet on the floor and leads me to the kitchen. “Tell me what’s in the fridge.”
I’m not sure if this is a trick, and I’m scared to answer. I think for a moment. “That rice thing?”
He smiles and swings open the door with one hand while holding me steady with the other. “Risotto. Exactly. And you loved it.”
Now, I smile just a bit. “We ate in front of the fireplace.” I pause. “After…”
“Yes. After we made love. That was all very real. You couldn’t make up something that fucking outstanding, right?”
Sam is trying to get me to laugh, but I’m not there yet. He does have a point though. Next, he takes me back to the living room, back to the chaise where this nightmare started, and I lie down on his chest.
“You didn’t imagine anything,” he continues. “Everything that you’ve seen and felt since you got to Watermark happened. I know it seems crazy, but you’re not crazy.”
I’m nearly paralyzed by confusion. I feel a powerful deep relief that I am in Sam’s arms, but I am still desperately trying to clear the fog. I don’t even know what to ask him. None of this makes any sense.
“I’ve never…this is hard to…” Sam fumbles to find words. “I’ve never had to explain this before, so just bear with me, and I’ll start at the beginning.” He pulls a blanket from the floor and covers us. “We call it death tripping. There’s no language, no one to learn from, so we just call it death tripping.”
SAM TAKES A DEEP BREATH and rubs his temple.
I can tell that what he’s about to say will be difficult. I have no idea how to support him because I feel lost and traumatized, and I’m doing what I can to avoid disintegrating. I swear though that I will stay here and listen and not fall apart. I rub his hand with mine. It’s not enough, but it’s all I can manage in my shaky state.
“You know that Costa was my best friend for years, practically my brother.” Sam falters and takes a moment before speaking again, “But by the time we graduated high school, we’d drifted apart a ton. He didn’t come over often, if at all, and he was partying way too much. Or so I thought.