by M Gardner
“Steven?” Missus Nesbitt called through the front door, but Steven couldn’t reply even if he were inclined to do so.
He pulled Lindsay out of the bathtub by gripping her under her arms. His knee cracked against the porcelain toilet, and he almost dropped her. He was acutely aware that Lindsay’s phone tumbled off the toilet seat and clattered to the floor.
“Steven?” Missus Nesbitt shouted from the hallway and pounded on the door. “I’m calling the police if you don’t answer me!”
Tears flowed free, mixing with Lindsay’s wet clothes. Her blonde hair stuck to his chest, and even though she was thin, he had to wrestle with her waterlogged body to get her limp legs to clear the bathtub edge. He staggered back, slipping on the wooden debris from the shattered doorframe. As an afterthought, he spun the faucet knob and the cold water ceased.
“Steven? I’m dialing nine-one-one.”
He was vaguely aware of the incessant voice coming from the front door. His shoulders sagged as he shook his girlfriend. Wails followed by him shouting her name that interrupted sobs of grief and despair. As he clutched her lifeless body, a chill set in from his wet clothes. He tried to take her pulse when his initial shock had subsided, but her good wrist and neck revealed nothing. He even attempted to put his ear to her mouth, but a steady thundering in his head overpowered any breathing sounds she might have made.
As the totality of the situation settled on Steven, he glanced around the vacant bathroom that barely accommodated her frail body. Her elbows akimbo, where he dragged her out of the bathtub, had bumped everything on the sink. Splashes of crimson pooled in the grout, and trails of tinged water ran down the side of the bathtub. He arranged her arms on her chest and staggered to the landline on the counter. He picked it up with shaking hands, and he had to try several times before his thumb found the number nine on the keypad. His thumb hovered over the one button, and he noticed that his smartphone cast an eerie glow against the counter.
“Steven!” Missus Nesbitt called through the door. “The police will be here any minute now. Steven, please talk to me!”
He set the phone in its cradle and picked up his smartphone, an animation indicated he had a text message. A smear of blood stuck to the display as he flicked the screen to reveal the text message. Each number of his access code left a bloody fingerprint.
His eyes clouded again as he read the text message from Lindsay:
I can’t do this anymore. This is how it has to happen. I believe that this is the only way that you will be free from me. I did this for you. I want you to know that I always loved you. Goodbye Steven.
Steven threw his smartphone at the kitchen wall and slumped to his knees. Sharp voices sounded from the hallway. Pounding and rattling were but faint sounds as he wrapped his arms around his knees and sobbed. He ignored the cacophony around him. He ignored the rough hands yanking him to his feet with abrupt purpose. Instead, he focused on the memory of what he saw in the bathroom.
The one girl he knew he would always love was gone. Always; never; those words now meant the same thing.
Steven pushed open the double doors below the stylized Twin Oaks High School sign. He moved down the hallway, staring straight ahead, not speaking to anyone. He was acutely aware of eyes following his movements but chose not to engage. School hadn’t started yet, and the classroom doors were all locked. He walked to his homeroom and leaned his back against the wall next to the door. He slid down the wall and sat with his legs crossed, his backpack refusing to allow him the simple comfort of leaning his head against the cool cinder block wall.
Images of that night flashed when he closed his eyes. It was as if he were a celebrity walking the red carpet, flashbulbs reflecting off his somber eyes. But these flashes weren’t simple white light; they were a freak show of horrors. Blonde, red, black, and pale, pale white was the sequence that flashed behind his closed eyes. The details beyond those colors were washed out as if they weren’t real. They couldn’t be real…
Running footsteps echoed off the lockers and the polished floor. The footfalls slowed and finally stopped next to Steven. He opened his eyes and saw Robert’s square face staring down at him. Robert knelt next to him and hissed, “What the fuck happened?”
Steven didn’t respond or turn to make eye contact with Robert. What does it even matter? he thought, fighting the horror show in his mind.
“Steven!” Robert shook his shoulder. “I saw the news. What happened to Lindsay?”
Steven cocked his head to one side and finally made eye contact with Robert. There was sorrow in Robert’s eyes. Steven couldn’t tell if it was sadness for Lindsay or Steven. It was a herculean effort, but he replied in a whisper, “She killed herself.”
Robert’s face fell. Then he fell. His backpack slid off his shoulder and landed with a brutal thump. The sound was a punch in the gut to Steven. The hallway was eerily quiet, and both the backpack and Robert’s knees echoed. It was another punch to Steven’s gut. Steven stared ahead and examined the outline of each metal locker. He heard Robert’s shallow breath and the small sounds he made, trying to hold back tears.
Steven felt empty. He felt alone. He was practically an adult. He had emancipated himself two years ago, but he still had to finish high school. Why? he thought. What does it matter if I finish high school? He had a job that paid his rent and bought his groceries. Robert’s sobbing reached a crescendo, but Steven couldn’t be bothered to console him.
“Why did she do it?” Robert asked between sobs. He didn’t seem to care if anyone saw his display.
Steven couldn’t tear his eyes away from the wall of lockers.
“Why the hell did she do it?” Robert cried, his grief and sorrow subsuming to anger.
Steven was numb. The pounding in his ears drowned out Robert’s sobbing and angry demands. He barely felt hands on his shoulders as Robert pulled on him to face his inquisition.
“Steven!” When Robert’s query was left unanswered a third time, Robert shook him again. “What the fuck happened?” he bellowed.
The words hung in the clammy air. It was as if even the echo demanded a response. Steven clamped his mouth shut. He squeezed his eyes closed, but neither was enough to prevent the tears or the shuddering chin. He wailed noiselessly. Mouth agape, wet cheeks, Steven gasped and gasped, trying to suck in oxygen.
The sound that loosened from his throat was nothing he had ever heard before. Robert’s grip on Steven’s shoulders relaxed as Steven’s shoulders rose and fell with each great sob.
Robert released him and leaned back. Steven would’ve slumped forward and writhed on the cold floor if it weren’t for his heavy backpack. It anchored him to the wall and his new reality.
Robert’s tears began anew. “How could this happen?” he asked in a soft, sad voice. “Oh, Lindsay.”
The dense crowd of students that had gathered left a buffer of a few feet, but their eyes pressed toward the scene in the hallway. Steven could feel their stares. Some were of pity. Some were of scorn. Some were accusing. The cloud of mesmerism that had descended lifted slightly as the sea of students parted to allow the instructor to walk down the hall. The somber energy faded and was replaced by idle nervousness as hushed voices conversed in whispers. In Steven’s mind, there was no doubt that he and Lindsay were at the core of each muted conversation.
Steven wrangled his emotions under some semblance of control. The instructor glanced down briefly, and Steven detected a glimmer of remorse, perhaps of kindness. Now, the door was unlocked, and each student filed past, no one knowing how to respond to Steven still sitting on the floor. Even Robert left him in the hall to beat the tardy bell.
Steven sat at his desk, scratching graphite into his notebook. He was on autopilot, barely aware of what he was writing. The instructor’s lecture was scarcely perceptible. Robert sat next to him, his eyes darting to him every few minutes. He had provided Steven with much-needed death support. The low murmur of voices that usually accompanied a boring lecture was ab
sent.
Leonard and David sat in front of Steven, a single row separating them. For most of the morning, they grilled Steven on the particulars of Lindsay’s death, but Steven was in no mood to repeat the same story he had told the police. Each time he told it, it seemed to make it more real. Now, his prior interrogators stared at the instructor, their backs straight and their shoulders squared. They didn’t look back at Steven. Their stoic faces etched in marble.
When the school day finally ended, Steven jumped up and headed for the door. Robert called after him, but Steven ignored him. David and Leonard were waiting in the hallway and prevented Steven from getting to the double doors of the exit.
“What happened to Lindsay?” David demanded. Leonard nodded, his lips pressed into a straight line.
Robert appeared as David took a step toward Steven and placed his palm on David’s chest. “It’ll be on the news, man.”
David looked down at Robert’s hand wrinkling his tee-shirt. He looked over his shoulder at Leonard and a cluster of curious students. “Yeah,” he said, “we’ll all hear the story then.”
3 Vultures/Scandal
The following day, Steven stoically repeated his journey of a thousand stares and sat next to the classroom door. Once again, the looming row of lockers was his silent companion while he waited for the instructor to arrive. He was determined not to talk to anyone.
Steven was struck from the side without preamble, and the force knocked him down to the smooth floor. He could feel the sting on his cheek and knew his lip was split. He shook his head to steady his vision and looked up to see Leonard standing over him. Leonard’s face was pinched, and his neck was a flush crimson.
“Why’d you make her do it?” Leonard bellowed when Steven’s eyes met his. He kicked Steven in the ribs to emphasize his question.
Steven licked his split lip. The metallic ichor required him to prioritize the pain of his head with the pain in his ribs. Steven might have had to deal with broken ribs if the backpack hadn’t absorbed Leonard’s kick.
“Well, asshole?” Leonard demanded.
“Make who do what?” Steven replied, still protecting his head from another onslaught.
“What else?” Leonard retorted through clenched teeth. “Lindsay! You made her kill herself!” He reared back to deliver another kick.
Steven curled into the fetal position and tried to protect as much of his exposed body as he could.
“The text she sent you said she did it for you, asshole! You. Made. Her. Kill. Herself!” Each word was accompanied by a rage-induced kick.
Steven tried to crawl away from the assault, but Leonard seized Steven’s backpack with both hands in a moment of clarity. Steven struggled in vain, but as long as Leonard held him down with both hands, he couldn’t strike Steven again. Steven watched blood and tears pool on the shiny floor under him.
Robert burst from the crowd and grappled with Leonard. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted as he tore Leonard away from Steven. Steven collapsed, and his injured face landed in the pool of blood-tinged tears.
“He killed her,” Leonard sobbed, still trying to extricate himself from Robert’s grasp. “He made her do it!”
Robert pivoted on his heel and pushed Leonard into the gathered students. “Get out of here, Leo,” Robert demanded.
Leonard took another look at Steven sprawled on the floor, punched one of the lockers, and melted into the crowd of onlookers.
“Get out of here, you vultures!” Robert yelled into the stunned silence. The crowd started to fade away, and Robert helped his friend to his feet. Robert tugged his flannel loose from his backpack straps and gingerly dabbed Steven’s split lip.
“Why, man?”
Robert was taken aback by Steven’s question. “‘Why,’ what?”
“Why’d he attack me?”
Robert sighed. “Last night, on the news.” He helped Steven slide down the cinder block wall and knelt beside his friend. “They showed the message Lindsay left for you. She said that she’d done it for you.”
“I know what the message said,” Steven declared, his face clouding, “I was the one that got it.”
Robert plopped down next to Steven. “I dunno, man, it sounded like… It sounded like you made her do it.”
Steven clenched his jaw and winced at the pain from his split lip. “I. Did. Not.”
“Are you sure?” Robert asked quietly.
Steven’s eyes grew wide, and he stared at his friend.
“I don’t mean that you actually told her to do it,” Robert said quickly. “It’s just…”
“Just what?” demanded Steven.
“Did you, y’know, do or say anything? I mean, did you guys fight or anything that might make her do it?”
Steven’s gaze bored into Robert’s. Robert was about to stand when Steven finally spoke. “You know we argued, like, all the time over the stupidest stuff. Before she…died, she told me that she heard a voice. It told her to do things. I told her, man, I told her that she could ignore it, and I’d help her through whatever she was going through.”
Robert sat in silence, rocking slightly back and forth. Steven wanted him to say something, anything to reassure him, to let him know that it wasn’t his fault, but Robert remained mute. After a long awkward silence, Robert said in a low voice, “Come on, we’re gonna be late.” He held his hand out to help Steven to his feet, but Steven ignored the offered hand and used the wall to steady his shaking legs and reach his full height. Steven felt his eyes moisten, and the bright overhead lights seemed to grow tails like a comet.
Later in the day, David also confronted Steven. Like Leonard, David believed that Steven had somehow forced Lindsay to kill herself. They weren’t the only ones. Everyone had seen the news. They talked about it in hushed voices that abruptly stopped when Steven walked into a classroom or passed them in the hallways. Accusing eyes flickered toward him in class. More than one of his classmates bandied about words like freak, sicko, and even murderer. His shoulders hurt not only from the weight of grief he carried but from fists as some lashed out at him though no one as bad as Leonard that morning. Many of the students at Twin Oaks High School claimed that Steven should be in jail for what he did to Lindsay. He would’ve needed to be a master in escapology to avoid their ire.
The gossip continued. It was almost tangible, like a glowing sound. The looks of disgust that started out veiled were now open and confrontational. Steven felt himself fall away. He was in a daze; happiness was alien, something he no longer knew. Even if he wanted to smile, his split lip wouldn’t allow it. The pain was tangible, and it anchored him to the present. The only person that would even attempt to talk to him was Robert, but Steven could see the doubt in Robert’s eyes. After all, Lindsay had said she’d killed herself for Steven. What other conclusion could anyone draw? Lindsay hid her illness. All they wanted to remember was the elated persona she’d crafted and projected into the world.
“Don’t forget to check in,” was the last thing Robert said to him.
Steven was about to turn a corner in the hallway when he saw Robert’s denim jacket with a flaming dragon stitched to the back. Stylized calligraphic characters spelled out the 1980s-style metal band’s name, Holy Dragons, and the album title, Dragon Steel. Additional Cyrillic script adorned the jacket in the band’s native language. Robert’s backpack lay at his feet, and he was in a heated discussion with David. Steven lurked at the corner listening to the loud argument.
“Why’re you covering for him?” David demanded.
“Steven?” Robert asked in a halting voice.
“Who else? The creep that made Lindsay kill herself!”
“We don’t really know…” Robert tried.
“Of course, we do! He could’ve sent that text himself. His fingerprints were on her cellphone.”
Robert took a step back. “I don’t know, man! I’m just trying to support my best friend here.”
David sneered. “More like best fiend.”
<
br /> Lindsay met Steven’s angry gaze. “There’s this voice...” she began.
Steven closed his eyes. “A voice?” he responded, his heart pounding in his chest.
“Yes,” she said in a low murmur. “I don’t remember a time when it wasn’t there. It tells me,” she waved her hand at the ceiling, “things,” she concluded.
Steven stood mute, and Lindsay continued. “I try to ignore it, but for the last few months, it’s just been getting louder.” She pressed her index finger across her pale skin between her nose and lips. “And louder,” she declared, her shoulders sagged as if an invisible weight forced her to the back of the sofa. “And it’s getting angrier and angrier.”
Steven’s eyes snapped open.
And angrier. Her voice echoed in his ears. He pictured the heavy weight of her words knotted in her shoulders. Her hesitation as she confessed the dark secret, she had kept to herself. The look of disappointment in her eyes when his initial response wasn’t what she expected. He had failed her. Maybe she did kill herself because of me, he thought, staring into a dark room illuminated only by glowing numerals indicating that it was the middle of the night. Because of my reaction…
No. He consoled himself with the simple word. She hadn’t killed herself because of him. It wasn’t the constant fighting and arguing that led her down her dark path. It was the voice. It couldn’t have been my fault. I told her to ignore the voice.
He didn’t think he could cry anymore, but fresh tears flooded his eyes. The effort was exhausting. He twisted his sheets between tight fists. Everyone turned against him. They were all convinced he’d played a crucial role in her death. He didn’t need their livid accusations. He needed their support, the same support they had given when his parents died. For all his declarations that he was an adult, he just wanted to be consoled like a child again. He threw off the sheet, curled into the fetal position, and willed himself to return to sleep. His dreams were his only solace now. In them, Lindsay was still alive.