"Ma'am," Jeffrey says, calling my attention. "When you're ready, the exhibit is a series of rooms where you start here—" he points to a door to my left "—and they will eventually bring you back here—" he indicates another door on the opposite end of the room. "But there are emergency exits that lead outside if you need to leave early."
I nod, waiting for my nerves to kick in. They don't. The decision was the hardest part. Now that I'm here, I'm just ready to get it over with. I march over to the first door and pull it open. I pause and glance back at Jeffrey before stepping into the room.
I'm plunged into blackness but not darkness. It's a strange sight. The black walls are almost indistinguishable from the black carpet. The immediate point of interest is the vague impression of a door at the far end of the long, narrow room. Standing here by the entrance, I start to get the sense I'm floating, but when I peer to the high ceiling overhead, lights and equipment reveal it to be an illusion. As if on cue, the stillness of the room is broken by the low mechanical hum of something turning on overhead. I stand and wait, but nothing else happens.
Is this it? This can't be it. My heart sinks, as I look around again for any semblance of art and find nothing. There's nothing on the walls, nothing on the ground. Absolutely nothing. I can't believe I fell for this. I run my tongue over my teeth and shake my head. This. This is nothing more than some pretentious attempt at a metaphor. What am I supposed to believe this black, empty room represents? His sad, sad heart?
Cry me a fucking river, Cole.
I take my first steps since entering the room, with the intention of turning back to the door behind me, but an explosion of color on the floor stops me.
Specks of paint appear by my feet. I step again and more colors appear. My eyes snap upward, wondering how a projector is sensing my movements. I take another step and other splashes of color scatter across the carpet.
I stand still, taking in the sight of the bright, floral hues of pinks, red, greens, and blues humming vibrantly against the black canvas.
I take more steps, but no matter where I move, the paint scatters in a widening pattern, creeping across the room toward the next door. The intent is obvious. He wants me to go through the door.
I was not expecting an immersive art show. I'm not sure if this makes dealing with it better or worse. And even as I'm sure I don't want to move forward, even as a voice inside of me tells me to turn around and go back home, my foot taps the ground to create more thin splashes of paint. There's an instinctual gratification in witnessing the previously black carpet become plastered with bright paint every time my foot touches it. The specks grow to brush strokes, slowly appearing closer and closer together. Soon, the seemingly random splatter begins to take form. As I move closer to the door, the figure of a person forms over the wall above it. I stare up in amazement as the likeness of a face and upper body materializes before my eyes.
By the time I stand in front of the door, a giant portrait of a woman is plastered over the wall. She's a giantess, sitting along the edge of the top frame of the door. Her skin is composed of thousands of little multicolored strokes that somehow come together to form a smooth and vibrant skin tone. Her eyes are tiny little strokes of greens weaved into flecks of brown. Her hair is browns and blacks with wisps of light that give it depth and sheen.
There's a serene, but deep expression on her face as she stares down at the door in front of me. Her shoulders are relaxed and poking out of a sweater. She seems at ease with her surroundings and unaware she is the subject of attention. And though she looks like no one in particular, she also looks like me. She is me.
The careful way she is painted, the way she is composed of all the random splashes of paint scattered about the room, give her the impression of disintegrating around me.
No.
Every speck of paint scattered across the room is angled toward her. It leads up to her, becomes her. She's not a woman scattered, she is a woman composed.
I tear my eyes from her and stare at the door. I reach for the handle then hesitate. A small displeasure at not being able to predict what lies ahead is overshadowed by the tantalizing curiosity dangling over my head.
I take a moment to assess my state, surprised to find I'm at peace. My curiosity is detached from any feelings I expected to experience. The painting of the woman is breathtaking in its detail. But it's just a painting. Whether or not she's meant to represent me doesn't matter.
I close my hand over the doorknob and slowly push it open. At first, I'm sure I've walked into a closet, and double back to catch the door before it shuts. But the glow of light from another room pours in around the edges of a second door. I head to it, and this door swings open to the second room.
I'm greeted by haze. Wisps of white fog float across the air, making it hard to distinguish the white walls of the room. Somewhere, gentle music plays. A slow piano tune, woeful and hopeless, resonating in my core with every chord. My instincts propel me forward to reach the door I spy just beyond. But more fog pours down from either side of me, filling the room and eating up my field of vision. The fog is odorless and clears my airways with ease, but I clasp a hand over my chest as I hurry forward. The more the fog fills the room, the more I'm overcome with the sensation of being unable to catch my breath. My hand stretches out, reaching for the door just feet away, but disappears before my eyes into the mist.
A soft, subtle fragrance reaches my nostrils. It's soothing at first, twisting slightly into a fresher scent before plunging into deep woodsy notes. The combination stirs inside of me, knocking against memories I've long forgotten.
A flash of Cole's smile materializes in my mind's eye like a pang to my stomach. It hurts to remember the way he looked at me. I shake the image away and rush forward, reaching the door and grasping around for the knob.
Yanking open the door, I plunge myself into the next room and suck in a breath of clean air. This space is small but clear compared to the previous room. My eyes take a few seconds to adjust. The walls and floors are both the same shade of a soothing, aquamarine blue. There's nothing in the room but unused space. The door to the next room is straight across, and I know I have to move toward it for the current exhibit to begin.
I can do this. I can finish this and know I did it, know I took the bait—not for him, but for myself. Because the last thing I want is more what ifs knocking around in my brain. I don't care what lies ahead so long as it doesn't smell of Cole.
The moment I start to walk across the room, an image of the bottom of a pool is projected onto the floor from overhead. The lights mixed with the cool colors have a pleasing effect. Every step I take disrupts the patterns, sending ripples across in every direction. A low sound emits from the ceiling. It's more of a hum playing over other muffled noises somewhere overhead. Cold air sweeps into the room, and I wrap my arms around myself as I pick up the pace.
The projection is no longer the visual idea of walking along the bottom of a pool. It's now the very real panicky sensation that I've somehow fallen to the bottom. I look up to remind myself none of this is real, but all I find is bright light stinging my eyes. The music and the unsettling hum grows louder and louder until my ears are clogged.
The colors are no longer relaxing to me. I want out of here. It's becoming harder to breathe. I keep holding my breath, forgetting there is no water.
I clear the room and when I step into the next, my stomach drops. It's another fog room. Only this time, the fog is dark gray and menacing, wisps of it hanging in front of an endless hall. The hall stretches out before me, disappearing into a black abyss. It takes me a few moments to realize what I'm staring at is a giant mirror reflected back on itself. This room is actually the smallest one yet, but it's also the one I've been most desperate to leave. I've always hated the effect of mirrors reflecting on each other. It's eerie and unnatural. The mirror in front of me is angled to reflect another suspended overhead. The most unsettling part of it all is the way the angle prevents it from catching
my reflection from where I stand. I resist the urge to step up to it as I walk past to reach the next door. I hope I'm nearing the end of this exhibit. How is this abstract art supposed to bring me answers?
I can't wrap my head around what any of this means.
The next area I walk into is the most beautiful room I've ever seen. The walls and the ceiling are made up of LCD panels, giving me a panoramic view of an ocean off in the distance. The ceiling depicts a starry night sky. But unlike all the other rooms, the path from one side to the next isn't clear of obstacles. Instead, bars run along the room in a back and forth pattern, like the lines to an amusement park ride.
The metal bar is colder than I expect when I run my hand down its length to begin crossing the room. I'm in no rush to set one foot in front of the other, awestruck by how crisp and realistic the ceiling is. At first I think nothing happens as I walk, but then I become aware of the changes. The ocean is creeping in from the horizon. Rhythmic waves crash in growing intervals, each reaching a little closer than the last. The sensation is of the water moving toward me, versus me moving toward the ocean.
The sight is mesmerizing, but being forced to zigzag between the metal bars is tedious. I weave up and down the room, back and forth, battling the urge to jump over the bars and clear the room faster. But that would be more exertion than necessary given the fact that I don't mind this room at all. The rumbling sounds of the ocean build, rising in volume as the ocean grows closer. By the time I'm halfway through the frustrating labyrinth of bars, I realize what's really happening.
The waves aren't just creeping in closer, they're growing larger and larger. The once beautiful sight becomes antagonizing as the waves roll toward me from every direction. A massive wave crashes just feet from the screen. The next wave swells up, a massive wall of water towering high overhead and growing even larger as it approaches. Soon the wave is taking up part of the ceiling too. It churns as though it might crash on me at any moment. The sight is so realistic, the sounds so intense, they cause panic to well up inside of me. I get the irrational feeling if I don't get to the door I'm going to be submerged underwater.
I half run the rest of the way, vaguely aware of the subtle sound of fast, urgent music playing. The music, it's manipulating my mood, driving up my panic. There's a giant knot of anger in my chest at Cole for orchestrating this.
Does he get off on making people experience panic and helplessness?
When I plunge into the next room, I sink back against the door as it closes behind me, squeezing my eyes shut and taking deep breaths.
This is it. I'm done. I can't do this anymore. There are no answers here. I open my eyes and the sight before me punches the breath out of my stomach. My hand comes up over my parted lips then down to my chest where a sharp pain grows with every passing second.
"How is this possible?" I whisper.
The room is an exact replica of a place I never wanted to return to. My eyes burn as they take in the hundreds of chairs lined up on either side of a long aisle. The marble floor littered with white rose petals, trailing a path down to the end. There sits a magnificent gazebo of white roses.
A memory flashes past my eyes of the first time I walked into this room. Of course, none of the decorations were in place, but the opulence of the vast space took my breath away. I'd grabbed Cole's arm and he had leaned down to kiss me.
"What do you think?" he asked, smiling because he already knew the answer.
"Yes, yes, yes." I was bouncing on my heels, giddy, and so happy I thought I'd float away. "Oh my God, Cole. This is perfect. This is it. This is our wedding venue."
The memory vanishes as brutally as it appeared.
There's no real logic to loving another person. No sane reason in surrendering your heart and mind to what cannot be seen or measured. To allow such a volatile force to reign over you. Love is neither patient nor kind, because love can't be tepid. It's unrelenting, all consuming, and unreasonable. Never in a million years would I have imagined myself falling as hard as I did for Cole.
The pain in my chest spreads across my body as I take jagged breaths, my gaze traveling up to the vaulted ceiling, across the massive chandelier casting the room in a soft amber glow. The sight would be romantic, beautiful even, if it weren't for the massive, menacing spiderweb stretched across the length of the room. All the while, the chandelier rattles softly as though something barely managed to escape alive.
FOURTEEN
ANDREW
I RACE DOWN THE streets, zipping through yellow lights seconds before they turn red. My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I try not to imagine the worst.
What the hell could've happened? Mila texted me earlier in the night telling me she went to the art show alone. I'd asked her if she wanted me to join her but her response did not come until an hour later when she called me hysterical.
"Drew, please. Come get me. Please. Hurry."
The call was minutes ago, but my heart's been jammed in my throat ever since. There was a man's voice in the background, urging her to calm down.
"Ma'am, ma'am, sit down."
And Mila screamed, "Don't fucking touch me," and I just about jumped out of my skin. I yelled through the phone, demanding to speak to whoever was there with her as I threw on my jacket and raced to my front door.
The man must've heard me, because he picked up the phone and informed me in a professional and clipped tone that my friend was being belligerent and violent.
"You need to come get her before I call the police."
"Who the fuck are you?" I hissed into the phone.
But the line went dead.
I slam on my brakes at a red light, unable to clear it in time. The GPS system in my car tells me to turn left ahead, between two large industrial buildings, and the arrow marking the final destination sits in the center of a large city block.
The light turns green and I hit accelerate down the rest of the road, taking the turn with reckless speed. The street narrows between the buildings, forcing me to slow down to avoid clipping the cars parked on either side. I reach the end of the road, my car's headlights illuminating a woman sitting on the sidewalk with her head in her hands. A man in a suit stands over her, speaking into the phone.
I throw the car into park and run out to Mila. She looks up at me and sucks in a shaky breath.
"Drew."
There's makeup smeared around her eyes, her nose is red, and shiny wet streaks line her face. There are pieces of plastic in her hair and clinging to her clothes, as if she just shredded a wall of Saran Wrap.
"Jesus."
I take my jacket off and pull it over her, then help her up to her feet. The man stands there staring at us with a detached expression. He's older, but tall, with a large middle, and a thinly shaved beard running along his jaw.
"What the hell happened to her?" I ask him.
He ends his call and slips his phone into his pocket. With a calmness I find infuriating, he crosses his arms and shrugs. "She lost it in there. I had to pull her out of a side exit, but not before she destroyed one of the exhibits."
"Are you hurt?" I ask Mila.
She lets out a laugh. I stare at her, realizing she's mentally checked out and in no state to offer an explanation. Her hands are wrapped around her middle and she looks smaller than ever in my jacket. Her gaze is on the ground, but darting around as though lost in thought.
"Come on," I say to her. "Let's get you in my car."
I glance over my shoulder at the guard or bouncer, or whatever the hell he is, as he heads inside the warehouse. Why the hell would Mila come to a place like this by herself?
Setting a hand on her back, I guide her across the street. She remains silent, but when I pull open the passenger door and rush to help her in, she shakes free of my grip.
"I've got it," she says.
I step back, pressing my lips into a thin line. I don't know what's gotten into her. She moves like her skin is crawling with things I can't see. Did someone hurt h
er?
I walk around the car and get into the driver's seat. I start the engine, but leave the car in park and turn to Mila. She's staring straight ahead, to the entrance of the warehouse building.
"What happened? Do I need to call the police, take you to a hospital?"
I ask the questions slowly and with as much composure as I can muster. Mila shakes her head after each one. Her lips turn down and she whispers something under her breath I can't hear.
"What did you say?"
She brings a hand up to her face and says, "He's a sadistic pig."
"Who?" I touch her shoulder, urging her to look at me, but she doesn't, she keeps her hand at her forehead, shielding her eyes from me. "Mila, talk to me. Who?"
"It was our ceremony venue, tangled up in a giant fucking spider web." Her words are low and angry. She sucks in a shaky breath and continues. "What—like I trapped him? Like he was so miserable and I was some insidious spider luring him to his death?"
"Mila, I don't know what you're talking about. You're not making any sense—"
"The whole thing, it was all about suffocating and…and drowning. And being trapped. Why? Why would he go through so much trouble to make sure I knew that was how I made him feel? How could he be so cruel?"
I reach across and take her cheek in my hand, nudging her face toward mine.
"Mila," I say, staring into her eyes. "Who is he?"
"Cole."
The name bursts from her lips like a curse. I set my jaw and drop my hand from her face. His is the last name I want to hear.
"What does he have to do with this?"
The question is redundant, but a part of me hopes the name left her lips in error. Even while knowing exactly where this is going, I hang on to an irrational hope I'm wrong.
"This was his exhibit, and it was all about me. He's back, Drew. He came back just to fuck with my head."
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