“Alex?” I swallow hard. “Why does Franco want control?”
“It’s not necessarily control. It’s life. And it’s yours or his.”
***
"Ready to go home?" Alex asks.
I wrap my arm around his and kiss his cheek. "You’re still with me. And we’re going home." Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he just can’t drift into the future anymore. Could I be so naïve to think that could really be the case? I have to figure this out. Maybe I can protect him from this supposed end he’s sure of.
The look on his face tells me he’s still sure it's coming. Maybe the plane is going to go down and it’ll be my end too. The thought makes me sick. I can’t leave Sammy. This is why he never wanted me to drift to a future time. Maybe Kiera would know? She's been drifting to future times. I wonder if she saw Alex there. If she did, maybe this whole 'the end' thing isn't real after all. I have to find her.
"You're awfully calm for being on a plane," Alex says, rubbing his hand in a circular motion over my knee.
"I have to find Kiera. She can tell us what's going on in the future. Wouldn't you like to know if she sees you there?"
Alex looks away from me and focuses on the folded up meal tray in front of him. "I’ve already told you what happens, Chloe. There's no need to track her down." He nods his head and closes his eyes before glancing out the window. I lean my head back against the flat cardboard-like headrest and close my eyes, hoping to doze off.
The screaming of the wheels as it hits the tarmac wakes me from a deep sleep of blackness. We silently file off the plane and make our way out to the parking garage where my car awaits us.
The engine roars, the wipers sweep across the windshield, squealing as it clears off the slight sheen of dew. The air conditioner blows a gust of stale mildew smelling air into our faces. I breathe heavily as I pull my seatbelt over my chest. Alex clenches his fists around the steering wheel and throws it into reverse.
Nothing like waiting for death to strike. My heart can’t pound any harder. I think my ribcage might be bruised from the constant thumping. I twist and turn the wedding band around my finger as I search my mind for words or questions. With each minute passing, the fear encompassing his body grows stronger—sweat on his forehead, trembling hands and heavy breathing make it all clear. And yet, I keep trying to believe that we're closer to safety. He notices me fidgeting with my ring and pulls my hand up to his mouth.
"Never take this off. Promise? It’s part of your heart and your mind. It’s part of you and me. This will always symbolize us."
My body hurts and I'm angry that he keeps talking like this. Why won't he accept the fact that he might be wrong? He has to be wrong. I can't even respond to him. All I can do is shake my head, telling him to stop. Why would I ever want to take this ring off? We're never going to be apart. He promised me that. Why would he promise me that if he didn't think he would be around to live up to that promise?
"Alex. You aren't going anywhere. Just get it out of your mind. Please," I say, pulling my hand away from his mouth so I can stop the tear that's dripping into the corner where my lips meet.
Driving along the shore, knowing we're only a few blocks from home gives me even more assurance that everything is going to be fine. Alex was acting as if he was never setting foot back into the apartment again. If I can just prove one theory of his to be wrong—maybe if he could see that he was wrong, he'll stop assuming the end is near.
We pull into the parking lot and park in our usual spot. "See?" I place my hand on his shoulder and smile. "We're here, and we're both in one piece. Will you stop worrying now?"
He looks at me and stares into my eyes. His face relaxes and his crooked grin appears. "You're right, Chlo." He places his hand around the side of my face and pulls me in for a kiss. His lips linger and the coconut scent wafting from his skin causes me to melt into the seat. "Maybe I was wrong," he says. "Maybe I was confusing the future with a nightmare. That could happen, right?" No. That can’t happen. He’s lying to me. He’s trying to make me feel better. He doesn’t believe that being home in one piece means anything different than what he thought when we were at the chasm or Paris.
“Alex, come on.” I say, cocking my head to the side. I’m calling his bluff. Whatever the case, he made me forget about my fears for half a second.
"Can you grab all that stuff in the backseat? Your backpack wasn't zipped and things fell out," he says. "I'll grab the bags from the trunk."
His door closes and I lean over the middle console into the backseat to pick up the few scattered items. As I'm retrieving the last item, I hear a bang on my window. It startles me and I fly backward to see what it was.
Two black circular eyes stare me in the face before its beak pounds back into my window again. This time, the bird falls to the ground. According to Google, the page I tried hard to skip over a hundred times, if a black bird flies into your window, it's a sign of impending doom—death. But I'm not superstitious and I refuse to believe something so absurd. I open my car door, preparing to see another dead bird below my feet, but there’s nothing there. I’d ask myself if I’m going nuts, but I think I already know the answer to that. I yell for Alex, but before the words can escape my mouth, I feel the car bounce along with a loud metallic thud. I pull myself out of the car and turn my head toward the trunk.
Everything is happening in slow motion. I stop moving and grab a hold of the door for support. All I can see are his feet and legs. The car didn’t hit him. Nothing hit him. Why is he on the ground?
“Alex?” I call out calmly, waiting and praying for a response. I’m too scared to move, too scared to see the truth. He loves those damn Converse sneakers he wears with everything. He buys a new pair every three months. He hates when the toe part has scuff marks on it. He ruined the ones he’s wearing now. Water stains from the snow and running from the gray suits earlier didn’t do much for keeping his shoes white.
“Alex?” I call again. Maybe he's looking at a leak under the car. Why aren't my feet moving any closer to him? Why can't I move from this spot? My body feels numb. My mind is numb. I can’t think.
I clench my fists together tightly, regardless of not being able to feel the muscles in my arms. I can feel the pain from my fingernails digging into my skin. I pull myself a step closer, revealing more of his flattened legs. A cough interrupts my train of thought and I immediately snap to all my senses. He's alive. I fall to the ground and drag myself around the car to find the rest of him. His eyes are open, and I don't see any blood. I climb up to the top of his body and kneel at his head. "Alex? Why are you on the ground?" I ask shakily.
"Everything you need is on top of my dresser. If you want those things to stay with you wherever you go, keep them in your heart and they’ll be with you forever.” He coughs some more. His eyes are lost and unfocused. “Chloe, listen to me.” His voice is so gravelly. He’s struggling. But why? He looks fine. He has to be okay. “This had to happen like this. It's the only way to reset."
"I don't understand, Alex. You're not hurt." I kiss his cheek and comb my fingers through his silky curls. "Come on, get up." I say loudly.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to compose my frantic breaths.
“Chloe, this drift will not exist without us both here, which is why this has to happen like this. Go home. It’s the only way,” he says, his words fading into the air.
I feel my fingers glide through his arm as if he was liquefying. My hands aren't wrapped around him anymore. The scent of coconut is just a memory. I peer through the glossy film of tears covering my eyes. He's gone. I let out the most wretched shriek my body can muster up. The pain in my body is too much. I want to die too. I can’t be here without him. “Why?” I scream. “Why Alex?” My tears are burning down my face. “Come back to me,” I cry louder. “Please, Alex! Don’t leave me!” My screams go mute. I scrape my fingernails down my face, needing to feel pain somewhere other than in my heart. The pain doesn’t compare. There is no physical pain that
could come close to this turmoil. I can’t go on without him.
I can’t.
Wait. He’s not dead. This isn’t his real life. He’s not dead. I have to get back to our real life to prove he’s not dead. I scoot back against the trunk of my car and close my eyes tightly. I clench my arms around my knees and rock back and forth, trying to erase the image of his dead eyes looking up at me. More cries escape from my throat. I can’t focus on anything else. I have to push through this. I have to prove he isn’t gone. I can’t believe he’s dead. I can’t. He’s only twenty-four.
This isn’t possible.
I begin counting backwards inbetween sobs and choking on the pressurized air that's barely giving me enough oxygen to breathe.
Alex, I have to focus on Alex. Focus on his piercing blue eyes, his blond wavy hair, his perfectly placed freckles, his scent, his hands and the way they feel around my face. His lips, the way they feel on my lips. Please be alive. Please be okay.
I’ll do anything.
Anything.
CHAPTER ELEVEN:
FINALLY GOT HIS WAY
THE FAMILIAR BLACKNESS comforts me and brings me hope that Alex will be at the other end.
Falling, falling, death to life . . .
I drop against a soft surface. I place my hands around me, moving them in a circular motion on the bed. I'm here to visit once a week, but this time it isn't the same. When I open my eyes, I'll have my answer.
I squint my eyes tighter and pull in a deep breath. I open my eyes slowly and glance around the room. Floral wallpaper, two twin sized beds, a bureau, and a closet. Charlie’s house has been a resting place for Alex, Sammy and I for the past four years. She watches over us while we inhabit a life in another reality, one that all three of us can exist in consciously. I actually don’t think Sammy has ever been fully awake here, but she has taken good care of him for us. I know she brings him to semi-consciousness three times a day to feed him, which I owe her my life for. She tucks him in every night and makes sure that he’s well taken care of in this reality.
The house is quiet; Charlie must be at work now since it’s midday.
I pull my weak body from the bed. My ankles wobble as I make my way over to the closet. I drop to my knees and throw the doors open before tossing all of the clothes onto the floor.
Nothing.
I drag myself over to the closest bed, searching underneath and moving over to the other bed to look under that one too.
Nothing.
My chest constricts any air flow. It hurts. I swallow my incoming sobs and clamber over to the door. It's locked, like always. Charlie keeps us locked in here so Alex can’t get out and hurt himself like he used to at the institution.
If the door is locked, then where is he? As the question floats through my mind, my eyes scan the room until they reach the window.
It’s open.
We’re on the third floor.
I nod my head, refusing to believe. Denial. That’s what this must be. I walk over to the window. Each step, feeling like twelve. When my fingertips reach the windowsill, I pull myself closer to the opening. I clench my eyes shut and poke my head outside.
If I look down, I will know the truth. Why isn't this window locked? It has always been locked? How could Charlie have left this open? She wouldn’t have.
“Charlie,” I yell, knowing she isn’t home. Knowing I’m all alone. Left to face the inevitable truth that my eyes will confirm in a matter of milliseconds.
For as long as I keep my eyes closed, he is alive to me. I don’t have to believe it until I see it. He’s still alive.
Until. I. Open. My. Eyes.
A cool breeze swooshes across my face. My bangs sway to the side. My eyes open on their own. I tried to fight it, but they opened anyway.
Alex.
Motionless.
Pale.
Dead.
Dead in this real world—this real horrible cruel world.
Dead in our dream-world.
Dead everywhere.
He’s gone.
I’m alone.
Forever.
The fall was only three floors, but her yard has a steep slope where the basement meets the ground, making us almost four stories high. He jumped, or fell. He finally got his way. He’s been trying to do this since I met him, here in this real world.
He wasn't worried about being killed by Franco. He knew he was going to do this to himself. I have to call the police. Maybe they can still save him. I run back into the room and lift the phone off of the bureau. My brain keeps reciting 9-1-1, but my fingers won't move.
I have to save him. My legs give out and I fall to the ground. I press my face into the hardwood floors until it hurts. I dig my nails into the floor until the pain shoots up my arms. As the inflicting pain begins to set in, my mind rests for a moment, and I suddenly understand the implications of calling the police.
They will think I did this to him. They will find out he's a psych patient and Charlie will lose her job. I will be put back into the institution. I'll never be able to read what's in Alex's notebook. The answers to this have to be in there. That's why he laid all of that stuff out there for me. This is why we went to distract Franco with a replica. He was setting me up to remain safe, without him.
But shouldn’t I try to save him first? I lean out of the window again, eyeballing the distance to the ground. I'm not sure if I would survive climbing out of this window. My eyes focus on the whiteness of his complexion, the purple hue of his perfect lips, and the slight smile on his face. This is what he wanted. But is this what all parts of him wanted? Did he have a choice? Did his mind make him do this?
I pull myself back in again and fall backwards onto the bed. Why aren't tears falling from my eyes? Why isn't my mind telling me that my life is over? Maybe I'm dead inside now too.
I close my eyes and imagine myself sitting in front of my car in front of our parking lot. The drift back didn't feel warm or inviting. It felt hollow and lifeless. What am I going to tell Sammy and Celia? Did they already know?
The concrete below me is hard and has scratched up my legs. I open my eyes and see the barren spot where I watched Alex leave me for the final time. I stand with effort and look up at the apartment window. Celia is standing in the window, holding a tissue up to her nose. She knows.
I walk to the front entrance, but feel as though I'm on a treadmill. I keep walking, but I'm not moving. My legs hurt by the time I reach the door. I pull it open and start walking up the endless stairs. When I finally reach the last flight, I see our door at the top. It's open and Sammy's standing there waiting. When my head appears above the steps I'm climbing up, he begins barreling toward me with a huge smile. "Mommy!" he yells as he flings his little arms around my neck.
What am I going to tell him? I've been holding him for minutes now, not moving and he hasn't let go or asked me where Alex is. I lift him up and carry him up the rest of the stairs and bring him into the apartment where Celia is waiting. Her face is splotchy and the redness diminishes the bruises on her face. She walks over to me and wraps her arms around Sammy and me. Her sobs increase in volume and her body begins to tremble against mine. The pain emanating from her throat stabs me like a knife.
"I have to keep reminding myself it's only temporary," she cries into my shoulder.
"What do you mean, Celia?" I ask.
"You'll figure it out."
I pull away, and anger quickly replaces my pain. I know I should stop myself from lashing out, but I'm done with the mind games and I'm done with the riddles. She backs away just as quick and puts her hands up in defense, as if I would actually hurt her.
"Chloe, I don't know anything. All I know is the few things Alex has told me. He always told me this living situation was temporary. I can only hope this is what he meant."
I close my eyes and try to calm myself down. I came back here to see what he had placed on the top of his bureau for me. The part that I can't seem to wrap my head around is the fact
that he did this to himself. There had to have been a reason.
I walk into our bedroom and stop in the doorway. Why am I not breaking down right now? I'm walking into the bedroom that I share with my husband—my husband who just died in front of me. How long does it take for shock to wear off? Is that what this is? I'm angry with him for doing this to me—for leaving me in life to deal with my condition, alone. Why would he leave me like this?
I walk over to his bureau, but stop along the way when I pass by his side of the bed. I lie down for a minute and smother my face into his pillow. It smells like him. The harder I press my face into the cloth-covered feathers, my eyes become shielded from all light, allowing me to see him. “Why, Alex?” I yell into the pillow. I sit up and throw his pillow across the room, hitting a picture frame on the wall and knocking it to the ground. I watch the pieces shatter as tears break through my anger, flooding my emotions with memories and realizations of how alone I feel without him.
Regardless of how little I want to read his notebook right now, I know I need answers. I press my fingers into my temples and rub in circular patterns to alleviate some of the tension in my head. I stand up and watch my feet move below me even though I can't feel anything from my waist down.
I place my hand on the notebook, and I can't feel the texture of the leather bounding. I can only feel the pins and needles that are surging through my fingers and hands.
I lift the notebook and carry it over to the bed. As I place the book down, the folded paper he had placed on top slides off onto my lap. I place it inside of the book cover and turn to the first page.
I read the first line and I slam the book closed. I can't do this.
I lean back on the bed and stare up to the ceiling. “Why did you do this to me, Alex?” I ask the empty air around me.
I hear a soft knock on the door before it opens slightly. Sammy walks in with his head bowed toward the ground and he climbs up onto the bed with me. The comforter bounces a bit as he gets comfortable under the sheets.
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