Severed: A Novella

by H. G. Reed

  Just when I’m about to scream, she says, “Now switch hands.”

  I move the object to my right hand, drawing in a breath as understanding and language comes to me. “It’s a paintbrush.”

  “Very good. You can open your eyes.”

  I follow orders once more and stare at the innocent red paintbrush in my hand.

  I look at Josie, sure this had to be some sorcery, but she just stares back, waiting for me to grasp whatever the hell just happened. I do, but it doesn’t bode well. My lack of patient compliance has just set me several steps back in my desire to help solve this case. And maybe a life.

  “I think he had the gun pressed to the left side of your head,” she says, grinning. “That explains why you couldn’t say it before. You had the sensory input, but no output.”

  “Well, shit. What do we do now?”

  Josie laughs. “Same thing we’ve been doing. I didn’t tell you this because we have to change course. I told you to encourage you, but we have to be creative about how we unearth what you saw. The usual pen and paper isn’t going to work this time, which brings me to my next piece.”

  Creativity is Josie’s wheelhouse. She uses music, dance, art, and a combination of all of the above to help disabled people like me learn to function at their highest level. Most of those clients are in elementary school, but I’m special I guess.

  “By painting what you see in your mind,” she continues, “you will be able to look at the painting and tell us what you saw. The whole story will be there on canvas, and you’ll be looking at it with both visual fields.”

  “Which means the right field goes to my left brain and then I can say it aloud.”

  “Right again. Accessing Broca’s area.”

  The thought is both liberating and terrifying, but it doesn’t answer everything.

  “What about the stuff I heard? Visual fields have nothing to do with my hearing, but I still can’t remember that.”

  “We might be dealing with a few layers here. More than just your split-brain syndrome.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know enough to know that Wernicke’s area is on the left side, next to the temporal lobe. I’m sure you had to study many charts and graphs and pictures before you signed that consent form for surgery. So you know that auditory messages are received on both sides, and Wernicke’s area processes language.” My breathing quickens and my stomach gurgles again. “Rory, I wonder if you’ve been choosing not to remember certain things.” She says it tentatively, like she’s just curious.

  “Please,” I beg. “Don’t tell the police.”

  She almost laughs. “Why would I tell the cops? If the reason you didn’t tell the truth was due to PTSD, then I understand. Post-traumatic Stress is as real as any physical medical condition.”

  “I knowingly withheld information. Isn’t that illegal?”

  She places a palm on my shoulder and walks me back over to The Living Room where I take my usual seat. Josie breathes in and out slowly and I wonder if she’s changing her mind about reporting me.

  “I promised you confidentiality, and even if I hadn’t, I’m not sure this constitutes a crime. The vomiting, the flashbacks…it looks like PTSD to me, not obstruction of justice.”

  I exhale. “You probably think I’m a coward.”

  “Who cares what I think?”

  “So that’s a yes.”

  She leans forward in her chair, elbows on knees and hands together like she might start praying.

  “What I meant was, do you think you’re a coward? Because I don’t. It’s perfectly normal to want to forget something traumatic. This place you go in your own mind; I think that’s part of it. It’s a protective mechanism. However, you came in here with a very clear goal, and I promised I would do my best to help you reach that.”

  I look back to her and fight back tears. I shouldn’t care anymore. She’s already seen me make a fool of myself, what’s one more nail in the coffin?

  “What if I changed my mind?” I ask, hating that the words even came into my head. “What if I don’t want to do this anymore?”

  “That’s okay. You get to choose what you do, but know there are consequences no matter which choice you make.”

  “And if I want to keep going?”

  “Then I can provide you the tools, but you have to do the work.”

  It was a familiar idea, one which left me in charge of fates outside my own.

  “I’m in.”

  * * *

  Over the next few days, Rose’s face is all over the news, but I’m advised not to watch it. It’s two-fold: don’t add to the trauma, and don’t add to the story. I have to tell a grand jury what I know, not what I think I know, and every news source’s opinion will just muddy the water.

  At night, I hear her voice. When I close my eyes, I see her face. When I wake, my scar burns from the scraping of fingernails. It doesn’t matter if I watch the news or not. This won’t leave me until it’s done.

  * * *

  It’s been two and a half weeks since Rose went missing; since Detective Asswipe berated me in his office; since my college career came to a screeching halt. I still don’t watch the news, but I get updates from my lawyer. The police have a few leads, but no solid evidence. They’re still counting on me.

  Josie and I work in her office, continuing yesterday’s progress. It’s daily work, and I’d stay for hours if she let me, but Josie insists I stop each day precisely after fifty minutes. The images flash like before, except now I know what to make of them. I keep my eyes shut tight, opening them only to the memories, and touch brush to canvas.

  I’ve been working on this particular piece for several sessions, and Josie and I both know this is coming to an end. Part of me is grateful.

  “One to ten,” Josie says, breaking through my trance. It’s not a question.

  “Seven.”

  She says nothing, and I continue to paint. It’s almost finished. I’m so close.

  “Let’s take a break.”

  “No, I can do this.”

  I keep going, doing as she taught me and taking myself through the nightmare. She doesn’t have to prompt me anymore. I remember how it all started: parking garage, Faraway Hall, two guys in a beat-up car. Rose Peterson.

  I dip the brush in red without having to open my eyes. Josie has been laying them out in such a way that I know where every color is without looking. They go in order from left to right: red, yellow, blue, gray, green, white, black. Red for her, gray for him.

  It began as just a backdrop and then transformed into an abstract piece that only made sense to me. Josie said that was okay, so I kept it up. Now I’m not so sure. More people than just me depend on this glorified art project.

  What if this doesn’t work? What if I open my eyes and just see colors?

  Dip, brush, dip, brush. I pick up speed and breathe through the pain in my chest. I don’t have time for another panic attack. I have to finish this. The brush starts moving faster, keeping up with the images in my head before they disappear or my body rebels. I swallow down the vomit and keep going. I’m almost there. One more color, one more brush, one more breath.

  It’s done.

  I open my eyes and step away from the canvas like the paint on it may come to life. The scene stares back at me, and it happens. Just like Josie said it would.

  “I remember. I remember everything.”

  I’m not prepared for what happens next. The soft thunk of the paintbrush as it falls from my hand. The bruising impact of my knees hitting the floor. The gasping breath. The unguarded sobs. I forget my machismo exterior and let the tears spill out of me. Josie is right beside me, saying nothing, as is her M.O. during moments like this. But it’s never been this bad before. Sure, I’ve thrown up more times than I can count, but this is different.

  “I don’t want to,” I say, trying not to hiccup.

  “It’s okay.”

  “No it isn’t! It’s all right there, but…”
I take a breath, in and out, and slowly but surely, the horror isn’t so bad anymore. Instead, a stronger emotion takes over. Relief. “I can tell you.”

  “Yes. Yes, you can. If you want to.”

  I nod, sucking up the tears and pushing down the urge to run. For the first time since starting this whole mess, I don’t feel sick. No roiling in my gut, no spinning room. I’m free.

  Finally, I can say it out loud.

  THEN

  Junior Year, October

  MY MOM TELLS ME she loves me over the phone, and drones on and on about how much she misses me.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming home tomorrow,” I assure her as I walk from the dorm to my car in the parking garage. The only saving grace about this semester is I finally get to have my Mercedes with me. Even though it’s technically mine, Mom insists she has license to give and take away. This semester, she’s been in the giving mood, and she let me start driving the beauty a few days ago since it’s my birthday today and all.

  “Okay. Well, be safe, and I’ll see you tomorrow. I got you a cake!”

  Like I need another reminder that I spend the day alone. Well, there’s Mom. Ugh, that’s so much worse.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say before hanging up and throwing my phone on top of the laundry basket in my arms so I can open the car door.

  Mom insisted I come home this weekend to celebrate my birthday, but it’s just going to be us. Dad would never come to something so insignificant as cake and punch.

  I close the car door with a soft click. Damn, this car is the best. It drives well, it looks badass—even her doors shut with class.

  “Get out of here!” a girl yells just outside the parking deck.

  I step away from the car and see a girl standing on the sidewalk between the garage and Faraway. A Chevy sedan idles beside her. She starts to walk away, but the driver gets out, leaving the car door open.

  “I mean it, Gray,” she says. “We’re over.”

  Something isn’t right. I watch closely to make sure things don’t escalate. For now, it just seems a lovers’ spat. Until he grabs her arm.

  I don’t know where the words come from, or the bravado, but suddenly I’m jogging up to the girl and the guy named Gray. “Hey, man. What’s going on here?”

  “It’s none of your damn business.” He doesn’t even look at me.

  “Whoa, just trying to help.” I hold both hands up, palms facing him, as I take a couple steps back. “Looks like she doesn’t want to go with you, so why don’t you just leave her alone?”

  “It’s okay, Rory,” she says. I look at her for the first time, and it’s Rose. From lunch. I just saw her earlier today. She left upset, and I have two guesses what it was about.

  “Actually, she was just coming with me,” I bluff, trying to keep my chest puffed out so he won’t notice how scrawny my arms are. “We’ve got a paper due Monday that we really need to work on. So, uh…Rose? Let’s go.”

  She looks at me like she really wants to, but then she shakes her head. She either doesn’t want to come with me, or she can’t. My money’s on the latter.

  “Who the hell are you?” Gray asks, finally turning to me. He keeps a firm grip on Rose with one hand.

  “Just a friend.” But that’s sort of a lie. We hardly know each other. “Come on, man, just leave her alone.” I try appealing to his bro side, but it isn’t working. He only looks more agitated. I notice a second guy in the car.

  “You sleeping with him?” Gray asks Rose.

  “What the hell, man?”

  “I wasn’t talking to you.” He turns back to his girlfriend and waits for her to answer. She fumbles for words, trying to deny it, but she seems so caught off guard. He tightens his grip on her arm and yanks her closer to his face. “I always knew you were a whore, but—”

  “I didn’t do anything!” She shouts, then thinks better of it when he eyes her accusatorily. “Nothing happened. I—I swear.”

  “Get in the car. You wanna act like a whore? Then act like one.”

  By this time, the second guy is out of the car and opening the back door. Gray throws her in like a rag doll. She starts to cry.

  I grab for my phone in my back pocket, but then I remember it’s sitting atop the dirty socks in my laundry basket. In my car.

  “Leave her the hell alone!” I yell.

  “What did you say to me?” Gray says, stepping into me. He towers over me and we both know I’m a dead man. “Kyle, take care of this little bitch.”

  I go down. Hard. I stumble and fall somewhere behind the car. The smell of exhaust makes me dizzy. Or maybe it was the sucker punch to the face. I try to scramble to my feet, but Kyle is already there, pummeling me. The searing pain is blinding. My mouth can’t form any words, and even if it could, who would I call for help? My phone is in the car, and half the dorm empties out every weekend. There’s nobody here but us.

  In my shallow attempt at bravery, I try to stand once Kyle turns his back on me. He hears me struggling, and he’s back before I can even get a good look at him.

  He pulls out a gun and presses it against my left temple, pushing my head back against the asphalt. The rough pavement scratches against my cheek as I stare at the back, chrome bumper. My eye feels tight, and my scar burns as Kyle rakes his fingers down my scalp, grabbing onto the short hair on my head.

  “Don’t even think about it,” he growls, pinning me to the wet street with the barrel of a pistol. “You make one move and it’s over for you, kid.”

  I say nothing. Rose looks out from the rear windshield, a hand clasped over her mouth as her tears run over his fingers. Gray grabs her by the hair and slams her down as he climbs into the backseat with her. I see his head and shoulders as he grapples and claws at her. Rose screams, begging him to stop, and even from outside the car, I hear him.

  I want to fight, but I can’t move. I want to scream, but I can’t breathe. All I see is the rocking back and forth of the car as he traps her in the backseat. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  Kyle brings the butt of the pistol down on my head.

  NOW

  Six Months Later

  DETECTIVE AZLEY STRUTS through the precinct and eyes me from afar.

  “You ready?” he asks me.

  I follow him through the door of the interrogation room, but I feel different from the last time I was here.

  “And your counsel?” he asks.

  “I don’t want him here.”

  “It’s ill advised—”

  “I know. He doesn’t need to be here for this.”

  He nods.

  Returning to the precinct for the first time had been excruciating. Remembering everything in session was bad enough, but then I had to tell Josie. That part wasn’t so horrible. She listened just like she said she would. But then she gave me the reality check. I had to tell the police, specifically Detective Asswipe, who since learning all I knew had become much less of an ass.

  I was the person of interest in his case, a case that had been cracked wide open when I came into the precinct carrying my abstract canvas. He knew it would get the result we all wanted at the grand jury hearing. Josie came with me to the precinct that day for support, but John came out of contractual obligation. They sat beside me as I recounted the whole, terrible truth to the detective. He took my statement, read it aloud in grand jury, and made a deal with the guy responsible for this nightmare. I didn’t even have to show up.

  After I told Detective Azley all I remembered, Josie said she was proud of me for not puking, not even once. Then she told me I should be proud of myself for having the balls to go through with this. That’s a direct quote. She actually said balls.

  “You’ve done us and Ms. Peterson a great service, one I’m not sure we can repay,” Azley said as I finished my story that day a few months ago.

  Rose was okay in the end, hidden away at her boyfriend’s house with non-life-threatening injuries. That phrase doesn’t apply to mental injury though. They found her soon after I was
able to confirm the names of the men, the make and model of the car, and a partial license plate. It was all there in the painting, but it only made sense to me.

  Now, Detective Azley leans over the table of the interrogation room, which isn’t as scary as I remember. He looks tired. “We suspected the boyfriend for a while, but we had nothing to hold him on until you came to us with that finger painting.” He huffs a laugh and shakes his head like he can’t believe his luck, or he can’t imagine I was the one who helped him. “There was more than enough evidence to put both those guys away.”

  “For how long?”

  He sighs and rubs his forehead. “Not as long as we’d hoped. But enough.”

  He hasn’t lost all of his charm. He closes my file like closing a chapter, and I look him in the eye. He’s not the bad guy. Sure, he was a pain in the ass, but he was just doing his job. Anyone else would’ve done the same. Josie was a pushy, nosy counselor who cared too much, and she was just trying to help. I try to put Detective Azley in the same category as Josie. I think it’s working.

  “Not sure I understand it, but I am grateful. We all are.”

  “Glad I could be of some help.” I stand and shake his hand, ready to be done with this place for good. “You’ll always be Detective Asswipe to me.”

  He laughs and I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him smile. “I’d expect nothing less.”

  * * *

  We pull into the driveway, and Mom throws the car in park. It’s been a long day and it’s barely dark out. Neither of us said a word on the way home. What could be said? Rose got justice for what was done to her, I finally had a semi-decent conversation with Azley, but that doesn’t mean it’s an experience I want to talk about. Ever.