“What?” he said through an asymmetrical grin.
“I can’t. I got to go. I’m really sorry, T. You seem like a really great guy and all,” she said and whirled away.
“What? What did I do wrong?” His volume drove upwards as she darted through seemingly motionless drinkers. She didn’t answer as she flicked her tongue and feverishly wiped her lips. She stepped beside Kelsey and pulled out her barstool. Tyler caught up to her and took her hand. She squeezed it and refused to face him.
“It’s not you. I’m sorry. I just got out of a real destructive relationship and I’m just not ready for this yet.”
A grin washed across Tyler’s face. She remained resolute.
“Hey, come on. I’m not that guy,” he said. She offered a silent assent.
“Besides, what’s the old saying? What do you do when you fall off a horse?”
The tempestuous tide of dark memories flooded her senses. Her fist clenched, and her teeth gritted behind taut lips.
“You shoot the fucking thing as it runs away.”
Snatching her purse from the stool, it swung wildly as she threw it over her shoulder. It whacked Kelsey on the back as she stepped away. Kelsey snapped from her raucous laughter.
“What’s going on? Where’re you going?”
Eyebrows gnarled as Heather sighed and blindly rifled through her purse. Kelsey jumped to her feet and halted Heather as she bolted away.
“Where’re you going?” she repeated.
“Home. I’m done,” Heather snapped.
“What did he do? I thought you guys were hitting it off.”
“I can’t. It’s not— it’s not him,” Heather simpered and stomped away.
“Not who?”
III
CHUK-CHUK— CHUK-CHUK— CHUK-CHUK— CHUK-CHUK— the R Train slogged and beat its way out of Manhattan. The unrhythmic steel against steel, wheels verses track battered each other in their eternal struggled purpose as the train careened into Brooklyn. Heather held onto her yellowed copy of The Haunting on Hill House stronger than her own consciousness as she scanned the empty cabin. Maybe it was the three Mango Marge’s, maybe it was the Xanax, or the combination of both.
Heather leaned back into the hard, plastic seat. She scanned the overhead advertisements which ran along the length of the subway car. Doctors, attorneys, gym memberships that insulted, but promised results, demanded for her to call now!
SUICIDE IS A PERMANENT ANSWER TO A TEMPORARY QUESTION. PLEASE CALL FOR HELP TODAY!
The churning wheels abetted the strobe of mercurial lights before her eyelids lost the battle to gravity.
Don’t fall asleep. You’ll miss your stop, she thought as the sudden weightless hush of slumber lolled her head sideways.
“Don’t let him die—”
Heather shot up and scanned the train car. The words were in her head, but it sounded as though a stranger whispered it over the din. Seeing no one, she allowed her eyes to drift closed. She allowed her mind to run as fast as the train. All she could do was go along for the ride and hope for the best.
CHUK-CHUK— CHUK-CHUK— CHUK-CHUK— CHUK-CHUK— Eyes flitted as Heather jerked up. Stumbling to her feet, a wave of miasma rattled her brain as she pushed up from the seat. With innate consideration for what or who might have ended up on the seat before her, she wiped her hands along her thighs. The train shifted, the lights flickered off, and Heather slammed the side of her head into the pole.
Lights returned as the train lurched forward. Her steady grip tightened around the stainless-steel. She couldn’t recall where she was or how she got—
Where?
The train. You left Marge’s and took the One and Nine home.
Am I— drunk?
No. You stopped at your limit of five drinks.
Five?
The coagulated racket of the pathway melted with hiss of air and the screech of steel against steel as the train roared through the tunnel into Brooklyn. Eyes clamped shut as she placed a hand to her forehead. Her head dipped in a failed attempt at comprehension. Her eyes lifted towards the railcar ads once more.
SUICIDE IS THE ONLY ANSWER FOR LOVED ONES. MAKE SURE THEY DIE TODAY!
Please, don’t let him die—
Stomach juices churned and shot into her mouth A thick gulp swallowed it back where it belonged as a throb knocked at the back of her head, then resumed its rhythm with the tracks.
THUMP-THUD— CHUK-CHUK— THUMP-THUD— CHUK-CHUK—
Her chest tightened, her fingers twitched, and her jaw clenched. She prayed the Xanax would return to fight the cumulative inebriation as her body trembled. A panic attack on the subway, late at night, alone, spun her mind like a top.
The smell of nitrogen and the squeal of braking steel sent an instant chill down her spine. Listing forward, she gripped the passenger rail as her feet barley withstood the momentum. The hiss of air and the ping of chimes burst through her derailing consciousness. The conductor announced the station as the doors slid open. She couldn’t understand what he said. She read the thick white letters adhered to the black steel sign and shook her head.
GRAND ARMY PLAZA
The heels of her fists pressed in and rubbed her eyes.
Steel girders and movie posters blurred past as the train resumed South-West in its labored turn. Eyes opened once more as she read the last sign before the train reentered the tunnel.
ATLANTIC AV/ATLANTIC AV- PACIFIC ST
The air thickened in a cold, suffocating clot and Heather wobbled towards the door at the far end of the car. She rocked to and fro in opposition of the sway. Squeals, hisses and clangs marked each footfall as she traversed. Half way through the car, the lights went out. The lights from the station billboards illuminated the cabin. Advertisements of horror movies she hadn’t heard about, domestic abuse, and alcohol dependency filled the Nickelodeon screen of her vision. Her chest tightened again as the familiar heaviness bore down on her.
A pop followed by crackling static pushed through the low-quality P.A. system. The hint of tones, a two-finger chord of a piano here, a saxophone there, and—
She couldn’t tell whether it was an accented static or a steel brush over a snare drum. Under it, a silky, woman’s voice. Heather closed her eyes and listened.
She scowled and jerked her head back at the old, but familiar vocals of Astrud Gilberto. An avid fan of Name That Tune, and the Wikipedia of what others consider useless information, The Girl from Ipanema was as haunting as it was beautiful. She wondered why the conductor would play this over the loudspeaker.
Heather peered through the rectangular porthole, into the next cabin. Three riders, she counted. An elderly woman sat beside a packed folding cart, and a young Asian couple. A hand gripped the handle and she felt the click of obeyance. Maybe she could ask one of them if—
“Perhaps the Corvette would have been a more suitable mode of transportation. Such are the choices we make.”
Heather spun on her heels. The small hairs on the back of her neck arose as the train car temperature plummeted. Lights flickered in opposition of the clanging of the wheels beneath. Through the strobe, she peered at the man sitting at the far end of the cabin, his varicose laden hands perched atop a black lacquered cane. Peeking out, she noticed the sharp point of chrome in the shape of a beak. A bird’s beak.
The man craned his head sideways. The mostly salted hair, pulled back tight, revealed deep cut widow’s peaks. His spotted, mapped flesh hung loosely about his mouth and jowl, though his smile drew back like the drapes of Radio City Music Hall. Craven teeth gritted behind those stretched lips. His black suit absorbed the light from the lambent fluorescent tubes.
She breathed deep and exhaled through pursed lips. Her fingers gnarled, and her chin raised.
“Excuse me, sir. I kind of fell asleep. Do you know where we are?”
The train slammed onto its track below and the lights burned out again. She reached for the guide rail in the dark.
Fluorescent tubes
snapped back on. She was alone. Her grip tightened on the rail as the lights flashed off and on again.
Heather reeled back against the door. The chill that ran down her back replaced with an instant shock of spine to steel. The man stood only a few feet from her, smiling, waiting. She slumped to her rear and shuddered.
Lights flashed as the shadows danced throughout the train. Within the strobe, then man stood over his cane.
Another flicker in the mid-stride of an elderly gait.
Once more, he loomed over her.
Eyes threatened to burst from their lids as Heather gasped in disbelief. Her trembling hand shook upwards towards the door handle.
In a fluid motion, the man flipped the cane in his hand and grasped the lower end. He pointed the skull, it was definitely a raven’s skull, towards her.
Heather stared deeply into the eye sockets. An unwavering inducement of gravity drew her away from within. Swirling vortices of stars and micro galaxies tumbled and collided within the abyss. The staccato of breath quickened her pulse and sent waves of congealed miasma through her head.
“What do you want from me?” she howled.
The man leaned in close. His breath smelled like death. Real death.
“Repent your sins to me,” he whispered. Their eyes locked before hers clamped shut again. Arms flailed, and legs kicked as she scrambled to her feet. The latch of the door clanged open and the door slid within its frame.
Lights burned out once more in the cabin as she leaped through. Her head thudded against the next car.
One foot on each bumper, the Fun-House topple rocked her into the safety chains.
Wheels screeched, and the subway pitched as she tipped over the guide. A foot snagged the chains as she watched the subway tracks blur past. She steadied one foot on the adjoining car and pulled herself back up. She twisted the handle and fell back into the next car.
Fireflies swarmed in her vision as she pushed up from the dingy floor. The elderly woman looked on as Heather fought hyperventilation and gravity. The woman’s thick eyebrows knitted before she turned away. The young Asian woman peeked out from under her boyfriend’s arm, consternation remained in her stare. Heather whirled back to the porthole and stared at the empty car behind.
“You Okay?” the Asian woman said. Heather turned back and considered the woman slowly making her way over. Heather’s eyes drew wide. She nodded.
“I think so. I think my meds are messing with my head,” she answered. The woman slowly retreated, not taking her gaze from Heather.
“No, no. It’s not like that,” Heather said and held out a hand. “I’m not crazy. I think. Did any of you see that old man back there?”
The young Asian man took to his feet. “Let’s just calm down, miss. But if it’s all the same to you, stay right where you are. Got it?”
Heather closed her eyes, scrunched her nose and nodded.
“I’m sorry. Can someone at least tell me where we are?”
The answer never came as the brakes engaged and the train abated into the next station. The conductor squawked through the speaker and the familiar BING-BONG of the doors filled the cabin. Heather hurried onto the platform and dropped her head.
Pungent odors of nitrogen, stagnant water, and stale urine wafted through the subway station as Heather leaned against the I-beam. The clangs and screeches of the departing train retreated into silence. She stepped away and followed the signs towards the nearest exit.
The station was familiar but distant. Recollections, or Déjà vu, swirled in her head like curdled milk in hot coffee. Her footfalls echoed upon the steel and concrete stairwell as she ascended. She stared at the wrought iron gate at the top, the rusted chain and padlock alluding comprehension. She grabbed the gate and tugged. The rattle of metal roused her consciousness once more. A memory of the exit surfaced, but eluded, as she turned away.
She padded across the subway platform towards the stairs at the far end of the station. Faded, torn posters lined her path with similar messages as on the train.
“Is everybody as fucked up as me?” she said. The reverberation of her voice fell flat within the expanse of the cavern. She paused at an advertisement and stared.
THERE IS A LIGHT WITHIN EACH OF US THAT CAN NEVER BE DIMINISHED OR EXTINGUISHED.
A silent ascent closed her eyes.
The light within went supernova after she met him so many years ago. He was supposed to be the one. The only. His light shown just as brilliantly as hers, if not more so. Until—
Heather had an idea as to why his light faded. It was the secret he kept from her, signaling the beginning of his end. But she didn’t know what he had done during that time which darkened his eyes and chilled his spirit. It made no sense. She thought he had everything he wanted. Except direction. He meandered through life as though he were immortal, that eternity was on his side and he had a millennia to rediscover that direction, that destiny, that light.
IT CAN ONLY BE OBSCURED BY FORGETTING WHO WE ARE.
His shadow diminished her light. It encompassed her love with fear and misery. And when she stepped back and waited for his light to return, his shadow enlarged, absorbing all the light from within and without. Throwing her hands to the heavens, she released the last ray of hope and she pushed him away. Heather would not allow herself to be sucked away by the gravity of his expanding black hole any longer. It was not who she was. It was not who she wanted to be. When she rummaged through the recollections of broken dreams, the shattered blades of glass glittered like the cosmos. And everywhere she reached, they cut deep into her soul.
“I will not forget,” she affirmed and continued towards the exit.
Stomping atop the sidewalk, she turned back and read the subway exit marquee.
59 STREET STATION
N R
She froze. It wasn’t her stop. It was his. She didn’t want to be here.
Did she?
Heather didn’t know or care as her feet propelled her down Fifty-Ninth Street towards the water.
Several months had passed since she frowned at the odors of fried rice and egg rolls from the Angry Dragon Restaurant. Many sleepless nights drifted along since she gazed at the illuminated signs of Flacco’s and the Convenient-Mart Corner Deli and Bagels.
She halted at the yellow plastic Gotham Writers’ Workshop newspaper kiosk and craned her head upwards. Scanning the soot covered brick façade of the early Twentieth-century building, the windows under the hand-punched, decorative steel soffits were dark. The moonlight glinted off the edges of broken glass within one of the windows. Through the distance, she peered at what seemed like a newspaper and duct tape over the hole. His landlord bordered on being considered a slumlord, and she wondered how long that window had been neglected. And what might have caused it.
She cinched her wool coat under her chin as a late-night breeze rushed down Third Avenue. A hand reached into the pocket and she withdrew her phone.
The windows sparked on and her phone dropped from her grasp.
“Fuck!”
She didn’t need to examine it to know the screen resembled the window above. She slipped the phone back into her pocket and hurried towards the narrow alley between the Deli and Ji-Yeon’s Nails Spa.
“Why are you here? What do you want?” she said. She chuckled as she waited a little too long for a response. Step by step, she continued through the passageway. It opened wide as the rear of four adjoining buildings shared the space for back-door exits and dumpsters. The rusted and trash-smeared signage flaked in indiscernible warnings of unapproved refuse. The rancid taste of rotten meat, curdled milk, and decomposed fruit hung in the air as the bitter flavor of iron coated her tongue.
“Why are you here? What do you want?” she repeated. She turned within the center of the space and considered how many people could fit. No alleyway wide enough for vehicles, the square might easily fit twenty men, comfortable enough to do their own thing. A single bulb fixture above one of the dumpsters cast deep sha
dows across the brittle asphalt, marring each crack with bottomless possibilities. Her eye found a fitted corner of wooden slats as a staple glinted in the light. She stepped towards the dumpster and threw the crux of her elbow across her nose. Her foot stretched forward, stepped on the pine divergence, and dragged it out from under the box.
She reached down and turned over the bulky frame. Its canvas smeared with dumpster milk and flecks of dirt, but the image beneath was recognizable. The ecru, carmine and raw umber strokes of insanity and genius. The ivory, emerald and ochre splashes of sorrow and agony. It was every nuance of his inner torment, eloquently orchestrated from edge to painful edge.
The subject, an abstract self-portrait, on his knees, crying to the heavens. His hands at his sides, gnarled into the branches of dead trees. Veins bulged and seeped throughout his face and neck, and what appeared as leathery wings of a flittermouse, protruding, extending from him. She wiped her palm across the face, somewhere, somehow hoping to ease the never-ending pain from his eyes.
The painting crashed to the ground as she jolted. The ring of her cell phone amplified in the brick canyon, despite being nestled in the woolen pouch.
She glowered at the broken screen as she couldn’t read the name or phone number. A huff of clouded breath hung in the night air as she put the phone to her ear.
“Hello?
“Who the hell is this?” she snapped.
“No, he can’t be reached at this number. Try—
“I told you no! Who the fuck is this?”
Heather’s eyes shocked open and her jaw dropped. She peered through the mouth of the alleyway towards the street. She kicked the painting back under the dumpster.
“How did you know— How did you get this number? He give it to you in one of his drunken stupors? Maybe after you fucked him, you slut? I can’t believe you’d have the fucking audacity to call me. I’m sure you know!
The Estranged Page 4