by A.L. Bridges
Chapter 12: Painful Memories
It was Friday night. Jason and I were out celebrating, having finished our finals from our second fall quarter at the University of Washington. Jason was wearing jeans, a red flannel shirt, and a peacoat, which is appropriate dress for thirty-five degree weather. I was wearing jeans, a white t-shirt, and my favorite leather jacket with the broken zipper, which is not exactly appropriate dress for the weather for most people. It’s not a problem for me because my blood runs a few degrees colder so it takes quite a bit to make me feel cold, whereas I get hot fairly easily, which is not ideal for Phoenix weather.
(I know what some of you, who have read the ‘sparkly vampire’ type books are thinking: “that’s not right! Werewolves have higher temperatures than humans so they don’t get cold,” which anyone who has had a temperature of 103 can tell you, is asinine. When your body temperature is that high, the air around you feels colder because of your hypothalamus and relative skin temperature. That is why when people have high fevers, they feel cold. The author just wanted the hot werewolves to be topless, plain and simple.)
Jason and I were walking home from a party, and we were still pretty drunk. We were joking around and having a good time when some asshole stepped out from a dark alleyway and tried to mug us at knife point using a dirk. I mean an actual naval thrusting dagger, dirk. I immediately sobered up a bit, recognizing it as a threat despite the stupidity of it. Jason however, saw the dagger as a giant joke.
“Dude seriously? What fucking time frame are you living in?” Jason asked after taking one look at the thing.
“Jason what the hell are you doing!? Now is not the time for jokes!” I said to Jason.
The mugger didn’t appreciate the joke and herded us into the alley, making several thrusts in our direction. I held up my hands and slowly backed into the alley, trying to decide if I was too drunk to fight him without getting stabbed. Jason just trundled along like a reluctant child whose mother just told him that he couldn’t get any candy.
“Seriously, if you are going to try and rob somebody, at least use a weapon that they can actually recognize as a real threat like a butterfly knife or a switchblade or better yet, a gun!” Jason joked again.
That turned out to be a bad idea. I saw the look of malevolence in his eyes as the mugger stepped toward Jason and I realized he was about to stab him. I wasn’t about to just watch as my friend got stabbed so I sprang into action. The only problem was that I was too drunk to remember any disarming techniques so instead of positioning myself in front the blade to disarm the guy, I just ended up in front of the blade, watching as the knife plunged into my navel and then was drawn out.
One of my favorite comedians, Nick Swardson, said, “I don’t care if I go through life and don’t help a lot of people or save a million lives, I just don’t want to get stabbed! If I can get through life without getting stabbed, I win.”
It looked like I just lost.
I crumpled to the ground at Jason’s feet in shock as he screamed “COLE!” Jason punched the guy who stabbed me and started fighting him while dodging stabs. I just sat there holding my stomach and watching as blood seeped through the cracks of my overlapping fingers.
“AH!” Jason grunted as the knife swiped his left bicep.
Suddenly, the blood seeping through my fingers stopped.
‘Oh this is just fantastic! This means that my heart stopped which means I will be dead soon. What is it, like 6 minutes until brain death?’ I thought.
Then I felt my limp body rise to my feet, something other than my consciousness compelling my body to move. Jason watched me rise to my feet in the bizarre, puppet-like, fashion he had seen five years ago, before I put Dwight into a coma.
“Oh you are so totally fucked dude!” Jason informed the mugger.
I watched as my body rushed forward faster than I thought possible and picked the mugger up by his face using just my left hand. I slowly squeezed his temples until my fingernails broke his skin. Then something strange happened: the mugger’s eyeballs exploded, leaving blood and goo trickling down my hand. When blood started trickling in a fine stream from his ears, I heard Jason call out to me.
“CT? CT can you hear me? Cole? You can stop now, I’m pretty sure he’s dead. Cole? COLE STOP!” Jason shouted while grabbing my right shoulder.
I just sat there—the helpless spectator—watching as I spun and grabbed Jason’s left bicep with my right hand, while I tossed the mugger to the wall with a squishy sounding ‘thunk’.
Jason looked at me with shock and fear in his eyes. When his body went slack, I let go of his arm as he fell onto his left side. I was standing over him with my face emotionless until I regained control and immediately fell to the ground beside Jason in shock at what I had done. At the end, Jason gave a little half smile and made a “heh,” sound, as if he were trying to chuckle. As he closed his eyes, blood started to trickle out of the left side of his mouth.
I was too stunned to move as blood gushed out of my stomach. I sat there knowing that Jason was dead… knowing that there was nothing I could do about it… knowing that there was nothing anyone could do about it… knowing that I was responsible for killing him.
I slumped over and my vision faded as I heard sirens in the distance, part of me hoping they would get there too late to save me.
…
I usually wake up after this part, but this time was somehow different. Jason suddenly appears in the darkness and says “Finally! Okay, listen, I don’t have much time. I’m still alive, in a sense, and I need you to go t—” before my dream flashes white.
A naked Natasha walks up and says, “You can’t delude yourself, Cole. Jason is dead. This is the reality of it… this is the reality of what you did.”
My dream flashes again and a scene comes into view that I recognize as the events following Jason’s death.
…
I woke up in a hospital bed. My stomach should have hurt, I could feel the stitches from surgery, but it didn’t—nothing did. I was completely numb, but not because of painkillers.
Tia walked in the room wearing jeans and a black turtleneck sweater, leaned against the foot of my bed and asked “How do you feel?”
I responded by giving her a glazed over stare, not exactly by choice.
“*Sigh* Don’t worry. I’ve taken care of everything. Let’s go home,” Tia said.
I hung my feet off the side of the bed, stood up and retrieved my clothes from the bag at the foot of the bed. I slipped the hospital gown off and got dressed, not caring if Tia saw me naked.
We were home in seven hours: five hours spent at the airports or flying and two hours for travel by car. I spent the time focusing on anything and everything that would keep my mind off recent events, things like counting the number of alcoholic drinks ordered on the flight. Answer: 116. I assume that some people ordered multiple times because the plane could only seat 180 and it wasn’t a full flight.
We pulled into the driveway, got out of the car, and walked inside the house. The moment I entered the door, Cheza rushed up and hugged me tenderly. Still numb, I just stood there not hugging her back. Cheza pulled away, brow furrowed and pouting until she saw my expression. Her expression immediately changed to one of concern, but she didn’t say anything as I walked to my room and fell face-down on my bed. In the back of my mind, I was aware that it hurt and that it wasn’t a good idea to lie down on a recently opened stomach wound, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.
For the next five days I was a ghost—a shell of a person. I floated around the house, not speaking and barely eating. Then the day of Jason’s funeral came. I got out of bed at noon, showered, dressed in a black suit, and joined the girls at the kitchen table while they ate lunch. Cheza and Sara were dressed in appropriate black attire. Tia, on the other hand, was wearing a strapless ‘little black dress’ that ended at mid-thigh level. I should have said something, but I left it alone.
After I entered the car, I just shut dow
n, few outer stimuli making it to my brain. I felt the car stop. I heard Cheza open my door and felt her grab my hand, indicating I should get out of the car. I allowed Cheza to take me to where ever it was we needed to go. Few details from the funeral made it to my memory besides the fact that Jason’s mother had requested that he not be embalmed. I also remember seeing Jason’s mother, Ms. Mathews, for the first time.
Ms. Mathews was in her early forties with a pale complexion, straight dark brown hair that was almost to her shoulders, about 5’6” tall, and slim. The thing that seemed off to me was her indifference to the death of her son. It looked like it hadn’t fazed her a bit—like her son wasn’t really dead. Then again, Jason and his mom had hardly had an outstanding relationship. There were only a few other people at the funeral and none that were recognizable.
Nobody said anything as Jason’s casket was lowered into the ground. I saw out of my peripheral vision as two tears fell from Cheza’s eyes as she whispered, “Goodbye Jason, my other brother,” I could tell that she was holding back her tears for my sake.
We got home and I went straight to my room, stripped off everything but my boxers, and went to sleep early. The problem is what happened while I slept. My dream had been recreated from my memory, forcing me to watch once again as I killed Jason. I jolted up right upon awakening, yelping and breathing heavily with my body covered in sweat. I swung my legs over the side of my bed and tried to throw up into my bedside trashcan, but nothing would come out.
I sat there for a few moments, elbows resting on my knees while the blue glow of my alarm clock told me that it was 1:13am. I heard my door creak open as Cheza walked in (wearing a large white t-shirt that might have been mine) while I realized that she had probably been watching me the whole time. She silently walked over to me and stood in front of me for a moment before she grabbed my head and brought it to her chest.
I just unloaded on her. Everything that I had been holding in for the past week hit Cheza’s chest. I cried and cried while grabbing the back of her shirt tightly, as though my whole world would crumble away if I didn’t hold on.
“It’s my fault. I killed him… I killed him. It’s my fault that he’s dead. I’m sorry, Jason. I’m so sorry,” I sobbed, my voice muffled by Cheza’s shirt.
“Shhhhh. Shhhhh,” Cheza whispered as she stroked the back of my head while resting her cheek on top of it.
“Get in bed,” Cheza softly said.
I complied and swung my legs onto the bed, not bothering to scoot up despite the fact they were hanging off the foot of the bed. Cheza climbed in after me and snuggled up next to my side, her arms wrapped around my head as tears streamed down my face. Despite the fact that I was no longer crying, tears just continued to fall. Had I been thinking straight, I would have said something about how she was too old to be sleeping with me anymore, but honestly, I was just glad that she was there and not turning away from me in disgust from the fact that I had killed my best friend and the guy that was like a brother to her.
She stayed with me through the night.
****