“But, Elli’s a world-class swimmer,” she says. “He even used to compete.”
With that, palpable unease overcomes the officer and he drops his gaze. “When we got to the scene, we found a fifty-pound disc-weight and a metal chain in the deep end of the pool.” He scratches his temple. “It was apparently quite the struggle to pry them off of Mr. Wilder.”
An anchor...
Neve’s vacant gaze sinks through the air, and she stares through the floor at where the pool’s surface would be, if she was back up on that diving board.
“I really can’t imagine how hard this must be,” the officer says, “but try not to worry. The doctor should be out soon.”
“Well what’s he doing in there anyway?” she looks up, body atremble. “You either drown, or you don’t.”
σ
Neve leans forward on her elbows, and buries her face in the palms of her hands.
It has been forty four minutes since she arrived at the hospital. She almost wishes there was someone else in the waiting room. Someone she could sneak glances at, wonder about, distract herself with. She’d settle for a screaming child at this point. Anything would be better than to sit here in silence while the officer’s account of the incident replays in her mind. And what’s worse, she can’t seem to make sense of any of it. Of the timing of her outgoing calls to Elli. Of the similarities between her dream and how he tried to—
Her fingertips rake into her hairline. She grips her aching head, trying to piece her fragmented thoughts together. But they keep being drowned by the sound of her heart, pounding. Counting.
What the hell is taking so long?
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Neve leans back in her seat with her eyes glued to the door.
An older man with gray hair and matching scrubs emerges from the hallway, and his eyes immediately land on the only other person in the waiting room.
“Are you waiting for Mr. Wilder?” he asks.
“Elliot Wilder. Yes.” Neve slowly rises to her feet. “How is he?”
The doctor looks down at his clipboard, but he’s not actually reading what’s on it. His lips are parted as though the words are on the tip of his tongue. “I’m afraid we were unable to resuscitate him.”
Neve watches him readjust his glasses.
“I’m guessing you’ve been briefed with regards to the pool, but the official cause of death is overdose.”
Cause of death, Neve thinks, robbed of all hope.
“Phenobarbital,” the doctor elaborates when Neve fails to acknowledge his revelation. “He had almost ten times the recommended dosage in his blood.”
“Overdose…” Neve lags behind.
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” he heads for the door, but hesitates. “If it’s any consolation,” he turns to Neve, “Phenobarbital is a sedative. It’s unlikely he felt any pain.”
And all Neve can do is stare, devoid of language.
With a terse nod, the doctor makes his way back out into the hallway, and vanishes from sight.
But not from memory.
And eventually Neve finds herself wandering back towards the entrance, the flogging of her flip-flops echoing through the hallways. She walks through the sliding doors and heads towards the parking lot. She walks in anticipation of her emotions catching up to her. Of becoming completely undone.
But with each step, she feels even less.
Chapter 8
Doubt
Ivory clouds hang low in the cerulean sky. The gentle breeze is so bashful Neve can barely hear its whispers. Lying on a plush blanket of moss, she closes her eyes and gently caresses the delicate texture. It’s spongy and slightly cool to the touch. Soft and soothing. She could lie here forever.
Minutes meander by with nothing on her mind but peace. And then, a gentle breeze lifts the heat off her cheeks and prompts her to open her eyes.
She sits up and marvels at an enchanting field of grass. A serene meadow sprinkled with thousands of white daisies.
Straight ahead, the meadow meets the sky as though it is overlooking a cliff. Neve follows the rim until it dawns on her that it spans the entire perimeter.
She’s atop a secluded summit.
And she’s not alone.
Right next to her stands a boy—she looks up—with scarlet hair.
A gust of wind swooshes past and Dylan’s tousled locks ascend to bid it farewell.
Neve waits for him to look down, but he keeps staring into distance.
“Hey,” she rises to her feet and faces him.
He remains oblivious.
“What are you doing here?”
With Neve’s inquiry, the clouds above begin to blush a deep shade of pink.
Captivating, yet frightful, somehow.
All of a sudden, the sun seems to be diving towards the horizon as if trying to escape the night. Sheets of light pour down like water as darkness wrings out the sky.
“Dylan?” Neve reaches out and touches his arm. “Oh my God, you’re freezing!” She weaves into him, but his arms remain dangling.
She closes her eyes and starts to rub Dylan’s back, but his body remains ice-cold. And in that moment, with her cheek pressed onto his neck, Neve realizes he doesn’t have a pulse.
“Do pink clouds rain blood?” Dylan speaks in a voice far steelier than his own. And when Neve opens her eyes, her vision is draped off by longer, darker strands of hair swaying gently in the breeze.
Neve’s heart skips a beat, and she pulls back, only to be struck by the familiar features of a complete stranger. A young, androgynous man with wild eyes, blade-like brows, and dark hair draping over his shoulders.
There’s a soullessness to him that’s hard to put into words. His beauty feels toxic.
Lethal, like an exotic serpent.
“Who—” Neve takes a step back, realizing the man is gripping both of her wrists. “Let me go,” she demands, but he doesn’t even blink.
Neve tries to pull herself free, but the man’s grip is firm. Unyielding.
“Do pink clouds rain blood?” he repeats.
A warm drop of rain lands on Neve’s chest, and she looks down at a crimson splat seeping into her white shirt.
Her eyes fill with terror. She looks up just as another drop lands onto the stranger’s cheek. It hugs the contours of his face as it runs down to his defined jaw.
“Let me go,” Neve demands once more, her voice reeking of fear and desperation. “Let me go. Let me go! LET ME GO!” she belts out like a broken record as the stranger’s stare wreaks havoc inside her.
Another crimson drop lands on Neve’s bare shoulder, “help—” and another, “help me!” and another, “HELP!” until all she can see is red.
Neve opens her eyes to the white ceiling of her apartment. But the horror of her nightmare—the red filter of the world drenched in blood, lingers.
Through labored breaths, she awaits her return to normalcy. But instead of peace, she finds pain.
It’s been six days since Elliot stopped breathing. Since his broken heart stopped beating. Since Neve ate anything larger than a bite, or remained asleep for longer than a few hours. Ever since the incident, she’s been plagued by nonsensical nightmares jolting her awake at all hours of the night. By lyrics of songs she has not listened to in ages. Ever since that awful phone call, she has been wavering between hollow denial and heavy anguish. And in just a few hours, she’ll be forced to rip off the scab and feel the burn all over again.
σ
Adorned in black, Neve stumbles out onto the stone deck of the country club. Her eyes are bloodshot and her nose and cheeks are rosy thanks to the cheap tissue paper. Her body feels bruised and beaten.
One more tearful outburst, and she fears her skull will crack.
She turns a corner and seeks refuge on the side stairs leading down to the parking lot. Mourning all morning has finally taken its toll.
She can still hear the homemade video of Elliot playing in the ballroom. A lengthy comp
ilation of the milestones in his life, punctuated with random clips of his shenanigans as a child.
Every once in awhile, the tormented laughter of his family and friends roars, and then slowly wanes into somber awe.
This was intended to be his celebration of life, but it’s been nothing but a painful replay of all the things she will miss about him. Things she will now have to live without.
But worst of all has been the parallel she keeps drawing between reality, and her vivid nightmare heralding Elliot’s untimely demise.
Her tears escape her once again, and she reaches up and collects them with her damp sleeves. Did she somehow know this was going to happen? Is the gut-wrenching feeling bending her at the waist really guilt disguised as grief?
Could she have intervened before it was too late?
With that thought, Neve retrieves her phone and dials her mother. By the second ring, she is already bracing herself for the answering machine. But much to her surprise—
“Hi sweetie,” her mom picks up.
“Oh—hi,” Neve stammers. “Hey, mom.”
“How’re you doing, honey?”
Neve breathes a silent sigh. “I’m… okay.”
“How was the service?”
The service, Neve thinks. It was well-orchestrated. Uncomfortable. Heartbreaking. It was—and still is—all the things it’s supposed to be, and none of the things it needs to.
“Mom—” Neve starts, but hesitates.
“Honey, I think you’re cutting out,” her mom says.
Neve looks over her shoulder. Roughly thirty feet behind her a slender man—Elli’s uncle?—is lingering by an antique cart filled with red geraniums. Staring into his whiskey glass, he seems far too broken to even notice Neve, let alone care to eavesdrop on her conversation.
“Neve? Can you hear me?”
As Neve turns her back to the grieving man, her obsidian hair drapes off of her shoulder, concealing her face.
“Mom—do you remember how I used to have all these weird dreams. when I was a kid?”
There’s a pause. Too long a pause. “Everyone has weird dreams, honey,” her mom eventually speaks. “It’s normal.”
“If it’s normal, then why did you take me to see a psychiatrist?”
A soft, yet frustrated sigh. “It wasn’t the dreaming itself. You kept riling up all the kids, telling them you can predict the future.”
And it’s like Neve is six years old again…
…sitting by herself on the seesaw at recess. This autumn is an explosion of yellows, reds and browns. The sky is fog-gray, and the air is comfortably crisp.
All warm and cozy in her rouge parka, Neve watches the boys chase one another on the playground. Her gaze closely follows the boy in the marigold sweater, who seems to be losing steam already.
He waddles into an impasse, his shoulders slacken, and he tilts his head back, breathing puffs of white clouds into the air.
Lazily, he wanders back over to the swings, grabs the chains, and pulls himself up onto the wooden seat.
At the sight of this, Neve rises in quiet anticipation. Her big, brown eyes dart back over to the other boys who are gathered in a small cluster, visibly disappointed.
One of them jolts as though he’s just come up with the best idea there ever was.
Mischievous grins blossom on their faces as their new group strategy reinvigorates them.
They giddily run back and gather behind the swings, and each time the marigold boy swings back, they collectively push onto him.
The higher the boy reaches, the louder his pleas for mercy become, but the others seem adamant to swing him all the way around the horizontal bar.
Neve’s mittens rise up to cover her mouth, her panting warming her tiny fingers through the thick layers of fabric.
She’s wrong. She has to be. Because if not—
The screaming boy reaches the apex and unwittingly releases his grip of the chains.
Neve’s mittens swallow her scream as the bar breaks the boy’s back in the process of breaking his fall.
That horrific incident was Neve’s first damning premonition. One she had hoped would also be her last. But time kept taunting her with more unsettling surprises, some big, and some small. And now with Elliot six feet under, she’s once again fallen victim to confusion, doubt, and despair.
And if her mom couldn’t empathize with her as a child, there’s no reason to assume things would be any different now.
Chapter 9
Solace
Dylan finds himself inside an empty room. Inside a concrete cube with no door and no windows. He has no idea how he’s come to be here, but looking down, he realizes he is strapped to a metal chair bolted to the ground.
He struggles to free himself, but instead his restraints become even tighter, trapping the blood his heart is pumping into his hands.
It feels like the space is getting smaller. As if the walls are closing in on him, inch by inch.
With a loud and echoing blast, a spotlight is cast onto him. It’s so bright that it bleaches whatever surface it touches.
And suddenly it starts to glide down Dylan’s body, draping over his knees and sliding down his shins. It slips off the tip of his shoes and begins a slow crawl towards the center of the confinement.
Panic rattles Dylan’s bones. The spotlight’s crawl seems purposeful. But for the life of him, Dylan can’t imagine what it intends to reveal.
Suddenly, the bright disc starts to deform, crawling onto what seem to be a child’s shoes.
It creeps up the legs and torso, and when it reaches the collar, Dylan gapes at the dark hair resting on the child’s shoulders.
With a blaring bang the spotlight is snuffed, and all that remains is an echo, swelling up within the darkness.
Dylan quivers in place.
Not once has he encountered the Reaper in the form of a child. So, what could this mean?
What’s going to happen?
The borders of the room reappear as soft light fills the space from no apparent source.
The boy has vanished. And there seem to be no instruments of torture lying around.
Has the cycle been broken?
Is today the exception to the rule?
His hope is extinguished when he notices a dark and veiny pattern forming on the ground, like the growing branches of a dead tree. And he jolts as he realizes what he’s witnessing is a crimson liquid oozing from the cracks in the concrete floor.
It spills onto the surface, its borders quickly coalescing. Within seconds, the entire floor is submerged beneath a thick veil of red—in the blink of an eye, Dylan’s feet are swallowed by what looks, smells, and feels like blood.
He exerts his full capacity, trying to break free, but his bindings tighten in retaliation. His hands are turning blue, and the only thing he feels in his legs is the warmth of the deluge slowly drowning him.
It’s already up to his knees. It’s as though time is skipping forward in larger and larger increments.
Dylan stares helplessly as the red threshold swallows his lap. It glides up his torso until it has engulfed his shoulders.
And then, it slows down along Dylan’s neck like an unwanted caress, warm and invasive.
As though savoring the kill, it fills the space around Dylan’s throat, curves along his jaw, and creeps up to his gaping mouth.
It lingers at the brim of Dylan’s lower lip, taunting him with false hope. And then, like a merciless wave, it dives into Dylan’s throat and fills his lungs with pain.
Gasping for air, Dylan soars into consciousness in his bed. He clasps his hand onto his throat, heaving wet coughs, but the wretched sensation of drowning refuses abandon.
He feels like such a fool for thinking—even if for the briefest moment—that he would ever see an end to his suffering.
He can’t do it anymore. This burden is too heavy for him to keep carrying on his own.
He pulls his phone from his pocket and sits up in his bed. It’s d
esperate, and probably futile, but what has he got to lose at his point?
He clears his dry, aching throat, and dials Alex.
Pick up. Just pick up and—
It goes straight to voicemail, reminding Dylan yet again of how things may never be the same.
“Hey, Alex… Um—I’m sure you’re really busy. And it’s been forever,” he exhales, wishing he’d rehearsed what he was going to say. “Do you think that maybe we could… catch up?”
Catch up? He cringes. Just cut the shit.
“Alex, they’ve gotten worse. Way worse. I’m—”
Drowning.
With nothing else left to say, he ends the call. This was it. He just played his final hand. If after hearing this message Alex still doesn’t care to get back to him—like when he screened Dylan’s call at UBC—then it really is over.
Suddenly, like a tidal wave of warmth, a peculiar feeling washes over him.
He slides off his bed and heads out into the living space, stopping a few feet shy of the front door with his eyes glued to the buzzer.
σ
Neve waits behind a regal pair of bronze doors—the twin gates to the antique elevator of Dylan’s heritage apartment complex.
She barely remembers the drive back from Elliot’s celebration of life, or how much she fed the parking meter. She just can’t believe she’s here, when only a week ago the mere thought of it was stranger than fiction.
The lift comes to lurching stop, its sinewy gates sliding open. It’s a welcoming gesture, and yet Neve feels like she’s being lured into a cage. ‘A birdcage lift’ she remembers Dylan calling it.
How fitting.
She steps in and pushes onto the topmost button for Dylan’s floor. The instant the doors begin to slide shut, an onslaught of anxiety twists her core, and she knows there is no going back. She peers down at the lobby through the gaps in the lift’s ornate skeleton. And then—one by one—the floors are sliding down across her vision, bringing her closer to him.
This was a horrible idea.