Chapter 9: Vicious Bonds: Chapter 9

I act as normal as possible throughout the entire open mic, despite Faye coming to check on me every ten minutes. When the night is over and the guests are leaving, Faye thanks them all and waves them off, and while they exit, I help Mel (the employee who showed up to run the café) stack the chairs.

It’s as we’re dragging the tables back to their designated areas when Faye returns with a heavy sigh. “Just leave it. I’ll be in early tomorrow to fix things before opening.”

“Are you sure?” Mel asks, standing upright.

“Positive. It’s been a long night and the storm is going to get worse. We should get out of here while we can.” Faye walks down the hallway to get to the employee lounge and collect her things. Mel does the same, and when they return, I’m sliding into my jacket and pulling my car keys out of the pocket.

Faye wishes Mel a goodnight and watches her cross the parking lot to her car, and when it’s just us, Faye turns and asks, “So is it just tequila at your apartment?”

I enter my apartment, kicking out of my shoes right away as Faye follows me in. She slips out of her damp jacket and hangs it on the coatrack by the door along with her purse, and then looks around my place.

“Ugh! What the hell, Willow? This place is a mess.” She walks to my dining table and picks up the empty box my cinnamon roll was in.

“What? I haven’t been home long enough to clean it yet,” I counter.

“I can see that.” She scrunches her nose. “And what is that smell?”

I look around, as if I’ll spot where the smell is coming from. “Hmm. So, it isn’t just me smelling that then?”

Faye ignores my comment and marches to the kitchen, and when she notices the dirty dishes in the sink, she groans. Immediately, she rolls up the sleeves of her sweater, turns on the faucet, and begins rinsing the dishes.

“Faye, you don’t have to do that!” I yell at her from the couch.

“If I don’t, who will?”

“I will…when I’m in the mood.”

She cuts her eyes at me briefly before putting her attention back on the dishes. “So are you going to tell me what that was about at the bookstore, or am I going to have to get you drunk and force the truth out of you?”

I knew this was coming, yet even with the question lingering in the air and having nearly two hours to think about it afterward, I still can’t bring myself to present a solid answer.

“Okay…” I sit up on the couch. “It’s going to sound crazy, but I’ve been having these really weird dreams. Or maybe they’re hallucinations? I don’t know.”

“How long have you been having them?” she asks nonchalantly, as if I just told her I love chocolate. That’s the thing about Faye. She’s not easily shocked. She’s normally calm and even-tempered.

“They started a couple weeks ago. Right after I returned from Atlanta.” I chew on my bottom lip. “But the first dream was kind of tame compared to the one I had last night and today. The first dream I was in some house, lost. The house was huge and I heard people talking, but no one came to find me. I also hear, like, this voice—some man’s voice. He has an accent. British, maybe?”

“Go on…”

“I don’t know who he is or anything, but he feels familiar somehow. Anyway, when I was in the basement, I was in a forest. It was cold and the trees were really tall and scary looking. And I think something was hunting me or chasing me…I can’t be sure. But that guys voice, I heard it again this time too. Like he’s calling out for me or looking for me before whatever that thing is can catch me.”

“Hmm.” She scratches the side of her head. “Maybe it’s stress.”

“Why would it be that?”

Her eyes find mine. “Because you bottle a lot of shit up. Maybe it’s finally starting to eat at your brain.”

I roll my eyes then stand, going to the dining table to clear it. I might as well keep myself busy too.

“Maybe you should talk to a therapist,” she offers.

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“I’m telling you, Willow. When I saw Dr. Wan, she was incredible. She really put my mind at ease with the grief I had about my mom’s death. She helped me heal…and I’m going to be honest, I think that’s what you need to do. You need to heal.” She turns the faucet off after filling the sink with water and suds and says, “I’m worried about you. I really am.”

“Why?” I ask, laughing. “I’m fine. Please don’t overreact. And why didn’t you use the dishwasher?”

“You’re drinking more, and the antidepressants don’t seem to be helping,” she goes on, ignoring my last remark. “You’re seeing and hearing things, and I’m worried that you’re secluding yourself. You’re forcing yourself to be lonely.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Really? If I hadn’t called you tonight, would you have called me to see what I was doing?”

I debate an answer. “I would have texted you…eventually.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes and going back to the dishes. “All I’m saying is I think it would be good for you. If you’re seeing things and having bad dreams, maybe it means something, you know? Maybe it means it’s finally time to talk about Warren’s disappearance.”

I avoid looking at Faye as I carry some of the trash to the trash bin. “If I take the therapists’ number, will you stop bringing up Warren?”

She grins so big it nearly splits her face in half. “I promise.”

Faye tidies up a bit more (what can I say, she’s an incredible friend, with a nurturing side to her that I’m grateful for) and after she shares a chicken salad sandwich from Lit & Latte’s with me, she gives me a tight squeeze and leaves before the storm gets any worse.

When she’s gone, I walk to the liquor bottles lined up on the counter, grab the tequila, and pour some into a cup. I take a big chug, then drag myself through the living room, shut off all the lights, finish my drink, and flop on the bed to bury my face into my pillow and scream.

After my breakdown, the storm strengthens. Lightning strikes and thunder causes the thin walls of my apartment to rattle. I pop an antidepressant into my mouth, chug it down with water instead of tequila this time, and then shuffle through my nightstand until I find my joint papers and a little baggy of green.

I pause when I notice the polaroid picture of me and Warren. I pull it out slowly, staring at it. It’s us, the year before he went missing. We were at a New Year’s Eve party and I can’t remember who took the picture, but they captured Warren with his arm draped around my shoulder and a “yeah, right,” look on his face. I’m looking up at him, pointing and laughing. I was most likely teasing him about something, like I often did.

I stare at the picture so long my vision blurs and I bite into my bottom lip, not wanting the tears to fall. I breathe in, exhale, and then grab my weed before shoving the image back into the drawer and slamming it closed.

I roll a joint, spark it, take a deep pull, and then lie flat on my bed, peering up at the ceiling fan. It’s not spinning tonight, but the more I smoke and the higher I become, the more it seems the fan is spinning, or perhaps it’s the lightning outside. The blades start slowly, then begin to spin faster.

I huff a laugh, realizing I’m probably hallucinating again, but that’s okay. At least I’m home. At least I’m safe.

Safe? I hear a deep voice ask. It’s that same voice—the one I thought I heard in my apartment. The same one from my nightmares that calls out to me. No one is ever really safe, are they?

I roll my eyes. “Nice try. You can’t scare me tonight. I’m too stoned.”

Stoned? What a strange word choice.

Okay. This is humorous, albeit freaky. I can hear this voice intwining with my thoughts. The voice isn’t scary. If anything, it seems the voice is familiar with me, yet I have no clue who it belongs to. “Who the hell are you?” I ask. “Seriously—why can I hear you but not see you? Wait, are you my conscience?”

It’s quiet for a long time, so long I think maybe I am making this voice all up in my head.

I’ve wondered the same thing. Who the hell are you? And why the hell has your voice been tormenting me?

“Holy shit,” I breathe. No. Not real. Not real.

Trust me, this is very real, the voice says.

“What the hell?” I sit up to put out my joint. That’s clearly enough of that. I go to my drawer, taking out pink pajama pants and an oversized Clemson T-shirt and changing. Then I lie back down and watch the ceiling fan, allowing it to distract my thoughts. But then it stops spinning, replaced by an oblong purple circle.

It’s that purple light again. It shakes and moves, wiggles like neon purple waves. I blink slowly and, unlike last time, I don’t get up to check if it’s coming from outside. Truthfully, I don’t care what this light is or where it’s coming from, but I’m intrigued by it, and it’s better than thinking I’m crazy by talking to some random voice in my head.

The light spreads across the ceiling and moves closer to me, and I raise a hand, reaching for it. I’m surprised when I touch some of it and the purple waves spill like liquid onto my fingers, slowly running down the inside of my arm and dribbling onto my cheek. I use my other hand to wipe my cheek while studying the purple glowing liquid on my fingers, then look back up—the light has spread more. It’s rippling faster.

My body becomes weightless, and before the realization hits me, I’m floating toward the light. It ripples faster, faster, and I’m getting closer. I draw in a deep breath as if I’m about to go under water, and I think to myself that this is all comical. I’m so high that I’m imagining myself swimming in this purple pool of water, dancing in it. I feel the water on my flesh, illuminating my brown skin. My body floats higher, higher, and then I’m in the purple vortex pool, floating effortlessly. I turn over and look down, right at my bed. I can see my whole apartment from here, a bird’s eye view.

And that’s when I panic. I shouldn’t be floating. I shouldn’t be in the vortex. How fucking high am I?

I try to swim back toward my room, force my body down, but it’s useless. This vortex is strong, and it sucks me in further and further. I kick my legs, spread my arms, and even try clawing onto something, but there’s nothing to hold on to.

I continue floating, my room appearing smaller and smaller the more I’m sucked in. Eventually, my room is gone, and I’m swallowed whole. The purple light fades to a blinding black, and for the second time tonight, I belt out a helpless scream.

Blackwater