Gray Matter

The night quickly worsens. Voices begin to ricochet off the walls and ceiling and floor. It’s like that childhood rhyme, “I am rubber, you are glue. What bounces off me sticks to you.” Except I’m the glue. I am also a sponge, absorbing everybody’s every words until it’s impossible to focus on anything else.

Only, they’re not actually anybody’s words because no one is actually saying anything that I’m hearing. And even though I’m aware of it, I can’t do anything to stop it.

Disoriented, I slosh more of the spiked punch into my cup, downing it in an attempt to remove my mind from the situation. I’m scared and confused and ashamed and I never should have stepped out of the the perimeter of my front yard. Because I don’t know what’s happening, but I know I’m seconds away from breaking.

I’m learning that to be drunk is to unlock the part of myself that I’ve tried so desperately to shut away.

No, I think. No. No. No. No. No. It’s been so long. I’ve managed to go without this happening for so long. Why now? Why can’t everyone just be quiet? Why can’t Lindsay just pause the music and send everyone outside and allow me to lay by myself in the middle of the room, arms splayed with cheek pressed to the sticky hardwood floor?

The voices aren’t even voices anymore. They’re disembodied buzzing noises burying their way into the deepest crevasses of my brain. I attempt envisioning a brick wall being constructed, piece by piece around my skull.

Desperately, I press through the hordes of people. Clawing recklessly at the hot tears tumbling down my face. Sucking in gallons of the putrid air that engulfs me. And then I’m crashing through the screen of the patio door, leaning over the ledge of the back deck, and retching into Lindsay’s mom’s treasured lilac bush.

I want Adam. I want to see him try to conceal the concern in his dull brown eyes as he scolds me. I want his worn hands to grasp my shoulders and shake me back to reality, reminding me that it’s not my fault. That this problem I’ve been coping with my entire life isn’t my fault.

Instead, I’m met with the sniggers of my peers. No one stops to check on me because to them I’m just a batshit insane, some sort of schizo girl who can’t hold her liquor. What a mess. I hear someone say. At least, I think I heard them. I’m not sure anymore. It’s impossible to differentiate between my reality and imagination.

As a cool breeze slides over my sweat glazed arms, I wish for the darkness of night to engulf me. And if it doesn’t, then I hope the sun rises to be so hot that it burns me into ashes. Voices continue to itch my skin, slowly subsiding as my head clears. Never quite disappearing, but luckily becoming more bearable as time moves on.

Music continues to pulse in the background. It’s some sort of pop song and the crowd shouts along to the lyrics. A bitter laugh escapes my mouth. How is it that I can be outside self-destructing while the rest of the world carries on without me?

I don’t know how long I stand by myself, leaning against the splintered deck railing, before someone gruffly clears their throat behind me. “Harper,” The man says. Nothing else but my first name.

The worst part is the uncertainty. Is Lindsay’s father actually speaking to me? Because that’s who it is. His identity is indicated by the huskiness of his words.

I don’t acknowledge his presence, keeping my knees locked against the railing. I can feel him, though, staring at me. His eyes are like radiators. ”Maybe you should head home.”

So, without uttering a response, I do.

***

Two unfamiliar vehicles are sitting next to the curb in front of my house when I arrive, hands squeezing the handlebars of the dirty bike I’m rolling next to my hip. One silver truck and one black one. The engines run idly, the exhaust sparkling beneath the street lamps. Dizzy and tired, I hobble past them, desperate to feel my soft bed pressing against the curves of my body.

Adam has strange visitors all of the time. Men with suave suits and Prada eyeglasses. Men that have knotted hair reaching their shoulders and suede vests draped over their torsos. He usually forces me to sit alone in my bedroom when they arrive, so I only catch their departure as I peek through my lace curtains.

I’m finding that I no longer care about the consequences of my actions, so I continue hobbling up the cement walkway that splits our front lawn into to sections instead of veering off the the right, to the spot where I would normally begin climbing back into my dimly lit bedroom. Adam will see me and his visitors will see me and I will see them and I don’t give a damn about any of it.

Climbing up the front steps is like climbing up a mountain, but I eventually make it to the tattered front door. The hinges quietly cry as I push against it.

I’m not sure if I’m focussing on my bed because I’m desperate for it or if it’s because I’m desperate to not think about anything else that has happened this evening. Either way, I manage to crawl so deeply into my thoughts that I barely register my surroundings. It isn’t until I kick off my left boot and press my socked foot onto the lumpy floor that I notice the puddle that has accumulated in the foyer.

Then I look down and I scream.

The floor is coated in a layer of blood, trailing from down the hallway and pooling near the front door. Like someone was initially wounded in the bedroom, tried to get outside, but couldn’t make it that far. I’ve crouched down next to Adam’s body, which lays in a heap against the closet door. His plaid pyjamas are heavy with his own blood. His unruly hair is slicked back from his face, which is battered enough to be unrecognizable. But I know it’s still him.

A broad shouldered figure stands at the end of the hallway, face concealed by shadow. He strides towards where I’ve planted myself. All of my air was lost in the initial shriek and I’m struggling to get it back. My eyes burn from tears that refuse to surface and my heart beats so fast that I can no longer tell it’s beating at all. I refuse to move as the man approaches, seeming almost hesitant. I direct my gaze toward him and he slows, rubber soles of his shoes squeaking against the floor.

“Harper Smith,” His voice rumbles, echoes off the walls and engulfs me.

“Stay away from me,” I manage to gasp, pressing my back against the nearest wall. A painful buzzing begins in the back of my skull and I swallow, attempting to push it away. My mind races with ideas of how to escape, how to bring Adam back from the dead, how to kill this man, even though only one of three are possible.

The front door is approximately five feet to my right, but it’s partially blocked by shoes and Adam’s long, gangly legs. And the back door is approximately twenty feet to my left, past the hallway entrance and through the dining room and kitchen. I could get outside, I think.

The man halts, hand outstretched. The soft glow from one of the windows spreads across half of his face. “I am not going to hurt you,” He says, “Just stay calm.”

But calm isn’t really my style, so I bolt toward the kitchen.

The rooms are dark, but I’ve lived in this house for my entire life. Easily, I navigate the cluttered dining room before slipping through the archway leading to the kitchen. Perspiration manifests itself onto each surface of my body. The buzzing in my skull is sharper now, higher pitched and I want to scream but there’s no time for it.

I’m almost at my destination when I remember that there are two trucks outside. Which means there’s two people in the house. And one is leaning nonchalantly against the screen door. This one is smaller than the other. Younger, too. But when he manages to clasp his fingers around one of my wrists, I feel his strength. It’s an unnatural power radiating from him, so much so that the hairs on my arms stiffen and it feels like my skin is vibrating. Like miniature bass speakers pulsing against my skin.

“Get off!” I shriek, wrestling against his grip. I flex my arms and twist my torso and flail my legs to no avail. The stranger has pressed my back against his rigid chest, one arm secured across my collar bone and the other around my waist. At one point, I manage to slam the man against the back door but he quickly recovers his grip, grunting from the effort of holding me still.

“She’s drunk,” He grumbles between his clenched teeth.

The other stranger is striding towards us. Now I can see the features of his face, which are familiar but unplaceable. Small eyes, sharp nose, wide chin. He’s in his forties, probably. I don’t break eye contact as he nears with his large hand still stretched forward, fingers spread apart. Close enough to touch. Before he does, though, there’s a mind shattering crash somewhere near the living room and then everything goes black.