Page 65 of Deeply Examined

Stuttering flashes of lightning make the condo look like a scene from a horror movie as I leap down the spiral stairs, praying I won’t slip and break an ankle.

He’s stopped shouting. The ominous silence that follows is far worse.

“West!” I yell when I hit the bottom rung. “Where are you?”

No answer.

With my hands out in front of me, I feel along the wall and furniture. The last time I heard him it sounded like he was in his bedroom, so that’s where I go.

His door is ajar. Hastily, I shove it all the way open. I’m blind. There’s no light at all. Just an inky blackness so thick it’s oppressive, suffocating.

“84, 85, 86…”

He’s counting.

My blood turns to ice because it’s West’s voice, but there’s a lisp to it, like it’s also the voice of a child, a little boy. The fine hairs on the back of my neck rise, and my skin prickles. I get the sense that we’re not alone in this room. That the ghosts of his haunted past have risen from whatever dark graves he’s buried them in. My imagination slips into overdrive as I feel them crowd me, their skeletal hands reaching, clinging to my nightgown, scraping along my skin. They want to slow me down, to stop me from reaching him.

I won’t let them.

“West?” I shuffle forward, so I don’t trip on the furniture or the edge of the rug by his bed. I’m a few steps in when something sharp bites my toe. “Ouch!” I hop on one foot, but that was a bad idea because whatever razor-sharp material is on the floor slices into my other, uninjured foot.

“Fuck!” I thump to the floor, landing on my bottom, and pull my stinging feet into my hands. Something warm and wet drips across my palm.

I’m bleeding.

“West! West!” I cry with a sob, pain and fear mixing together.

“93, 94, 95…” There’s a vacancy to his voice. It’s mechanical, detached, like he’s gone somewhere far away.

My fingers probe the soles of my feet and find sharp-edged shards of what must be glass sticking out. I cut my fingers and my palms as I wiggle the larger pieces free from my feet, which are slippery with blood.

“West!” I call out raggedly.

Still nothing but counting, the sound coming from the bed. That must be where he is.

Sweeping my hands in front of me, I brush more broken glass out of my way. Slowly, I clear a path so I can painstakingly crawl forward on my hands and knees. I force myself onward, filled with an urgency to get to him. To wake him from whatever nightmare he’s slipped into.

I’ve just reached the edge of the bed when he says in an eerie high-pitched voice, “Please. I promise I’ll be good. Please, please let me out.” Those words make me freeze, fear and grief slicing into my soul as sharp as the glass did in my skin. A sick feeling curls in my stomach, like I’ve swallowed something poisonous.

He goes back to counting. I use those numbers as a beacon to lead me to him.

Finally, I feel the outline of his feet, his legs, his body under the sheets. I trace his form until I get to his face. I take it in both hands.

He keeps counting, low and monotone.

“West!” I shake his head from side to side, squeezing. “West! Wake up!”

Nothing.

My hands find his shoulders. I shake them, but still he doesn’t stop. I tug at him, shaking him harder so his head flops. I’m almost at the point where I’m going to slap him awake when abruptly he sits up straight.

Strong hands grasp my wrists and tighten.

“West! It’s me,” I hiss, worried he’s so disoriented that he’ll think I’m a stranger and hurt me by accident. He would feel so terrible afterward.

He mumbles a groggy, “Jessica?”

“Yes! It’s me. I’m here.” He lets go, and I scoot closer. Climbing into his lap, I circle his neck with my arms and pull him to me. Trembling, he burrows into my chest. Still blind, I search with one hand in the darkness until I find his face.

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