XXI

A figure of wisdom. Hope. Ain't she so relentless? Covering us with her grace. Those beautiful violets, soothing tussles in the expanse of her meadows. It's time to move to a place where there are no shadows. A journey for new beginnings is ticking-tocking...

***

— Ray —

Still and quiet this morning went by.

  My vision waved past me and my legs nearly gave away if I hadn't leaned on the wall. I paused in thought, looking down at my soaked feet, caked in black mud. Perhaps, I dropped a glass of water from my night table. But there it stood, neatly next to me, half full—it wasn't toppled. I smoothed around the glass cup and rubbed my fingers together and felt my thin calluses from playing my guitar and a light layer of dust mites. Maybe it rained last night, and I didn't notice. It didn't explain the dirt under my feet. There were no glass shards or pitter-pattering of rain. Sitting in the corner of my bed, I turned over my boots. The soles were clean of crud and it smelled of air freshener and baby powder. I didn't sleepwalk, did I? My breath stilled, chilling my twisted imagination. Caught into a trap—a trail of shoe prints traced from my bedroom door to my window, bigger than my size. The sun blazed, coating half my face in gold, cascading the tracks of mud. My cheeks pulled back tight, marveling in anticipation. I hurried my legs to sprint downstairs, yelling about a break-in. Five minutes later, Michael's Dad, the Sheriff came to look into my room. He hunched his back, pointing his gun, and slammed the door. Hollywood be shamed, nothing like the real thing to get your blood pumping. Screeching came from inside, followed by vibrations, and flapping from my exhaust.

  "All clear. You should oil the closet door. There's no one here."

Michael's Dad, Enrique said. He shrugged and sighed. His brows wrinkled and put away his gun. I know what I saw! I'm not crazy.

  "Don't look at me like that, Ray. I know you think you saw something again, but maybe you've been watching one too many horror movies." I wanted to stop him. Tell him to turn back, to keep looking, show him I wasn't lying or being crazy. But I could see my parents were tired. They were getting more like that every year. I should have kept my mouth shut.

  "You should get some sleep, goodnight Mr. and Mrs. Tristani. Have a good night." Michael's Dad said, tipping his police hat at my parents and me.

  Goodnight? But it's daylight... Moonlight trickled down the entrance of my home, saying hello Ray! You lost track of time again, didn't you?

  "Honey, why don't you go back to bed. Ok." Mom tried to soothe me.

  I nodded, looking down. Big, warm fingers combed through my hair, patting my curly mop.

  "Come on, mijo." Don't smile at me, Dad. It's not ok, you have a crazy son.

  I watched my impregnable reflection and counted the seconds.

  "Down came the sun, and in came the night. Let's try to sleep, shall we, Ray." I recited into my drum and landed on the soft bed sheets.

  Turns out it was the same. I felt a heaviness pressing onto my arms, dragging my sanity into a pit of my own undoing. Brilliant, Ray. You're amazing. How do you manage to make yourself look more of a nutcase? I'm a master at it. And the Oscar goes to... Ray for his outstanding performance! Ladies and gentlemen, give me applause!

  The ever so quiet night, wailed. Their voices jumbled about, drawing me away from my deprived sleep. Twitching coursed through my veins, ticking and pin pricking screams hollowed my thoughts. I tossed and turned, huffing, and clicking my tongue. Ignore them! They aren't real. It's all in my head. J-just clear your mind, Ray. Repeat your words.

  "I'm not afraid. This place is my room." I told myself and grabbed the pen inside my jar.

  Click...click...click... That sound is the only thing that's real. No matter what I did or how hard I tried—they never wanted to keep quiet. Relentless. Maddening. Itching whispers stung my eardrums. Their voices grew louder.

  Click!

  Click!

  Click!

  Click! Snap! Clatter! My arms limped over the edges of my bed, the pen clattered and rolled down, closing in my bedroom door. Damp streaks dripped onto my neck, pooling and soping my shirt.

  Please...stop. No more.

  Their whispering itched in my ear. Tickling their shallow-chilling breath. My teeth chattered. I saw puffs of white by my face. Mindless purring, licking fears shot my hairs up. I heard their cries for help. They wanted a savior. Look around—I would tell myself—there isn't one.

  Shadows crawled on my walls. Fire and smoke figures stared at the edge of my bed. Just close your eyes, Ray. Close them! Move! You have to move! My hands struggled to reach the bottle. Just a little more, come one, you can do it. I gripped and shook my elixir, my world. My tongue was left with a bitter sort of sweet taste. The pill picked at my pipes, scratching my throat. I grabbed the half-full glass, splashing water all over my hand and floor. My lips pursed at the tinge of water left on the bottom. I groaned and sucked everything I could to push the griping pill. It finally nudged, being welcomed to swim inside my stomach. I breathed out, combed my frizzled hair, and felt the numbness smoothing my flesh. This night was about to get better. I won't see that hand above my dresser; the smiling chum in my closet; the dripping rouge streaks on my windows; and warping figures pushing my pale-mint walls. Although numb, I didn't feel at all different from usual. The bags under my eyes widened in their depths. My body kept trembling under the covers of my duvet. Looking over my night table, there stood, kneeling on the floor—the silhouette of a child. His lips pursed, muffled, and his eyes sewed shut with twine. 

  An ever-sweet, senseless crackling smile drew from my lips, "just another illusion." I whispered, hoping to grasp at what little sanity I might have left of myself.

  This child tilted its head, with a look that said, "mister, you are two kinds of crazy." I don't need fixing or for a hallucination to remind me I'm out of my rocker. You can't fix something so broken.

          There it was again, blinking its light on my work desk. Three in the morning. Seriously, Mr. Clock, you're so dedicated. Right on schedule. My vision grew tiresome—a thin line left in my vicinity. A man watched and spoke a beautiful language. It was the one thing I looked forward to in this place of shadows. In my little room filled with my monsters. Soft wisps stirred from my lips. At the turn of his smile, darkness came.