Resentment: A Psychological Thriller - 3. Episode 3

Thomas

With a curse I threw the tie onto the bed and studied myself in the mirror. For the past hour I’d been trying to knot the tie in place, but my efforts proved useless.

Oh well…I don’t need it.

I turned to the suitcase laying on the bed and pulled out a light blue button up. With the black jacket I could still pull the outfit off. I just hoped what I was wearing was feasible enough for tonight’s dinner with Agamemnon and his famous wife, Roxanne Lockhart. A glance at the clock said it was six-thirty. I had thirty minutes to get to the lighthouse. Agamemnon had said he wouldn’t be home until eight, but I didn’t want to keep his wife waiting.

I ran a brush through my hair one last time and left the room. With the car keys jingling in my hand, I galloped down the stairs.

Donovan Road. The road wove through acres of trees mostly unimpeded but a road sign warning of wandering deer. I drove with the window down. The air smelled green with hints of rich soil, thrown in with the salt from the sea. You didn't get clean air like this in Roc City - not even at the city park where there were trails and creeks. The sun had begun to make its descent, the shadows lengthening. Before long the lighthouse appeared, standing tall and resolute.

By the time I saw it, it was already too late: There was a blur of movement from the trees. I slammed on the brakes. Tires squealed. The car quaked as a great force slammed into it. A strand of webs appeared across the windshield. I was thrown forward in my seat as the airbag burst out, throwing me back again.

And then everything went still.

It seemed I sat there for an immeasurable time, trying to gather my wits. Everything hurt. I could taste blood in my mouth. My head throbbed; something wet dripped down my face. I could smell exhaust fumes coming from the hood of the car. Something had punched a hole through the windshield - things had happened so damned fast.

I forced myself to glance in the rearview mirror, afraid to see what damage had been done but having no choice. There was a gash just above my eyebrow, but it was impossible to tell how deep it was.

A terrible keening sound startled me; it was the sound of something screaming in agony. I fought through the disorientation and pushed the door to the car open. The moment I tried to step out onto the road my legs gave out from underneath me. I tried to catch myself only to feel my ass hit the ground. I was wavering on the edge of consciousness, trying to cling onto it. I managed to grab a hold of the door handle and climb to my feet. It took a surprising amount of effort: I could feel my muscles groaning in protest, trying to keep me down on the ground. I leaned on the car to keep my balance and turned to see what poor creature I had hit.

A buck lay in the middle of the road, its legs twisted at odd angles. Its ribs had snapped and punctured through the flesh. It kept trying to get up, shifting its great head around as if searching for help. The high pitched sound coming from its mouth hurt my ears.

The only time human beings and animals have anything in common is when they’re dying, I thought. I approached it slowly. It sensed me coming and looked at me, suddenly still except for the rapid rise and falls of its sides.

The lighthouse was still a good mile and a half away...and there were no vehicles in sight. I stopped a few feet away from the buck, uncertain of what to do. I was afraid to touch the animal. Deer may not be predatory by nature, but they are wild animals.

"I'm sorry," I said. It wasn't until hearing the sound of my own voice that I realized I was crying. "I'm so sorry…"

I can’t tell you how long I stood there before I realized I could hear nothing but the insistent susurration of crickets and the steadying beat of my own heart. The buck no longer moved, jagged triangles of glass sprinkled all around it. Numbly I looked at the car. The front was ruined to the point that it pushed inward so I could see its insides. Something within its guts twisted and turned, then too went still.

Something wet dripped down the side of my face.

Fuck, I was still bleeding.

Be glad you only hit your head—it could be worse. You could be dead like the buck.

“Fuck,” I said to no one, twisting my hands through my hair. I gritted my teeth, holding back a scream.

It wasn’t the car. I didn’t care about the car—at least not at the moment. What I was feeling was simply raw emotion, nerves firing away like cannons on a battlefield. For the first time in my thirty years of life I’d had a brush with death. Not the death of a pet, friend, or family member, but my own life. And it had happened so unexpectedly. One minute I was driving down the road, about to meet someone for dinner and the next I was in this mess.

You can’t just stand here, Thomas. You have to get moving.

I turned to face the lighthouse. While all of this was happening, the lighthouse had remained in place, silent and imposing. Light glowed visibly from a downstairs window. Above it the sky burned pink, and orange and I could see the waves undulate beyond the cliff’s edge where Adermoor Cove ended. If not for the macabre scene before me, I’m sure I would have found the view entrancing.

I began to move, staggering towards the lighthouse. There was nothing I could do here. I couldn’t keep waiting in hopes someone would come. There are moments in life where we must take action and seek help.

I was halfway towards the lighthouse when a car pulled up beside me; I hadn’t even heard its passage up the road. By this time, I was hardly shuffling, my legs like cardboard, barely strong enough to carry my weight. Keeping my focus on the lighthouse was the only way I could stave off the dizziness that kept intruding and receding at random intervals. During these moments I would have to stop and hunch over until it faded away. Now I turned to face the car, too numb at the moment to feel relief.

The figure coming towards me was tall and imposing. He had the muscular build of a boxer or a wrestler. When he spoke his voice sounded familiar, yet I couldn’t place where I’d seen him before. I was so…disoriented.

“Thomas?” His hands gripped my shoulders. His fingers were firm yet gentle. He had strong hands. Carpenter’s hands. No, that wasn’t right…more like the hands of a fisherman or a sailor. His voice, deep and commanding, shook me from my stupor. I looked up into his darkened face.

“Agamemnon,” I said.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“I was on my way to meet your wife when this deer just ran out in the middle of the road…” I faltered. Why was it so hard to put the sequence of events in order? Why was it so hard just to fucking talk? “It came out of nowhere…”

Fragments of the experience were coming back to me: The way the Mustang seemed to vibrate all around me, the squeal of tires against the asphalt, the screaming of the deer…My legs spasmed. I had to grab onto Agamemnon to keep from falling. His fingers tightened around my arms, supporting me. Somehow my hands ended up pressed against his chest. Through the fabric of his shirt I could feel the solidity of his chest. Pure muscle and bone, like stone.

“Let’s get you into the car,” he said.

He tried to direct me towards his vehicle. Automatically I resisted, doing my best to plant my heels into the ground.

“Let me help you,” he said.

“Goddammit,” I said, “I’m not going to break into a million pieces. All I did was hit my head on the steering wheel. I’m fine—just give me a minute.”

Gripping my chin gently, he tilted my head back gently, examining the gash from where I’d hit my head. His lips curved into a smile, but there was genuine concern in his eyes. “I don’t think you’re going to break into a million pieces, Thomas. But you could very well be in the middle of having a concussion right now. Let me help you. I promise I won’t think anything less of you.”

After a few seconds I relented. “Alright.”

With his arms supporting me, Agamemnon began to lead me back towards his car.

Jude

Waking up in the morning is a process; it’s one I’ve had to learn to hone over time. Rushing into it is never recommended. Which is why I always set my alarm at eight o’clock in the morning, whether I’m on vacation or my normal weekday routine. To deviate from this process is to throw everything out of balance.

When I wake up my muscles are stiff. My lips are crusty with dried spit and my mouth tastes like the inside of a diesel engine. Feels like one, too. My mind feels syrupy, exhausted from feverish medication-dreams. I’m talking about the kind of dreams that make you feel as if you’ve relived a traumatizing moment in your life. My body feels heavy, my bones crushed, my limbs locked in place. This is why most people with a mental illness don’t like taking medication: oftentimes the symptoms are worse than the diagnosis we are trying to cope with. Unfortunately, it’s a double-edged sword. I have to take my Seroquel-Prozac cocktail. If I don’t, I begin to unravel.

So that’s what I did. The moment I opened my eyes I let my mind do its thing. I let the runny yolk of my thoughts solidify, let my limbs gather their strength. What did I dream about? I imagine casting a hook into my subconscious. This is years of therapy, countless hours divulging my darkest self to a professional, and Dialectical Behavioral Therapy at work.

I rolled over, stretched. For a moment I was surprised to find there was someone else in bed with me. I’d expected to wake up to an empty half of the bed. Instead, I had a human-shaped obstruction in my way. Duane lay on his back, eyes closed. I knew his face well enough to know what I was looking at in near-darkness. I knew he always started on his stomach and awoke on his back. If you’re lucky enough to stay with a person long enough, you begin to know them better than you know yourself.

I passed in and out a couple of times. In between these intervals fragments of dreams drifted in and out of my head. In one I was stuck to the ceiling like fly to paper; the doctors were working to restart my heart below me. In the second dream there was a door. A bright, white light unlike any I’d ever seen before seeped through the cracks around the door like melted butter. A choir of voices harmonized behind the door. I needed to get to the light, but the door was locked. No matter how hard I pulled at the knob, the door would not budge.

The third time I woke up it was to the chhh-chhh-chhh sound of toothbrush bristles scraping against enamel. Duane was brushing his teeth.

Since I’m actually awake now, I can now begin the process of getting out of bed. Again, this is no easy task. Muscles have to flex and limbs have to shift in order to make this happen. And still, getting out of bed is only half the battle. There is still the matter of hygiene to worry about, the medication that makes it possible for me to maintain a semblance of stability, and at last I feel something like a living person.

We ate breakfast at a diner called The Treasure Trove. I was more interested in my double shot espresso than my chocolate chip pancakes. I was also grateful Duane had yet to bring up last night’s clusterfuck. With my acid reflux issues, eating more greasy food probably wasn't the best idea.

While Duane was skimming the front page of Adermoor Cove's local newspaper, I was busy trying to type out a few sentences on my phone in the hope it would spark a creative streak.

"Did you know Adermoor Cove has a lighthouse?"

"We didn't see it from the ferry," I said, nudging my phone away. At the moment I resented the little black device that had always served me well until the past year.

“It must be on the other side of the island.”

“It would be kind of strange if that’s the case. Aren’t lighthouses supposed to be at the front of the island so fishermen can see when they’re about to reach port during a storm?”

Duane shrugged, fiddling with his own phone. He turned it around so I could look at the screen. The lighthouse sat on the edge of a cliff where the island cut off. Ivy crawled up the side of the tower.

"Uh, Duane, this is a for sale ad."

"I know." He smiled, looking excited. "I did a little bit of research on it and apparently it used to belong to Agamemnon Apaulos and his wife Roxanne Lockhart."

"That one actress who was real big during the 70's and 80's?"

"The very one."

I sipped at my drink, trying to make one and one equal two. All I could up with is, "Why would a famous actor want to live on this little podunk island?"

"Beats me. We should check it out, see if the owner will let us take a look."

"Just show up and be like, 'Hi, can I see your place?'"

Duane nodded as if the idea was perfectly reasonable. "You make it sound as if it would be an out of ordinary thing to do."

So far this whole trip has been out of the ordinary, I thought, but kept it to myself. I didn't want a repeat of last night's fiasco. "Okay," I conceded after a moment. "But I want a brownie sundae first."

The lighthouse, when it appeared, looked nothing like what I'd seen in the photo. Like the Clam's Pearl Inn, it needed some revitalization. I watched the sagging edifice of the house draw closer and closer, the Jeep bouncing and grinding up the driveway, with a mixture of horror and fascination.

"Um," I said. Here I am, a man who makes a living out of putting words - the perfect words - down on paper, and I couldn't find the words to describe what I was feeling. Or maybe um was the perfect word. The lighthouse looked like something straight from one of my stories. I looked at the FOR SALE sign sticking up from a patch of grass and felt the sudden urge to laugh. I had to grind my teeth together to keep it at bay.

I am often visited by frequent bouts of inappropriate laughter; it's gotten me in trouble more than a time or two.

Before I could turn my head to look at Duane, the screen door of the house swung open and a woman stepped out. I tensed, searching for an expression of anger on her face. She was stout and solidly built. I could easily imagine her wrestling a man...and winning. She wore a tan tweed jacket and a faded pair of blue jeans, stained with smears of paint. I immediately made the knee-jerk decision to let Duane handle the situation. He's far better at winning people over than I. I might be the writer but he's the social butterfly.

As was his nature, Duane was already getting out of the car, a winning grin plastered on his face. I both loved and resented that grin: it was the kind of grin that could charm a snake.

I hesitated, tempted to stay in the car. It took the mental strength of lifting a cinderblock to extend my arm and open the door, but I did it. My hands immediately found safety in the pockets of my Jean's. Hastily I pulled them out and let them hang stiffly at my side.

Duane was already introducing himself to the woman, shaking her hand. "Sorry to just spring up like this," he said in an embarrassed aw-shucks tone that was too perfect to be genuine. "We saw the ad and just kind of drove here to check it out. My name is Duane, and this is my partner, Jude."

I waved, shaking her hand. Her hands felt rough and calloused.

"Name's Dahlia," said the woman, shaking Duane's hands. Her hands were as big and solid as the rest of her. "No need to worry yourself, I was just reading a book to pass the time. Not much goes on around here...unless you’re a tourist of course.”

“We are,” said Duane.

Dahlia laughed. It was really more like a bark, but there was a genuine warmth to it. “Aren’t you fortunate? We love tourists.”

My focus shifted back to the house. I looked up at it, standing in the shadow of the tower. Gulls soared overhead in defiance of the wind. The windows of the house looked like they needed a good dusting. One of the windows on the second floor was open, white drapes tossed about in the wind. A human-shaped outline stood within the frame of the window, peering down at us. I took a step closer, squinting, and found myself staring into the face of an old woman.

She stood completely still, long fingers clasping the bottom of the windowsill. She was old enough that her skin hung off the bone in wrinkly flaps. The only sign of movement I could see was the rise and fall of her chest; she seemed to be breathing heavily. She glared down at me, eyes narrowed in what was unmistakably anger. As if she knew me.

That's not possible, I told myself. I've never been to this island before.

It was entirely possible she'd read one of my books and recognized my picture and hadn't liked my writing...but a voice in the back of my head told me this was not possible, for there was something familiar about her too. Just like the inn.

Someone was dropping ice cubes down the back of my shirt, a cruel joke. I couldn't stop shivering. The woman stepped away from the window. I let out a sigh of relief, glad I could no longer see her.

I turned back to face Duane and Dahlia.

"You know there's something about you both I can't put my finger on," Dahlia said, looking at the both of us. "We haven't met, have we?"

"This is our first time coming to the island," said Duane. "Unless you've been to Roc City."

"I have on occasion, mostly just for…" Dahlia looked at me again and her eyes widened in excitement. "I know you...You're Judas Hill."

Just as I was beginning to realize she must have been one of my readers, my nose began to bleed.