Evan
He was in his room. Alone. In a corner. Sitting, arms wrapped tight around his legs. Rocking back and forth. He couldn't even remember how he'd gotten there. All he knew was the pressure he felt closing in from all sides. The very air itself suffocating him. No one in this world could help. He wasn't sure he was even human anymore, or what a human was. Because he felt more like an animal, cowering in a corner and practically tearing his hair out. But he didn't know how to stop himself from feeling the pain. The pressure. The panic. He didn't know how to make all the frustration go away. He was powerless. Had no chance at survival. Too much was against him. Too much was bent on destroying him. Something beyond and above him had set the rules for this game, and he no longer knew how to play it. He didn't want to play it anyway. Never had. Why had his character been put together so freakishly? Why did he have to have control all the time and then want to prove he still had it when it felt as if it was slipping away? It wasn't fair that he couldn't fix himself. That he couldn't just explain it all away or talk it off. Was everyone as messed up as he was? He couldn't believe that. He didn't know why he was the way he was—why he felt the things he felt or got lost in the things he got lost in—why he was even allowed to exist, for as miserable of a human being as he was.
His eyes darted around the room. He hadn't bothered to turn on the light when he'd come in, so there were shadows everywhere, and he knew they were moving. Writhing. Pools of blood full of dead birds and maggots and Zach's face, which he couldn't even exactly recall the shape of at the moment. He wished he was Zach. Dead.
Zach was dead. He knew it. Evan was certain of it, that moment. How he knew, he had no idea. He'd never felt it as strongly as he felt it now. He'd always held some hope that Zach was alive. Kidnapped, or run away, or lost in the woods. Even though he had no solid reason to believe he was dead, he knew it was the truth. And Evan knew also that he'd had the chance to save him and had failed. Had failed miserably in every way. If only he hadn't been so wrapped up in himself. If he hadn't been trying so desperately to lose himself in school and other people. Maybe Zach would've understood his control problem, but Evan had never trusted anyone enough to talk about it.
It had to be nearing eleven. His parents had been gone for a few hours and were likely to be gone for a few more. They'd be confused at the mess he'd made with the downstairs, but if he said it was an accident, he knew they wouldn't bother to question him any further. His mother would probably even clean it all up herself and not complain a bit. Evan didn't dare go down there to look at the shattered glass and pool of alcohol that had to, by now, have soaked through the floorboards and seeped into the corner of the very expensive rug. Besides, going down there meant he'd have to pass by the front door, and even the thought of being so close to those birds (though they were probably gone, by then) made him nauseated. Evan was afraid that there might still be a mutilated little corpse down there on the mat. And he couldn't handle that, for some reason, even though he'd seen enough roadkill during his lifetime to feed a starving city. There was just something incredibly freakish about those birds.
He sensed it had to do with everything else that had been happening to him and Ada. He didn't know how, but it had to be connected. The things they were seeing, the nightmares that were coming true, the guilt they were feeling—and Zach was always drawing those birds. Evan didn't know why. He'd even asked Zach about them before, but he hadn't gotten much response. Zach had no idea why he drew them. Or, if he did, he didn't tell it to Evan. But there was something about those black birds . . . something. Why couldn't he put the pieces together?
Evan felt like his lungs were being squashed. He was having trouble breathing. His breaths were coming fast and in short spurts. His hands clutched his chest and felt that it was heaving. Not enough oxygen was reaching his brain, and he knew it. The room was spinning as if he was drunk. The walls and ceiling and floor blurred together until he could no longer tell what he was looking at and he had to close his eyes or risk throwing up.
Calm down, he forced his brain to tell his body. Calm down. Think of clouds, of musicals, of a big cheeseburger . . . of soft grass, of the Eiffel Tower, of Shakespeare . . .
Evan managed to slow his breathing as he forced himself to picture and concentrate on objects he loved or felt comfortable with. But even as he was doing this, as he was going through this process, he knew in the back of his mind that he'd have to open his eyes again eventually, and then all the swirling and panic would return. That knowledge made the task of quieting himself much harder, but he at last felt controlled enough that his breathing started to relax.
It was when he was picturing himself in quiet woods that he began to lose it again. What would normally be a relaxing image for him immediately changed into one of horror. When Evan entered those woods in his mind, he at once was reminded of the words of Zach's next-door neighbor: Zach was usually going back off in those woods . . . And the nurse had said, You're out of the woods, now. He wasn't out of the woods, so to speak. He'd never be out of those terrible woods in his mind, the ones from the night of Zach's disappearance, the ones he'd been lost in during so many blind, nightmarish hours. He was still lost in there, lost deep, so deep he couldn't even see his hands in front of him anymore. And he'd never get out of those woods. Never. There was no way to get out, now. He was as dead as Zach.
His chest tightening again, Evan could no longer stand the pain of the powerlessness he was feeling. He had to do something about it or else kill himself. (Although death didn't sound too bad at the moment.)
Forcing himself to his feet without opening his eyes, Evan reached out for the walls he knew had to still be surrounding him. His left arm met wall, and, feeling his way along, he managed to make it to his door without stumbling. It took tremendous effort to breathe. He was certain that each breath would be his last, but somehow, he found himself in the hallway, feeling his way down the stairs. The brightness of the hall light felt warm against his tightly-shut eyelids, and it gave him a small enough amount of courage to open them. When he did, he was met with the glow of the hall and the rooms branching off it. His destination, he knew, was the kitchen, which was at the very end of the hallway. With much difficulty, Evan moved on. He leaned with his full weight against the wall; there was no chance of him standing on his own in the state he was in. The walls and everything on them seemed to be moving back and forth, up and down as he walked, and he knew it was because he was not breathing in as much air as he should be. The kitchen seemed so far away, and his chest was burning and being pressed so badly that he wasn't sure he was going to make it, yet within minutes, he was standing at the end of the hall.
The kitchen was dark, but his fingers went to the light switch and flipped it, bathing everything in a sudden, sharp glow. Wincing from the pain it gave his eyes, Evan scanned the room, as if he was now unsure why he'd wanted to come here in the first place. Then, his gaze rested on a particular drawer beyond the island in the kitchen, to the right. The last drawer below the countertop. The junk drawer.
Something flashed in his brain. A sharp, quick, metallic flash. As if lightning had reflected off a pool of mercury in the dark of his thoughts. He knew exactly how to make this pain go away.
Resolute, now, Evan pooled his energy and darted around the island toward the drawer. He yanked it open so hard he pulled it out of its place, and all the objects inside spilled to the floor. Batteries, rubber bands, miniature light bulbs and plastic bag ties. So many little objects Evan felt more flustered. He crouched down and sifted through them, his eyes and fingers eagerly searching for what he knew he needed. For just a moment, he feared he wouldn't find it . . . the animal fear was flooding through him . . . but then, even in the shadow of the kitchen island, the thing caught a piece of the light, shone, and Evan saw it.
A razor blade.
Feeling the small, thin piece of metal between his fingers gave Evan an incredible rush. He couldn't explain it. Until now, everything he'd damaged had been something else. Some animal or insect. But now, there was nothing but himself. And he had lost it. He was beyond loss of control, at this point. He wanted to see blood other than what he saw constantly on the walls and windows. Something real. Someone besides Zach's blood. Maybe his own would make things better, somehow.
Standing in the light, which seemed dark, even in its brightness, Evan held the little blade in his right hand. His left arm he held out, palm up, searching for the best place to begin.
He was trembling almost violently. Sweating in the cold house. He'd never done anything like this before. But in his brain, the thought of it felt so right. So justified.
Not the wrist, he knew. That could kill him. And he didn't want to die. He wanted to feel. To know he controlled this pain that was tormenting him. To prove to himself that he was master of his own mind and body. Not the wrist, but the forearm.
Choosing a spot about five inches up from his wrist, Evan placed the tip of the blade against his skin. It felt cold, and a sort of thrill pulsed through him at its touch. Yes, he could do this. He wanted to. The joy he felt just thinking about the pain nearly put him over the edge. Lifting the blade again, he tilted it so one corner was lower, and then, his stomach about to burst with impatience, he pressed its tip down hard, harder, and cut. A thin line of red beaded up in the blade's wake. A line so thin and perfect, it was hard to believe it came from him. Evan didn't even realize it was blood in those first moments. He only was amazed at the sight of it, filled with incredible relief, and satisfied in a way he'd never imagined was possible. Breathing became second-nature again, and he knew he needed to keep going.
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